“We shall see,” said the inspector; then, turning to the governor, “On my word, the poor devil touches me. You must show me the proofs against him.”
“Certainly; but you will find terrible charges.”
“Monsieur,” continued Dantes, “I know it is not in your power to release me; but you can plead for me — you can have me tried — and that is all I ask. Let me know my crime, and the reason why I was condemned. Uncertainty is worse than all.”
“Go on with the lights,” said the inspector.
“Monsieur,” cried Dantes, “I can tell by your voice you are touched with pity; tell me at least to hope.”
“I cannot tell you that,” replied the inspector; “I can only promise to examine into your case.”
“Oh, I am free — then I am saved!”
“Who arrested you?”
“M. Villefort. See him, and hear what he says.”
“M. Villefort is no longer at Marseilles; he is now at Toulouse.”
“I am no longer surprised at my detention,” murmured Dantes, “since my only protector is removed.”
“Had M. de Villefort any cause of personal dislike to you?”
“None; on the contrary, he was very kind to me.”
“I can, then, rely on the notes he has left concerning you?”
“Entirely.”
“That is well; wait patiently, then.” Dantes fell on his knees, and prayed earnestly. The door closed; but this time a fresh inmate was left with Dantes — hope.
“Will you see the register at once,” asked the governor, “or proceed to the other cell?”
“Let us visit them all,” said the inspector. “If I once went up those stairs. I should never have the courage to come down again.”
“Ah, this one is not like the other, and his madness is less affecting than this one’s display of reason.”
“What is his folly?”
“He fancies he possesses an immense treasure. The first year he offered government a million of francs for his release; the second, two; the third, three; and so on progressively. He is now in his fifth year of captivity; he will ask to speak to you in private, and offer you five millions.”
“How curious! — what is his name?”
“The Abbe Faria.”
“No. 27,” said the inspector.
“It is here; unlock the door, Antoine.” The turnkey obeyed, and the inspector gazed curiously into the chamber of the “mad abbe.”
In the centre of the cell, in a circle traced with a fragment of plaster detached from the wall, sat a man whose tattered garments scarcely covered him. He was drawing in this circle geometrical lines, and seemed as much absorbed in his problem as Archimedes was when the soldier of Marcellus slew him.
He did not move at the sound of the door, and continued his calculations until the flash of the torches lighted up with an unwonted glare the sombre walls of his cell; then, raising his head, he perceived with astonishment the number of persons present. He hastily seized the coverlet of his bed, and wrapped it round him.
“What is it you want?” said the inspector.
“I, monsieur,” replied the abbe with an air of surprise —“I want nothing.”
“You do not understand,” continued the inspector; “I am sent here by government to visit the prison, and hear the requests of the prisoners.”
“Oh, that is different,” cried the abbe; “and we shall understand each other, I hope.”
“There, now,” whispered the governor, “it is just as I told you.”
“Monsieur,” continued the prisoner, “I am the Abbe Faria, born at Rome. I was for twenty years Cardinal Spada’s secretary; I was arrested, why, I know not, toward the beginning of the year 1811; since then I have demanded my liberty from the Italian and French government.”
“Why from the French government?”
“Because I was arrested at Piombino, and I presume that, like Milan and Florence, Piombino has become the capital of some French department.”
“Ah,” said the inspector, “you have not the latest news from Italy?”
“My information dates from the day on which I was arrested,” returned the Abbe Faria; “and as the emperor had created the kingdom of Rome for his infant son, I presume that he has realized the dream of Machiavelli and Caesar Borgia, which was to make Italy a united kingdom.”