the walls of the Chateau d'If. The work I speak of is called `A
Treatise on the Possibility of a General Monarchy in Italy,' and
will make one large quarto volume."
"And on what have you written all this?"
"On two of my shirts. I invented a preparation that makes linen
as smooth and as easy to write on as parchment."
"You are, then, a chemist?"
"Somewhat; I know Lavoisier, and was the intimate friend of
Cabanis."
"But for such a work you must have needed books — had you
any?"
"I had nearly five thousand volumes in my library at Rome; but
after reading them over many times, I found out that with one
hundred and fifty well-chosen books a man possesses, if not a
complete summary of all human knowledge, at least all that a man
need really know. I devoted three years of my life to reading and
studying these one hundred and fifty volumes, till I knew them
nearly by heart; so that since I have been in prison, a very slight
effort of memory has enabled me to recall their contents as readily
as though the pages were open before me. I could recite you the
whole of Thucydides, Xenophon, Plutarch, Titus Livius, Tacitus,
Strada, Jornandes, Dante, Montaigne, Shaksepeare, Spinoza,
Machiavelli, and Bossuet. I name only the most important."
"You are, doubtless, acquainted with a variety of languages, so
as to have been able to read all these?"
"Yes, I speak five of the modern tongues — that is to say,
German, French, Italian, English, and Spanish; by the aid of
ancient Greek I learned modern Greek — I don't speak it so well as
I could wish, but I am still trying to improve myself."
"Improve yourself!" repeated Dantes; "why, how can you manage to
do so?"
"Why, I made a vocabulary of the words I knew; turned, returned,
and arranged them, so as to enable me to express my thoughts
through their medium. I know nearly one thousand words, which is
all that is absolutely necessary, although I believe there are
nearly one hundred thousand in the dictionaries. I cannot hope to
be very fluent, but I certainly should have no difficulty inbe very fluent, but I certainly should have no difficulty in
explaining my wants and wishes; and that would be quite as much as
I should ever require."
Stronger grew the wonder of Dantes, who almost fancied he had to
do with one gifted with supernatural powers; still hoping to find
some imperfection which might bring him down to a level with human
beings, he added, "Then if you were not furnished with pens, how
did you manage to write the work you speak of?"
"I made myself some excellent ones, which would be universally
preferred to all others if once known. You are aware what huge
whitings are served to us on maigre days. Well, I selected the
cartilages of the heads of these fishes, and you can scarcely
imagine the delight with which I welcomed the arrival of each
Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, as affording me the means of
increasing my stock of pens; for I will freely confess that my
historical labors have been my greatest solace and relief. While
retracing the past, I forget the present; and traversing at will
the path of history I cease to remember that I am myself a
prisoner."
"But the ink," said Dantes; "of what did you make your ink?"
"There was formerly a fireplace in my dungeon," replied Faria,
"but it was closed up long ere I became an occupant of this prison.
Still, it must have been many years in use, for it was thickly
covered with a coating of soot; this soot I dissolved in a portion
of the wine brought to me every Sunday, and I assure you a better
ink cannot be desired. For very important notes, for which closer
attention is required, I pricked one of my fingers, and wrote with
my own blood."
"And when," asked Dantes, "may I see all this?"
"Whenever you please," replied the abbe.
"Oh, then let it be directly!" exclaimed the young man.
"Follow me, then," said the abbe, as he re-entered the
subterranean passage, in which he soon disappeared, followed by
Dantes.When Dantes returned next morning to the chamber of his
companion in captivity, he found Faria seated and looking composed.
In the ray of light which entered by the narrow window of his cell,
he held open in his left hand, of which alone, it will be
recollected, he retained the use, a sheet of paper, which, from
being constantly rolled into a small compass, had the form of a
cylinder, and was not easily kept open. He did not speak, but
showed the paper to Dantes.
"What is that?" he inquired.
"Look at it," said the abbe with a smile.
"I have looked at it with all possible attention," said Dantes,
"and I only see a half-burnt paper, on which are traces of Gothic
characters inscribed with a peculiar kind of ink."
"This paper, my friend," said Faria, "I may now avow to you,
since I have the proof of your fidelity — this paper is my
treasure, of which, from this day forth, one-half belongs to
you."
The sweat started forth on Dantes brow. Until this day and for
how long a time! — he had refrained from talking of the treasure,
which had brought upon the abbe the accusation of madness. With his
instinctive delicacy Edmond had preferred avoiding any touch on
this painful chord, and Faria had been equally silent. He had taken
the silence of the old man for a return to reason; and now these
few words uttered by Faria, after so painful a crisis, seemed to
indicate a serious relapse into mental alienation.
"Your treasure?" stammered Dantes. Faria smiled.
"Yes," said he. "You have, indeed, a noble nature, Edmond, and I
see by your paleness and agitation what is passing in your heart at
this moment. No, be assured, I am not mad. This treasure exists,
Dantes, and if I have not been allowed to possess it, you will. Yes
— you. No one would listen or believe me, because everyone thought
me mad; but you, who must know that I am not, listen to me, and
believe me so afterwards if you will."
"Alas," murmured Edmond to himself, "this is a terrible relapse!
There was only this blow wanting." Then he said aloud, "My dear