The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas

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СКАЧАТЬ Frenchman.”

      “Your name?”

      “Edmond Dantès.”

      “Your profession?”

      “A sailor.”

      “How long have you been here?”

      “Since the 28th of February, 1815.”

      “Your crime?”

      “I am innocent.”

      “But of what are you accused?”

      “Of having conspired to aid the emperor’s return.”

      “How for the emperor’s return? the emperor is no longer on the throne then?”

      “He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814, and was sent to the island of Elba; but how long have you been here that you are ignorant of all this?”

      “Since 1811.”

      Dantès shuddered; this man had been four years longer than himself in prison.

      “Do not dig any more,” said the voice; “only tell me how high up is your excavation?”

      “On a level with the floor.”

      “How is it concealed?”

      “Behind my bed.”

      “Has your bed been moved since you have been a prisoner?”

      “No.”

      “What does your chamber open on?”

      “A corridor.”

      “And the corridor?”

      “On a court.”

      “Alas!” murmured the voice.

      “Oh, what is the matter?” said Dantès.

      “I am deceived, and the imperfection of my plans has ruined all. An error of a line in the plan has been equivalent to fifteen feet in reality, and I took the wall you are mining for the wall of the fortress.”

      “But then you were close to the sea?”

      “That is what I hoped.”

      “And supposing you succeeded?”

      “I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the islands near here,—the Isle de Daume or the Isle de Tiboulen, and then I was safe.”

      “Could you have swam so far?”

      “Heaven would have given me strength; but now all is lost.”

      “All?”

      “Yes; stop up your excavation carefully : do not work any more, and wait until you hear from me.”

      “Tell me, at least, who you are?”

      “I am—I am Number 27.”

      “You mistrust me, then?” said Dantès.

      Edmond fancied he heard a bitter laugh proceed from the unknown.

      “Oh! I am a Christian,” cried Dantès, guessing instinctively that this man meant to abandon him. “I swear to you by Him who died for us that nought shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my gaolers, but I conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you 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 Dantès. “I swear to you again, rather than betray you they shall hew me to pieces!”

      “You have done well to speak to me, and entreat me, for I was about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age reassures me. I will not forget you; expect me.”

      “When?”

      “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 Mercédès. 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 love my father.”

      “It is well,” returned the voice; “tomorrow.”

      These few words were uttered with an accent that left no doubt of his sincerity; Dantès rose, dispersed the fragments with the same precaution as before, and pushed back his bed 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.

      All day Dantès 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 gaoler 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 gaoler came in the evening: Dantès 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 gaoler said, “Come, are you going mad again?”

      Dantès did not answer: he feared that the emotion of his voice would betray him.

      The gaoler retired, shaking his head.

      The night came. Dantès hoped that his neighbour 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 gaoler gone?”

      “Yes,” said Dantès, “he will not return until the evening, so that we have twelve hours before us.”

      “I СКАЧАТЬ