At last, about ten o’clock, when Dantès was beginning to lose all hope, he heard steps approaching his door. A key was turned in the lock, the bolts creaked, the massive oak door swung open, and a dazzling light from two torches flooded the cell.
By the light of these torches, Dantès saw the glittering swords and carbines of four gendarmes.
“Have you come to fetch me?” Dantès asked.
“Yes,” was the answer of one of the men.
“By order of the Deputy?”
“I should say so!”
“Very well,” said Dantès, “I am ready to follow you.”
In the belief that they came at the Deputy’s orders, Dantès, relieved of all apprehension, calmly stepped forward and placed himself in their midst. A police van was waiting at the door, the coachman was on the box, and a police officer was seated beside him. The door of the carriage was opened and Dantès was pushed in. He had neither the power nor the intention to resist and he found himself in an instant seated between two gendarmes, the other two taking their places opposite, and the heavy van lumbered away.
The prisoner glanced at the windows: they were grated. He had but changed his prison; only this one moved and was conveying him he knew not whither. Through the grating, the bars of which were so close that there was barely a hand’s-breadth between them, Dantès recognized the Rue Casserie, and saw that they were passing along the Rue Saint-Laurent and the Rue Taramis toward the quay. Soon he saw the lights of the Consigne before him. The van stopped, the officer got down from the box, and opened the locked door with his key; whereupon Dantès stepped out and was immediately surrounded by the four gendarmes, who led him along a path lined with soldiers to a boat which a customs-house officer held by a chain near the quay. The soldiers looked at Dantès with vacant curiosity. He was given a place in the stern of the boat and was again surrounded by the four gendarmes, whilst the officer stationed himself at the bows. The boat was shoved off, four oarsmen plied their oars vigorously, and soon Dantès found himself in what they call the Frioul, that is, outside the harbour.
His first feeling on finding himself once more in the open air was one of joy, for did it not mean freedom? But the whole proceeding was incomprehensible to him.
“Whither are you taking me?” he asked.
“You will know soon enough.”
“But . . .”
“We are forbidden to give you any explanation.”
Dantès knew from experience that it was useless to question a subordinate who had been forbidden to answer any questions, and he remained silent.
As he sat there, the most fantastic thoughts passed through his mind. It was not possible to undertake a long voyage in such a small boat, so perhaps they were going to take him a short distance from the coast and tell him he was free; they had not attempted to handcuff him, which he considered a good augury; besides, had not the Deputy, who had been so kind to him, told him that, provided he did not mention the fatal name of Noirtier, he had nothing to fear? Had not de Villefort destroyed the dangerous letter in his presence, the letter which was the only evidence they had against him?
He waited in silence and deep in thought. With that far-away look in his eyes peculiar to sailors, he tried to pierce the depths of the night. Leaving Ratonneau Island with its lighthouse on their right, and keeping close to the coast, they arrived opposite the Catalan creek. It was here that Mercédès lived, and now and then he imagined he saw the indistinct and vague form of a woman outlined on the dark shore.
Why did a presentiment not warn her that the man she loved was but a hundred yards away from her? If he gave a shout, she could hear him. A false shame restrained him, however. What would these men say if he called out like a madman?
In spite of the repugnance he felt at putting fresh questions to the gendarmes, he turned to the one nearest him and said:
“Comrade, I adjure you on your honour as a soldier to have pity on me and answer! I am Captain Dantès, an honest and loyal Frenchman, though accused of treason. Whither are you taking me? Tell me, and on my honour as a sailor, I will submit to my fate.”
The gendarme scratched his ear and looked at his comrade. The latter made a motion with his head which seemed to say: “I can’t see any harm in telling him now”; and the gendarme, turning to Dantès, replied:
“You are a native of Marseilles and a sailor, and yet you ask us where we are heading for?”
“Yes, for on my honour I do not know.”
“Have you no idea?”
“None at all.”
“Impossible!”
“I swear it by all that I hold most sacred! Tell me, I entreat you!”
“Unless you are blind or have never been outside the port of Marseilles, you must know. Look round you.”
Dantès got up and quite naturally looked in the direction the boat was moving. Before him, at a distance of a hundred fathoms, rose the black, steep rock on which stood the frowning Château d’If.
This strange pile, this prison whose very name spelt terror, this fortress around which Marseilles had woven its legends for the past three hundred years, rising up so suddenly before Dantès, had the effect on him that the sight of a scaffold must have on a condemned man.
“My God!” he cried, “the Château d’If! Why are we going there?”
The gendarme smiled.
“You cannot be taking me there to imprison me?” Dantès went on. “The Château d’If is a State prison, and is only used for important political offenders. I have committed no crime. Are there any judges or magistrates at the Château d’If ?”
“As far as I know there are a governor, some gaolers, a garrison, and some good thick walls.”
“Are you trying to make out that I am to be imprisoned there? What about Monsieur Villefort’s promise?”
“I don’t know anything about Monsieur Villefort’s promise; all I know is that we are going to the Château d’If.”
Quick as lightning Dantès sprang to his feet and tried to hurl himself into the sea, but four stout arms caught him before even his feet left the bottom boards of the boat. With a howl of rage he fell back. The next moment a sudden impact shook the boat from stem to stern and Dantès realized that they had arrived. His guardians forced him to land, and dragged him to the steps that led to the gate of the fortress, the police officer following him with fixed bayonet.
Dantès made no useless resistance; his slow movements were caused by inertia rather than opposition—he was dazed, and reeled like a drunken man. He saw more soldiers stationed along the slope, he felt the steps which forced him to raise his feet, he perceived that he passed under a door, and that this door closed behind him, but all his actions were mechanical and he saw as through a mist; he could distinguish nothing. He did not even see the ocean,q that cause of heart-breaking despair to the prisoners who look on that wide expanse of water with an awful conviction that they are powerless to cross it.
There was a moment’s halt, during which he tried to collect his thoughts. He looked around him; he was in a square courtyard enclosed by four high walls; the slow and measured tread of the sentinels was heard, and each time they passed before the light which shone from within the château he saw the gleam of their musket-barrels.
They waited here about ten minutes, evidently for orders. At last a voice called out:
“Where is the prisoner?”
“Here,” one of the gendarmes replied.
“Let him follow me. I will take him to his cell.”
“Go!” said the gendarme, giving Dantès a push.
The prisoner followed his guide who led him into a subterranean room whose bare and reeking walls seemed as though impregnated with tears. A sort of lamp, standing on a stool, the wick swimming in fetid oil, illumined the shiny walls of this terrible abode, and revealed to Dantès the features of his guide, an under-gaoler, ill-clad and of a low type.
“Here is your cell for to-night,” he said. “It is late and the governor is in bed. T
o-morrow, when he has read the instructions regarding you, he may change your cell. In the meantime here is some bread, there is some water in the pitcher over there and some straw in the corner yonder. That is all a prisoner requires. Good night.”
Before Dantès could think of an answer, before he had noticed where the gaoler had placed the bread and the pitcher of water, or looked at the corner where lay the straw for his bed, the fellow had taken the lamp and locked the door behind him, leaving his prisoner to the darkness and silence of the gaol.
When the first rays of the sun had brought some light into the den, the gaoler returned with the information that Dantès was not to change his cell. An iron hand seemed to have nailed him to the spot where he stood the night before; he was motionless with his eyes fixed on the ground. Thus he had stood the whole night long without sleep. The gaoler advanced; Dantès did not appear to see him. He tapped him on the shoulder; Dantès shuddered and shook his head.
“Have you not slept?” asked the gaoler.
“I do not know,” was Dantès’ reply.
The gaoler stared at him in astonishment.
“Are you not hungry?”
“I do not know,” Dantès still made answer.
“Do you want anything?”
“I want to see the governor.”
The gaoler shrugged his shoulders and went out.
Dantès gazed after him, stretched out his hands toward the half-open door, but the door was closed upon him.
Then his whole frame was shaken with one mighty sob. The tears which choked him streamed down his cheeks; he beat his forehead against the ground; he remained a long time in prayer, and, while reviewing his past life, asked himself what crime he had committed at his tender age to merit such a cruel punishment.
The day passed thus. He scarcely touched his bread or water. At times he would sit absorbed in thought, at other times he would walk round and round his cell like a wild animal in a cage.
The next morning the gaoler again made his appearance.
“Well,” he said, “are you more reasonable to-day than you were yesterday?”
Dantès made no reply.
“Come, now, don’t lose heart! Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I want to speak to the governor.”
“I have already told you that is impossible,” the gaoler answered impatiently.
“Why is it impossible?”
“Because the rules of the prison do not allow it.”
“Then what is allowed here?”
“Better food if you pay for it, a walk in the courtyard, and sometimes books.”
“I don’t want any books, neither do I want to walk in the courtyard, and I find my food good enough. I only desire one thing and that is to see the governor.”
“If you keep on bothering me with that every time I come, I shall not bring you any more food.”
“Well, then,” said Dantès, “I shall die of starvation, that’s all about it.”
“Now, look here!” said the gaoler, “don’t go on brooding over the impossible in this way, or you will go mad before the end of a fortnight.”
“Do you think so?” was the reply.
“I am sure of it. Madness always begins like that. We have an instance of it here. There was an abbér in this cell before you came: it was through his unceasingly offering a million francs to the governor if he would set him free that his brain was turned.”
“Listen, I am not an abbé, neither am I mad, though I may be before long; unfortunately I am at present in full possession of my senses. Now I too have a proposal to make. I can’t offer you a million francs for the simple reason that I have not so much to give you, but I offer you a hundred crowns if, the next time you go to Marseilles, you will go to the Catalans and give a letter to a girl named Mercédès . . . not even a letter, just a couple of lines.”
“If I were to take that letter and were found out I should lose my place which is worth a thousand francs a year in addition to my food, so you see I should be a fool to risk a thousand francs for three hundred.”
“Very well,” said Dantès, “but remember this. If you refuse to take my letter to Mercédès or at least to tell her that I am here, I shall one day hide behind the door and, as you enter, break your head with this stool.”
“Threats!” the gaoler called out, retreating a step and placing himself on the defensive. “You are certainly going mad. The abbé commenced like that. In three days you will be raving mad. Luckily we have dungeons at the Château d’If.”
Dantès picked up the stool and swung it round his head.
“That’s enough! that’s enough!” the gaoler exclaimed. “Since you insist on it, I will go and tell the governor.”
“That’s something like!” said Dantès, putting the stool down and sitting on it with bent head and haggard eyes as though he were really losing his senses.
The gaoler went out and returned a few minutes later with four soldiers and a corporal.
“The governor’s orders are that the prisoner shall be taken to the dungeon. We must put madmen with madmen.”
The four soldiers seized Dantès, who fell into a kind of coma and followed them without resistance. He descended fifteen steps, the door of a dungeon was opened, and he entered mumbling, “He is right, they must put madmen with madmen.”
Chapter VIII
VILLEFORT AND MERCÉDÈS
As we have said, Villefort hastened back to the Rue du Grand Cours, and on entering the house of Madame de Saint-Méran found the guests he had left at table seated in the salon at their coffee. Renée with the rest of the company was anxiously awaiting him, and he was received with a universal fire of exclamations.
“Hallo, decapitator, guardian of the State, Brutus,” said one. “Tell us your news!”
“Are we threatened with a new Reign of Terror?” asked another.
“Has the Corsican Ogre broken loose?” cried a third.
“Marquise,” Villefort said, advancing toward his future mother-in-law. “I have come to ask you kindly to excuse my abrupt departure . . . Monsieur le Marquis, would you honour me with a few moments’ private conversation?”
“Is it really so serious as all that?” the Marquise asked, noticing the dark cloud that had gathered on Villefort’s brow.
“It is so serious that I must take leave of you for a few days.”
“You are going away?” Renée cried, unable to conceal the emotion she felt at this unexpected news.
“Alas! mademoiselle, I am obliged to do so.”
“Where are you going?” the Marquise asked.
“That is a State secret, madame, but if you have any commissions for Paris a friend of mine is going there to-night.”
Everyone looked at him.
“You wish to speak to me,” asked the Marquis.
“Yes, let us go into your study.”
The Marquis took Villefort’s arm and they left the room together.
“Well, and what has happened?”
“An affair which I consider to be of a very grave nature and which necessitates my immediate departure for Paris. Will you give me a letter to the King?”
“To the King? But I dare not take upon myself to write to His Majesty.”
“I do not ask you to write the letter. I want you to ask Monsieur de Salvieux to do so. He must give me a letter which will enable me to gain His Majesty’s presence without all the formalities attendant on the request for an audience which would only lose precious time.”
“If it is so urgent, my dear Villefort, go and pack your things and I will make de Salvieux write the letter.”
“Do not lose any time, I must start in a quarter of an hour.”
So saying, Villefort ran out, but at the door he bethought himself that the sight of the Deputy of the Procureur du Roi running through the streets would be enough to disturb the general peace of the town, so he resumed his ordinary magisterial pace.
At his door he perceived in the shadow a w
hite spectre waiting for him, erect and motionless. It was Mercédès. Having no news of Edmond, she had come in person to inquire the reason of her lover’s arrest.
As Villefort drew near, she moved from the wall against which she had been leaning and barred his way. Dantès had spoken to the Deputy of his betrothed and he now recognized her at once. He was astonished at her beauty and dignity, and when she asked him what had become of him whom she loved he felt as though he were the culprit and she his judge.
“The man you speak of,” he said abruptly, “is a criminal, and I can do nothing for him.”
A great sob escaped Mercédès’ lips, and when Villefort tried to pass by she again stopped him.
“But tell me at least where he is,” she said, “so that I may learn whether he is alive or dead.”
“I know not,” was the answer, “he has passed out of my hands.”
Embarrassed by the straight look she gave him, as also by her entreaties, he pushed by her and entered his house, locking the door after him as though to shut out all sadness. But sadness is not banished so easily. Like the wounded hero of Virgils he carried the arrow in his wound. He had no sooner entered his room than his legs gave way under him; he heaved a deep sigh, which was more like a sob, and sank into his chair. For a moment the man was in doubt. He had often passed sentence of death, but the condemned men who owed their execution to his crushing eloquence had not caused him the slightest compunction, for they had been guilty, or at all events Villefort had believed them to be so. But if at this moment the fair Mercédès had entered and had said to him: “In the name of Almighty God, Who watches over us and is our judge, give me back my lover,” he would have given way and, in spite of the risk to himself, his icy-cold hand would have signed the order for Dantès’ release. But no voice broke the stillness, the door opened only to admit Villefort’s valet, who came to tell him that his carriage was at the door.
Poor Mercédès had returned to the Catalans followed by Fernand. Grief-stricken and desperate, she threw herself on her bed. Fernand, kneeling by her side, took her hand, which she did not attempt to withdraw, and covered it with kisses: but she was oblivious to it all.
Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 8
