The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas

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      He returned speedily, recommended the prisoner to be more careful, and departed.

      Dantès heard joyfully the key grate in the lock, he listened until the sound of steps died away, and then, hastily displacing his bed, saw by the faint light that penetrated into his cell, that he had laboured uselessly the previous evening, in attacking the stone instead of removing the plaster that surrounded it.

      The damp had rendered it friable, and Dantès saw joyfully the plaster detach itself; in small morsels, it is true, but at the end of half an hour he had scraped off a handful: a mathematician might have calculated that in two years, supposing that the rock was not encountered, a passage, twenty feet long, and two feet broad, might be formed.

      The prisoner reproached himself with not having thus employed the hours he had passed in prayers and despair.

      In six years (the space he had been confined) what might he not have accomplished?

      In three days he had succeeded, with the utmost precaution, in removing the cement, and exposing the stone; the wall was formed of rough stones, to give solidity to which were embedded, at intervals, blocks of hewn stone. It was one of these he had uncovered, and which he must remove from its socket.

      Dantès strove to do so with his nails, but they were too weak. The fragments of the jug broke, and after an hour of useless toil, Dantès paused.

      Was he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to wait inactive until his fellow-workman had completed his toils?

      Suddenly an idea occurred to him; he smiled, and the perspiration dried on his forehead.

      The gaoler always brought Dantès’ soup in an iron saucepan; this saucepan contained the soup of a second prisoner, for Dantès had remarked that it was either quite full, or half empty, according as the turnkey gave it to himself or his companion first.

      The handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dantès would have given ten years of his life in exchange for it.

      The gaoler poured the contents of this saucepan into Dantès’ plate, who, after eating his soup with a wooden spoon, washed the plate, which thus served for every day. In the evening Dantès placed his plate on the ground near the door; the gaoler as he entered stepped on it and broke it.

      This time he could not blame Dantès. He was wrong to leave it there, but the gaoler was wrong not to have looked before him.

      The gaoler, therefore, contented himself with grumbling. Then he looked about him for something to pour the soup into; Dantès’ whole furniture consisted of one plate; there was no alternative.

      “Leave the saucepan,” said Dantès, “you can take it away when you bring me my breakfast.”

      This advice was to the gaoler’s taste, as it spared him the necessity of ascending, descending, and ascending again.

      He left the saucepan.

      Dantès was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his food, and after waiting an hour lest the gaoler should change his mind and return, he removed his bed, took the handle of the saucepan, inserted the point between the hewn stone and rough stones of the wall, and employed it as a lever. A slight oscillation showed Dantès all went well.

      At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from the wall, leaving a cavity of a foot and a half in diameter.

      Dantès carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the corners of his cell, and covered it with earth. Then wishing to make the best use of this night, in which chance, or rather, his own stratagem, had placed so precious an instrument in his hands, he continued to work without ceasing.

      At the dawn of day he replaced the stone, pushed his bed against the wall, and lay down.

      The breakfast consisted of a piece of bread; the gaoler entered and placed the bread on the table.

      “Well, you do not bring me another plate?” said Dantès.

      “No,” replied the turnkey, “you destroy everything. First, you break your jug, then you make me break your plate. If all the prisoners followed your example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave you the saucepan, and pour your soup into that, so for the future I hope you will not be so destructive to your furniture.”

      Dantès raised his eyes to heaven, clasped his hands beneath the coverlid, and prayed.

      He felt more gratitude for the possession of this piece of iron than he had ever felt for anything; he had, however, remarked that the prisoner on the other side had ceased to labour.

      No matter, this was a greater reason for proceeding; if his neighbour would not come to him, he would go to him.

      All day he toiled on untiringly, and by the evening he had succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of plaster and fragments of stone.

      When the hour for his gaoler’s visit arrived, Dantès straightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could, and placed it in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of soup into it, together with the fish, for thrice a week the prisoners were made to abstain from meat: this would have been a method of reckoning time, had not Dantès long ceased to do so.

      Having poured out the soup, the turnkey retired.

      Dantès wished to ascertain whether his neighbour had really ceased to work.

      He listened.

      All was silent as it had been for the last three days.

      Dantès sighed: it was evident that his neighbour distrusted him.

      However, he toiled on all the night, without being discouraged; but after two or three hours he encountered an obstacle.

      The iron made no impression, but met with a smooth surface; Dantès touched it, and found it was a beam.

      This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole Dantès had made.

      It was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under it.

      The unhappy young man had not thought of this.

      “Oh, my God! my God!” murmured he, “I have so earnestly prayed to you, that I hoped you would have heard me. After having deprived me of my liberty, after having deprived me of death, after having recalled me to existence, my God! have pity on me, and do not let me die in despair.”

      “Who talks of God and despair at the same time?” said a voice that seemed to come from beneath the earth, and, deadened by the distance, sounded hollow and sepulchral in the young man’s ears.

      Edmond’s hair stood on end, and he rose on his knees.

      “Ah!” said he, “I hear a human voice.” Edmond had not heard any one speak save his gaoler for four or five years, and a gaoler is not a man to a prisoner, he is a living door added to his door of oak, a barrier of flesh and blood added to his barriers of iron.

      “In the name of Heaven,” cried Dantès, “speak again, though the sound of your voice terrifies me.”

      “Who are you?” said the voice.

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