for us that naught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my
jailers; but I conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to
you, for I have got to the end of my strength, that I will dash my
brains out against the wall, and you will have my death to reproach
yourself with."
"How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man."
"I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have
been here. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was
arrested, the 28th of February, 1815."
"Not quite twenty-six!" murmured the voice; "at that age he
cannot be a traitor."
"Oh, no, no," cried Dantes. "I swear to you again, rather than
betray you, I would allow myself to be hacked in pieces!"
"You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance,
for I was about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age
reassures me. I will not forget you. Wait."
"How long?"
"I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal."
"But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let
me come to you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape we will
talk; you of those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You
must love somebody?"
"No, I am alone in the world."
"Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your
comrade; if you are old, I will be your son. I have a father who is
seventy if he yet lives; I only love him and a young girl called
Mercedes. My father has not yet forgotten me, I am sure, but God
alone knows if she loves me still; I shall love you as I loved my
father."
"It is well," returned the voice; "to-morrow."
These few words were uttered with an accent that left no doubt
of his sincerity; Dantes rose, dispersed the fragments with the
same precaution as before, and pushed his bed back against the
wall. He then gave himself up to his happiness. He would no longer
be alone. He was, perhaps, about to regain his liberty; at the
worst, he would have a companion, and captivity that is shared is
but half captivity. Plaints made in common are almost prayers, andbut half captivity. Plaints made in common are almost prayers, and
prayers where two or three are gathered together invoke the mercy
of heaven.
All day Dantes walked up and down his cell. He sat down
occasionally on his bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At the
slightest noise he bounded towards the door. Once or twice the
thought crossed his mind that he might be separated from this
unknown, whom he loved already; and then his mind was made up —
when the jailer moved his bed and stooped to examine the opening,
he would kill him with his water jug. He would be condemned to die,
but he was about to die of grief and despair when this miraculous
noise recalled him to life.
The jailer came in the evening. Dantes was on his bed. It seemed
to him that thus he better guarded the unfinished opening.
Doubtless there was a strange expression in his eyes, for the
jailer said, "Come, are you going mad again?"
Dantes did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his voice
would betray him. The jailer went away shaking his head. Night
came; Dantes hoped that his neighbor would profit by the silence to
address him, but he was mistaken. The next morning, however, just
as he removed his bed from the wall, he heard three knocks; he
threw himself on his knees.
"Is it you?" said he; "I am here."
"Is your jailer gone?"
"Yes," said Dantes; "he will not return until the evening; so
that we have twelve hours before us."
"I can work, then?" said the voice.
"Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat you."
In a moment that part of the floor on which Dantes was resting
his two hands, as he knelt with his head in the opening, suddenly
gave way; he drew back smartly, while a mass of stones and earth
disappeared in a hole that opened beneath the aperture he himself
had formed. Then from the bottom of this passage, the depth of
which it was impossible to measure, he saw appear, first the head,
then the shoulders, and lastly the body of a man, who sprang
lightly into his cell.Seizing in his arms the friend so long and ardently desired,
Dantes almost carried him towards the window, in order to obtain a
better view of his features by the aid of the imperfect light that
struggled through the grating.
He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by
suffering and sorrow than by age. He had a deep-set, penetrating
eye, almost buried beneath the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and
still black) beard reaching down to his breast. His thin face,
deeply furrowed by care, and the bold outline of his strongly
marked features, betokened a man more accustomed to exercise his
mental faculties than his physical strength. Large drops of
perspiration were now standing on his brow, while the garments that
hung about him were so ragged that one could only guess at the
pattern upon which they had originally been fashioned.
The stranger might have numbered sixty or sixty-five years; but
a certain briskness and appearance of vigor in his movements made
it probable that he was aged more from captivity than the course of
time. He received the enthusiastic greeting of his young
acquaintance with evident pleasure, as though his chilled
affections were rekindled and invigorated by his contact with one
so warm and ardent. He thanked him with grateful cordiality for his
kindly welcome, although he must at that moment have been suffering
bitterly to find another dungeon where he had fondly reckoned on
discovering a means of regaining his liberty.
"Let us first see," said he, "whether it is possible to remove
the traces of my entrance here — our future tranquillity depends
upon our jailers being entirely ignorant of it." Advancing to the
opening, he stooped and raised the stone easily in spite of its
weight; then, fitting it into its place, he said, —
"You removed this stone very carelessly; but I suppose you had
no tools to aid you."
"Why," exclaimed Dantes, with astonishment, "do you possess
any?"
"I made myself some; and with the exception of a file, I have