The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated

by Alexandre Dumas

  Chapter 28. The Prison Register

  The day after that in which the scene we have just described had takenplace on the road between Bellegarde and Beaucaire, a man of aboutthirty or two-and-thirty, dressed in a bright blue frock coat, nankeentrousers, and a white waistcoat, having the appearance and accent of anEnglishman, presented himself before the mayor of Marseilles.

  “Sir,” said he, “I am chief clerk of the house of Thomson & French, ofRome. We are, and have been these ten years, connected with the house ofMorrel & Son, of Marseilles. We have a hundred thousand francs orthereabouts loaned on their securities, and we are a little uneasy atreports that have reached us that the firm is on the brink of ruin. Ihave come, therefore, express from Rome, to ask you for information.”

  “Sir,” replied the mayor. “I know very well that during the last four orfive years misfortune has seemed to pursue M. Morrel. He has lost fouror five vessels, and suffered by three or four bankruptcies; but it isnot for me, although I am a creditor myself to the amount of tenthousand francs, to give any information as to the state of hisfinances. Ask of me, as mayor, what is my opinion of M. Morrel, and Ishall say that he is a man honorable to the last degree, and who has upto this time fulfilled every engagement with scrupulous punctuality.This is all I can say, sir; if you wish to learn more, address yourselfto M. de Boville, the inspector of prisons, No. 15, Rue de Nouailles; hehas, I believe, two hundred thousand francs in Morrel’s hands, and ifthere be any grounds for apprehension, as this is a greater amount thanmine, you will most probably find him better informed than myself.”

  The Englishman seemed to appreciate this extreme delicacy, made his bowand went away, proceeding with a characteristic British stride towardsthe street mentioned.

  M. de Boville was in his private room, and the Englishman, on perceivinghim, made a gesture of surprise, which seemed to indicate that it wasnot the first time he had been in his presence. As to M. de Boville, hewas in such a state of despair, that it was evident all the faculties ofhis mind, absorbed in the thought which occupied him at the moment, didnot allow either his memory or his imagination to stray to the past.

  The Englishman, with the coolness of his nation, addressed him in termsnearly similar to those with which he had accosted the mayor ofMarseilles.

  “Oh, sir,” exclaimed M. de Boville, “your fears are unfortunately buttoo well founded, and you see before you a man in despair. I had twohundred thousand francs placed in the hands of Morrel & Son; these twohundred thousand francs were the dowry of my daughter, who was to bemarried in a fortnight, and these two hundred thousand francs werepayable, half on the 15th of this month, and the other half on the 15thof next month. I had informed M. Morrel of my desire to have thesepayments punctually, and he has been here within the last half-hour totell me that if his ship, the Pharaon, did not come into port on the15th, he would be wholly unable to make this payment.”

  “But,” said the Englishman, “this looks very much like a suspension ofpayment.”

  “It looks more like bankruptcy!” exclaimed M. de Boville despairingly.

  The Englishman appeared to reflect a moment, and then said, “From whichit would appear, sir, that this credit inspires you with considerableapprehension?”

  “To tell you the truth, I consider it lost.”

  “Well, then, I will buy it of you!”

  “You?”

  “Yes, I!”

  “But at a tremendous discount, of course?”

  “No, for two hundred thousand francs. Our house,” added the Englishmanwith a laugh, “does not do things in that way.”

  “And you will pay——”

  “Ready money.”

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  And the Englishman drew from his pocket a bundle of bank-notes, whichmight have been twice the sum M. de Boville feared to lose. A ray of joypassed across M. de Boville’s countenance, yet he made an effort atself-control, and said:

  “Sir, I ought to tell you that, in all probability, you will not realizesix per cent of this sum.”

  “That’s no affair of mine,” replied the Englishman, “that is the affairof the house of Thomson & French, in whose name I act. They have,perhaps, some motive to serve in hastening the ruin of a rival firm. Butall I know, sir, is, that I am ready to hand you over this sum inexchange for your assignment of the debt. I only ask a brokerage.”

  “Of course, that is perfectly just,” cried M. de Boville. “Thecommission is usually one and a half; will you have two—three—five percent, or even more? Whatever you say.”

  “Sir,” replied the Englishman, laughing, “I am like my house, and do notdo such things—no, the commission I ask is quite different.”

  “Name it, sir, I beg.”

  “You are the inspector of prisons?”

  “I have been so these fourteen years.”

  “You keep the registers of entries and departures?”

  “I do.”

  “To these registers there are added notes relative to the prisoners?”

  “There are special reports on every prisoner.”

  “Well, sir, I was educated at Rome by a poor devil of an abbé, whodisappeared suddenly. I have since learned that he was confined in theChâteau d’If, and I should like to learn some particulars of his death.”

  “What was his name?”

  “The Abbé Faria.”

  “Oh, I recollect him perfectly,” cried M. de Boville; “he was crazy.”

  “So they said.”

  “Oh, he was, decidedly.”

  “Very possibly; but what sort of madness was it?”

  “He pretended to know of an immense treasure, and offered vast sums tothe government if they would liberate him.”

  “Poor devil!—and he is dead?”

  “Yes, sir, five or six months ago, last February.”

  “You have a good memory, sir, to recollect dates so well.”

  “I recollect this, because the poor devil’s death was accompanied by asingular incident.”

  “May I ask what that was?” said the Englishman with an expression ofcuriosity, which a close observer would have been astonished atdiscovering in his phlegmatic countenance.

  “Oh dear, yes, sir; the abbé’s dungeon was forty or fifty feet distantfrom that of one of Bonaparte’s emissaries,—one of those who hadcontributed the most to the return of the usurper in 1815, a veryresolute and very dangerous man.”

  “Indeed!” said the Englishman.

  “Yes,” replied M. de Boville; “I myself had occasion to see this man in1816 or 1817, and we could only go into his dungeon with a file ofsoldiers. That man made a deep impression on me; I shall never forgethis countenance!”

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  The Englishman smiled imperceptibly.

  “And you say, sir,” he interposed, “that the two dungeons——”

  “Were separated by a distance of fifty feet; but it appears that thisEdmond Dantès——”

  “This dangerous man’s name was——”

  “Edmond Dantès. It appears, sir, that this Edmond Dantès had procuredtools, or made them, for they found a tunnel through which the prisonersheld communication with one another.”

  “This tunnel was dug, no doubt, with an intention of escape?”

  “No doubt; but unfortunately for the prisoners, the Abbé Faria had anattack of catalepsy, and died.”

  “That must have cut short the projects of escape.”

  “For the dead man, yes,” replied M. de Boville, “but not for thesurvivor; on the contrary, this Dantès saw a means of accelerating hisescape. He, no doubt, thought that prisoners who died in the Châteaud’If were interred in an ordinary burial-ground, and he conveyed thedead man into his own cell, took his place in the sack in which they hadsewed up the corpse, and awaited the moment of interment.”

  “It was a bold step, and one that showed some courage,” remarked theEnglishman.

  “As I have already told you, sir, he was a very dangerous man; and,fortunately, by his own act
disembarrassed the government of the fearsit had on his account.”

  “How was that?”

  “How? Do you not comprehend?”

  “No.”

  “The Château d’If has no cemetery, and they simply throw the dead intothe sea, after fastening a thirty-six-pound cannon-ball to their feet.”

  “Well?” observed the Englishman as if he were slow of comprehension.

  “Well, they fastened a thirty-six-pound ball to his feet, and threw himinto the sea.”

  “Really!” exclaimed the Englishman.

  “Yes, sir,” continued the inspector of prisons. “You may imagine theamazement of the fugitive when he found himself flung headlong over therocks! I should like to have seen his face at that moment.”

  “That would have been difficult.”

  “No matter,” replied De Boville, in supreme good-humor at the certaintyof recovering his two hundred thousand francs,—“no matter, I can fancyit.” And he shouted with laughter.

  “So can I,” said the Englishman, and he laughed too; but he laughed asthe English do, “at the end of his teeth.”

  “And so,” continued the Englishman who first gained his composure, “hewas drowned?”

  “Unquestionably.”

  “So that the governor got rid of the dangerous and the crazy prisoner atthe same time?”

  “Precisely.”

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  “But some official document was drawn up as to this affair, I suppose?”inquired the Englishman.

  “Yes, yes, the mortuary deposition. You understand, Dantès’ relations,if he had any, might have some interest in knowing if he were dead oralive.”

  “So that now, if there were anything to inherit from him, they may do sowith easy conscience. He is dead, and no mistake about it.”

  “Oh, yes; and they may have the fact attested whenever they please.”

  “So be it,” said the Englishman. “But to return to these registers.”

  “True, this story has diverted our attention from them. Excuse me.”

  “Excuse you for what? For the story? By no means; it really seems to mevery curious.”

  “Yes, indeed. So, sir, you wish to see all relating to the poor abbé,who really was gentleness itself.”

  “Yes, you will much oblige me.”

  “Go into my study here, and I will show it to you.”

  And they both entered M. de Boville’s study. Everything was herearranged in perfect order; each register had its number, each file ofpapers its place. The inspector begged the Englishman to seat himself inan armchair, and placed before him the register and documents relativeto the Château d’If, giving him all the time he desired for theexamination, while De Boville seated himself in a corner, and began toread his newspaper. The Englishman easily found the entries relative tothe Abbé Faria; but it seemed that the history which the inspector hadrelated interested him greatly, for after having perused the firstdocuments he turned over the leaves until he reached the depositionrespecting Edmond Dantès. There he found everything arranged in dueorder,—the accusation, examination, Morrel’s petition, M. de Villefort’smarginal notes. He folded up the accusation quietly, and put it asquietly in his pocket; read the examination, and saw that the name ofNoirtier was not mentioned in it; perused, too, the application dated10th April, 1815, in which Morrel, by the deputy procureur’s advice,exaggerated with the best intentions (for Napoleon was then on thethrone) the services Dantès had rendered to the imperial cause—serviceswhich Villefort’s certificates rendered indisputable. Then he sawthrough the whole thing. This petition to Napoleon, kept back byVillefort, had become, under the second restoration, a terrible weaponagainst him in the hands of the king’s attorney. He was no longerastonished when he searched on to find in the register this note, placedin a bracket against his name:

  Edmond Dantès.

  An inveterate Bonapartist; took an active part in the return from theIsland of Elba.

  To be kept in strict solitary confinement, and to be closely watched andguarded.

  Beneath these lines was written in another hand: “See note above—nothingcan be done.”

  He compared the writing in the bracket with the writing of thecertificate placed beneath Morrel’s petition, and discovered that thenote in the bracket was the same writing as the certificate—that is tosay, was in Villefort’s handwriting.

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  As to the note which accompanied this, the Englishman understood that itmight have been added by some inspector who had taken a momentaryinterest in Dantès’ situation, but who had, from the remarks we havequoted, found it impossible to give any effect to the interest he hadfelt.

  As we have said, the inspector, from discretion, and that he might notdisturb the Abbé Faria’s pupil in his researches, had seated himself ina corner, and was reading Le Drapeau Blanc. He did not see theEnglishman fold up and place in his pocket the accusation written byDanglars under the arbor of La Réserve, and which had the postmark,“Marseilles, 27th February, delivery 6 o’clock, P.M.”

  But it must be said that if he had seen it, he attached so littleimportance to this scrap of paper, and so much importance to his twohundred thousand francs, that he would not have opposed whatever theEnglishman might do, however irregular it might be.

  “Thanks,” said the latter, closing the register with a slam, “I have allI want; now it is for me to perform my promise. Give me a simpleassignment of your debt; acknowledge therein the receipt of the cash,and I will hand you over the money.”

  He rose, gave his seat to M. de Boville, who took it without ceremony,and quickly drew up the required assignment, while the Englishmancounted out the bank-notes on the other side of the desk.