“He spent fourteen years to arrive at that,” muttered the count.
The guide carried away the torch. The count had spoken correctly. Scarcely had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw everything as distinctly as by daylight. Then he looked around him, and really recognized his dungeon.”
“Yes,” he said, “there is the stone upon which I used to sit; there is the impression made by my shoulders on the wall; there is the mark of my blood made when I, one day, dashed my head against the wall. Oh! those figures! how well I remember them! I made them one day to calculate the age of my father, that I might know whether I should find him still living, and that of Mercedes, to know if I should find her still free. After finishing that calculation, I had a minute’s hope. I did not reckon upon hunger and infidelity!” and a bitter laugh escaped from the count.
He saw in fancy the burial of his father, and the marriage of Mercedes. On the other side of the dungeon, he perceived an inscription, the white letters of which were still visible on the green wall:
“‘O God!’” he read, “‘preserve my memory!’”
“Oh yes!” he cried, “that was my only prayer at last; I no longer begged for liberty, but memory; I dreaded to become mad and forgetful. O God! Thou hast preserved my memory; I thank thee! I thank thee!”
At this moment the light of the torch was reflected on the wall; the guide was advancing; Monte-Cristo went to meet him.
“Follow me, sir; “and, without ascending the stairs, the guide conducted him by a subterraneous passage to another entrance. There, again, Monte-Cristo was assailed by a crowd of thoughts. The first thing that met his eye was the dial, drawn by the abbe on the wall, by which he calculated the time; then he saw the remains of the bed on which the poor prisoner had died. The sight of this, instead of exciting the anguish experienced by the count in the dungeon, filled his heart with a soft and grateful sentiment, and tears fell from his eyes.
“This is where the mad abbe was kept, sir, and that is where the young man entered; “and the guide pointed to the opening, which had remained unclosed. “From the appearance of the stone,” he continued, “a learned gentleman discovered that the prisoners might have communicated together for ten years. Poor things! they must have been ten weary years.”
Dantes took some louis from his pocket, and gave them to the man who had twice unconsciously pitied him. The guide took them, thinking them merely a few pieces of little value; but the light of the torch revealed their true worth.
“Sir,” he said, “you have made a mistake; you have given me gold.”
“I know it.”
“I can keep it with a good conscience?”
“Yes.”
The concierge looked at Monte-Cristo with astonishment.
“In all honesty,” continued the count, like Hamlet.
“Sir,” he cried, scarcely able to believe his good fortune,
“sir, I cannot understand your generosity!”
“Oh! it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been a sailor, and your story touched me more than it would others.”
“Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I ought to offer you something.”
“What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank you!”
“No, sir, neither of those; something connected with this story.”
“Really! what is it?”
“Listen,” said the guide; “I said to myself, ‘Something is always left in a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen years,’ so I began to sound the wall.”
“Ah!” cried Monte-Cristo, remembering the two hiding-places of the abbe.
“After some search, I discovered a hollow sound against the head of the bed, and under the hearth.”
“Yes,” said the count, “yes.”
“I raised the stones, and found –”
“A rope-ladder and some tools?”
“How do you know that?” asked the guide, in astonishment.
“I do not know – I only guess it, because these sort of things are generally found in prisoners’ cells.”
“Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools.”
“And have you them yet?”
“No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great curiosities; but I have still something left.”
“What is it?” asked the count, impatiently.