“Blind fools!” murmured the count.
“However, be that as it may, the young man made a passage, how, or by what means, no one knows; but he made it, and there is the trace yet remaining of the proof. Do you see it?” And the man held the torch to the wall.
“Ah! yes; truly,” said the count, in a voice hoarse from emotion.
“The result was, the two men communicated together; how long they did so, nobody knows. One day the old man fell ill and died. Now guess what the young man did?”
“Go on!”
“He carried off the corpse, which he placed in his own bed with its face to the wall; then he entered the empty dungeon, closed the entrance, and slid himself into the sack which had contained the dead body. Did you ever hear of such an idea?”
Monte-Cristo closed his eyes, and seemed again to experience all the sensations he had felt when the coarse canvas, yet moist with the cold dews of death, had touched his face.
The jailer continued:
“Now this was his project; he fancied they buried the dead at the Chateau-d’If, and imagining they would not expend much labor on the grave of a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with his shoulders; but unfortunately, their arrangements at the chateau frustrated his projects; they never buried their dead; they merely attached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, and then threw them into the sea. This is what was done. The young man was thrown from the top of the gallery; the corpse was found on the bed next day, and the whole truth was guessed; for the men who performed the office then mentioned what they had not dared to speak of before, namely, that at the moment the corpse was thrown into the deep, they heard a shriek, which was almost immediately stifled by the water in which it disappeared.”
The count breathed with difficulty; the cold drops ran down his forehead, and his heart was full of anguish.
“No,” he muttered, “the doubt I felt was but the commencement of forgetfulness; but here the wound reopens, and the heart again thirsts for vengeance. And the prisoner,” he continued aloud, “was he ever heard of afterward?”
“Oh! no; of course not. You can understand that one of two things must have happened: he must either have fallen flat, in which case the blow, from a height of ninety feet, must have killed him instantly, or he must have fallen upright, and then the weight would have dragged him to the bottom, where he remained – poor fellow!”
“Then you pity him?” said the count.
“Ma foi! yes; though he was in his own element.”
“What do you mean?”
“A report ran that he had been a naval officer, who had been confined for plotting with the Bonapartists.”
“Truth!” muttered the count, “thou art made to rise above the waves and flames! Thus the poor sailor lives in the recollection of those who narrate his history; his terrible story is recited in the chimney-corner, and a shudder is felt at the description of his transit through the air to be swallowed by the deep.” Then, the count added aloud, “Was his name ever known?”
“How?” said the keeper, “he was known only as No. 34.”
“Oh! Villefort, Villefort!” murmured the count, “my specter must often have haunted thy sleepless hours!”
“Do you wish to see anything more, sir?” said the concierge.
“Yes; especially if you will show me the poor abbe’s room.”
“Ah! No. 27.”
“Yes; No. 27,” repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the abbe answering him in those very words through the wall when asked his name.
“Come, sir.”
“Wait,” said Monte-Cristo, “I wish to take one final glance around this room.”
“This is fortunate,” said the guide; “I have forgotten the other key.”
“Go and fetch it.”
“I will leave you the torch, sir.”
“No, take it away; I can see in the dark.”
“Why, you are like No. 34. They said he was so accustomed to darkness, that he could see a pin in the darkest corner of his dungeon.”