When the story concluded, the abbé was deep in thought; then, after a moment, he said: ‘There is a very profound axiom in law, which is consistent with what I told you a short time ago, and it is this: unless an evil thought is born in a twisted mind, human nature is repelled by crime. However, civilization has given us needs, vices and artificial appetites which sometimes cause us to repress our good instincts and lead us to wrongdoing.1 Hence the maxim: if you wish to find the guilty party, first discover whose interests the crime serves! Whose interests might be served by your disappearance?’
‘No one’s, for heaven’s sake! I was so insignificant!’
‘That is not the answer, because that answer is wanting in both logic and common sense. Everything, my good friend, is relative, from the king who stands in the way of his designated successor to the employee who impedes the supernumerary: if the king dies, the successor inherits a crown; if the employee dies, the supernumerary inherits a salary of twelve hundred livres. These twelve hundred livres are his civil list: they are as necessary to his survival as the king’s twelve million. Every individual, from the lowest to the highest on the social scale, is at the centre of a little network of interests, with its storms and its hooked atoms, like the worlds of Descartes;2 except that these worlds get larger as one goes up: it is a reverse spiral balanced on a single point. So let’s get back to your world: you were about to be appointed captain of the Pharaon?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were about to marry a beautiful young woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was it in anyone’s interest that you should not become captain of the Pharaon? Was it in anyone’s interest that you should not marry Mercédès? Answer the first question first: order is the key to all problems. Would anyone gain by your not becoming captain of the Pharaon?’
‘No, I was well-loved on board. If the sailors could have chosen their own leader, I am sure that they would have picked me. Only one man had a reason to dislike me: a short time before, I had quarrelled with him and challenged him to a duel, which he refused.’
‘Really? And what was the man’s name?’
‘Danglars.’
‘What was his position on board?’
‘Supercargo.’
‘If you had become captain, would you have kept him in his post?’
‘No, if the choice had been mine, because I thought I had discovered some irregularities in his accounts.’
‘Very well. Now, was anyone present at your last meeting with Captain Leclère?’
‘No, we were alone.’
‘Could anyone have overheard your conversation?’
‘Yes, the door was open and… wait! Yes, yes, Danglars went past just at the moment when Captain Leclère gave me the packet to deliver to the marshal.’
‘Good,’ the abbé said. ‘Now we are getting somewhere. Did you take anyone off the ship with you when you anchored on Elba?’
‘No one.’
‘You were given a letter.’
‘Yes, by the Grand Marshal.’
‘What did you do with it?’
‘I put it into my briefcase.’
‘Did you have your briefcase with you? How could a briefcase intended to contain an official letter fit into a sailor’s pocket?’
‘You are right: my briefcase was on board.’
‘So it was only when you returned on board that you put the letter into the briefcase?’
‘That is right.’
‘What did you do with the letter between Porto Ferrajo and the ship?’
‘I held it in my hand.’
‘So that when you came back on board the Pharaon, anyone could have seen that you were carrying a letter?’
‘Yes.’
‘Danglars as well as anyone else?’
‘Danglars as well as anyone else.’
‘Now, listen carefully and concentrate your memory: do you remember the precise terms in which the denunciation was phrased?’
‘Indeed, I do. I read it three times, and every word is etched on my memory.’
‘Repeat it to me.’
Dantès paused to gather his thoughts, then said: ‘Here it is, word for word:
The crown prosecutor is advised, by a friend of the monarchy and the faith, that one Edmond Dantès, first mate of the Pharaon, arriving this morning from Smyrna, after putting in at Naples and Porto Ferrajo, was entrusted by Murat with a letter for the usurper and by the usurper with a letter to the Bonapartist committee in Paris.
Proof of his guilt will be found when he is arrested, since the letter will be discovered either on his person, or at the house of his father, or in his cabin on board the Pharaon.’
The abbé shrugged his shoulders.
‘It is as clear as daylight, and you must have a very simple and kind heart not to have guessed the truth immediately.’
‘Do you think so?’ Dantès exclaimed. ‘Oh, it would be most dastardly.’
‘What was Danglars’ handwriting like, normally?’
‘A fine, copperplate hand.’
‘And what was the writing of the anonymous letter?’
‘Writing that leant backwards.’
The abbé smiled: ‘Disguised, surely?’
‘Very firm for a disguised hand.’
‘Wait,’ he said, taking his pen – or the implement that he called a pen – dipping it in the ink and writing with his left hand, on a ready-prepared piece of cloth, the first two or three lines of the denunciation. Dantès started back and looked at the abbé with something close to terror.
‘It’s astonishing,’ he said. ‘That writing is so like the other.’
‘That is because the denunciation was written with the left hand. I have noticed something,’ the abbé added, ‘which is that while all handwriting written with the right hand varies, all that done with the left hand looks the same.’
‘Is there anything that you haven’t seen or observed?’
‘Let’s continue.’
‘Yes, willingly.’
‘What about the second question?’
‘I am listening.’
‘Was there someone who stood to gain if you did not marry Mercédès?’
‘Yes, a young man who was in love with her.’
‘Called?’
‘Fernand.’
‘A Spanish name… ?’
‘He is a Catalan.’
‘Do you think him capable of writing this letter?’
‘No! He would have put a knife in me, quite simply.’
‘Yes, that is like a Spaniard: a killing, certainly, but a cowardly act, no.’
‘In any case,’ Dantès went on, ‘he knew none of the details which were in the denunciation.’
‘You confided them to no one?’
‘No one.’
‘Not even your mistress?’
‘Not even my fiancée.’
‘It must be Danglars.’
‘Now I am sure of it.’
‘Wait: did Danglars know Fernand?’
‘No… Or… Yes: I remember…’
‘What do you remember?’
‘Two days before my wedding, I saw them sitting together at Père Pamphile’s. Danglars was friendly and merry, Fernand pale and troubled.’
‘Were they alone?’
‘No, they had someone else with them, someone I know well, who had no doubt introduced them to each other, a tailor called Caderousse; but he was already drunk. Wait… wait… How did I forget this? Near the table where they were drinking, there was an inkwell, some paper and pens…’ (Dantès drew his hand across his brow). ‘Oh, the villains! The villains!’
‘Do you want to know anything else?’ the abbé said, smiling.
‘Yes, since you understand everything, since you can see everything clearly, I want to know why I was only interrogated once, why I was not given judges to try me and why I have been condemned unheard.’
‘Ah, there now,’ said the abbé, ‘that is rather more serious. Justice has
dark and mysterious ways which are hard to fathom. So far, with your two friends, what we did was child’s play, but on this other matter you must be as accurate as you can possibly be.’
‘You ask the questions, because you truly seem to see into my life more clearly than I do myself.’
‘Who interrogated you? Was it the crown prosecutor, the deputy or the investigating magistrate?’
‘The deputy.’
‘Young or old?’
‘Young: twenty-six or twenty-seven.’
‘Good! Not yet corrupt, but already ambitious,’ the abbé said. ‘What was his manner towards you?’
‘Kind rather than harsh.’
‘Did you tell him everything?’
‘Everything.’
‘Did his manner change in the course of the interrogation?’
‘For a moment, it changed, when he had read the letter that compromised me. He seemed to be overwhelmed by my misfortune.’
‘By your misfortune?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you quite sure that it was your misfortune that he felt?’
‘He gave me every evidence of his sympathy, at any rate.’
‘In what way?’
‘He burned the only document that could compromise me.’
‘What was that? The denunciation?’
‘No, the other letter.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘That’s another matter; the man may be a deeper-dyed villain than you imagine.’
‘I swear, you are frightening me!’ said Dantès. ‘Is the world full of tigers and crocodiles, then?’
‘Yes, except that the tigers and crocodiles with two legs are more dangerous than the rest.’
‘Continue, tell me more.’
‘Gladly. You say he burned the letter?’
‘Yes, and as he did so said to me: “You see, this is the only proof against you, and I am destroying it.” ’
‘Such behaviour was too good to be true.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I am certain. To whom was the letter addressed?’
‘To Monsieur Noirtier, 13, rue Coq-Héron, Paris.’
‘Have you any reason to believe that your deputy had some reason to want this letter to disappear?’
‘Perhaps. He did make me promise two or three times, in my own interests, as he said, not to mention the letter to anyone, and he made me swear not to speak the name that was written on the address.’
‘Noirtier?’ the abbé repeated. ‘Noirtier… I used to know a Noirtier at the court of the former Queen of Etruria, a Noirtier who was a Girondin during the Revolution. And what was the name of this deputy of yours?’
‘Villefort.’
The abbé burst out laughing, and Dantès looked at him in astonishment.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Do you see that ray of sunlight?’ the abbé asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, everything is now clearer to me than that brightly shining ray of light. My poor child, you poor young man! And this magistrate was good to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘This noble deputy burned the letter, destroyed it?’
‘He did.’
‘This honest purveyor of souls to the dungeon made you swear never to speak the name of Noirtier?’
‘Correct.’
‘This Noirtier, poor blind fool that you are, do you know who this Noirtier was? This Noirtier was his father!’
If a shaft of lightning had fallen at Dantès’ feet and opened an abyss with hell in its depths, it would not have produced a more startling or electric or overwhelming effect on him than these unexpected words. He got up and clasped his head in both hands, as if to prevent it from bursting.
‘His father? His father!’ he cried.
‘Yes, his father, who is called Noirtier de Villefort,’ the abbé said.
At this, a devastating flash of light burst inside the prisoner’s head and the picture that he had not previously understood was instantly bathed in dazzling light. He recalled everything: Villefort’s shilly-shallying during the interrogation, the letter he had destroyed, the promise he had elicited and the almost pleading tone of the magistrate’s voice – which, instead of threatening him, seemed to be begging. He gave a cry and staggered for a moment like a drunken man; then, rushing to the opening that led from the abbé’s cell to his own, he exclaimed: ‘Ah! I must be alone to consider this.’
When he reached his dungeon, he fell on the bed and it was there that the turnkey found him that evening, still sitting, his eyes staring and his features drawn, motionless and silent as a statue.
During those hours of meditation, which had passed like seconds, he had made a fearful resolution and sworn a terrible oath.
A voice roused Dantès from his reverie: it was the Abbé Faria who, after being visited in his turn by the jailer, had come to invite Dantès to take supper with him. As a certified madman, above all as an entertaining madman, the old prisoner enjoyed certain privileges, among them that of having bread that was a little whiter than the rest and a small jar of wine on Sundays. This happened to be a Sunday and the abbé was asking Dantès to share his bread and wine.
Dantès followed him. His expression had returned to normal and his features were composed, but with a strength and firmness, as it were, that implied a settled resolve. The abbé looked closely at him.
‘I regret having helped you in your investigation and said what I did to you,’ he remarked.
‘Why is that?’ Dantès asked.
‘Because I have insinuated a feeling into your heart that was not previously there: the desire for revenge.’
Dantès smiled and said: ‘Let us change the subject.’
The abbé gave him a further brief look and sadly shook his head; then, as Dantès had requested, he began to talk of other things.
The old prisoner was one of those men whose conversation, like that of everyone who has known great suffering, contains many lessons and is continually interesting; but it was not self-centred: the unfortunate man never spoke about his own troubles.
Dantès listened to every word with admiration. Some of what the abbé said concurred with ideas that he already had and things that he knew from his profession as a seaman, while others touched on the unknown and, like the aurora borealis giving light to sailors in northern latitudes, showed the young man new lands and new horizons, bathed in fantastic colours. Dantès understood the happiness of an intelligence that could follow such a mind on the moral, philosophical and social peaks where it habitually roamed.
‘You must teach me a little of what you know,’ he said, ‘if only to avoid becoming bored by my company. I now feel that you must prefer solitude to an uneducated and narrow-minded companion like myself. If you agree, I undertake not to mention escape to you again.’
The abbé smiled.
‘Alas, my child,’ he said, ‘human knowledge is very limited and when I have taught you mathematics, physics, history and the three or four modern languages that I speak, you will know everything that I know; and it will take me scarcely two years to transfer all this knowledge from my mind to yours.’
‘Two years!’ said Dantès. ‘Do you think I could learn all this in two years?’
‘In their application, no; but the principles, yes. Learning does not make one learned: there are those who have knowledge and those who have understanding. The first requires memory, the second philosophy.’
‘But can’t one learn philosophy?’
‘Philosophy cannot be taught. Philosophy is the union of all acquired knowledge and the genius that applies it: philosophy is the shining cloud upon which Christ set His foot to go up into heaven.’
‘Come then,’ said Dantès. ‘What will you teach me first? I am eager to begin, I am athirst for knowledge.’
‘Everything, then!’ said the abbé.
So that evening the two prisoners drew up an ed
ucational syllabus which they began to carry out the following day. Dantès had a remarkable memory and found concepts very easy to grasp: a mathematical cast of mind made him able to understand everything by calculating it, while a seafarer’s poetry compensated for whatever was too materialistic in arguments reduced to dry figures and straight lines. Moreover he already knew Italian and a little Romaic, which he had picked up on his journeys to the East. With those two languages, he soon understood the workings of all the rest, and after six months had started to speak Spanish, English and German.
As he promised Abbé Faria, he no longer spoke of escape, either because the enjoyment of study compensated him for his loss of freedom, or because (as we have seen) he would always keep his word strictly, once he had given it, and the days passed quickly and instructively. After a year, he was a different man.
As for Abbé Faria, Dantès noticed that, though the older man’s captivity had been lightened by his presence, he grew more melancholy by the day. One pervasive and incessant thought seemed to plague his mind. He would fall into deep reveries, give an involuntary sigh, leap suddenly to his feet, cross his arms and pace gloomily around his cell.
One day, he stopped abruptly while pacing for the hundredth time around his room, and exclaimed: ‘Oh! If only there was no sentry!’
‘There need be no sentry, if only you would agree to it,’ said Dantès, who had followed the train of thought inside his head as if there were a crystal window in his skull.
‘I have told you,’ the abbé said, ‘I abhor the idea of murder.’
‘Yet if this murder were to be committed, it would be through our instinct for self-preservation, through an impulse of self-defence.’
‘No matter, I cannot do it.’
The Count of Monte Cristo Page 23