Eight

UNDERGROUND

Time passed by, and a visit was made by the Chief Officer of Prisons.

Dantes heard, even from underground, the sounds made in preparing to receive this great person. These sounds would not have been heard by any ear but that of a prisoner; but the prisoner could hear even the drop of water that every hour fell from the roof of his room. He knew that something uncommon was happening among the living; but he had had nothing to do with the living for so long that he now thought of himself as dead.

The Officer visited the rooms of several of the prisoners—those whom the Governor favoured because they gave no trouble. He asked how they were fed, and if they wanted anything. They all answered that the food was very bad, and that they wanted to be set free. The Officer asked if they wanted anything else. They said "No"; what could they want except to be free?

The Officer laughed and turned to the Governor.

"I do not know what reason Government has for these visits. When you see one prisoner, you see all. It is always the same thing. 'The food is bad. I have done no wrong: set me free.' Are there any others?"

"Yes, there are the mad and dangerous prisoners."

"Let us visit them. I must see them all."

"Let us first send for two soldiers," said the Governor. "The prisoners sometimes try to kill their keepers in the hope that this will bring death to themselves."

"Take all necessary care."

Two soldiers were sent for, and the Officer went down the steps. The air was fearful; the darkness seemed to be full of the smell of death. "Oh," he cried, "who can live here?"

"A very dangerous man whom we are ordered to watch most carefully."

"He is alone?"

"Certainly."

"How long has he been here?

"About a year."

"Was he placed here when he first arrived?"

"No—not until he tried to kill a keeper."

"To kill him!"

"Yes, this man who is carrying the lamp. Is that not true, Antoine?"

"True enough. He tried to kill me," replied the man.

"He must be mad."

"He is more than mad. He is entirely bad, and very dangerous."

"Shall I make a report about him?" asked the Officer.

"Oh, no; it would be of no use. He is almost mad now, and in another year he will be quite so."

"So much the better for him. He will suffer less," said the Officer.

He was, as these words show, a very kind man, in every way fit for his office.

"You are right," replied the Governor, "and your words show that you have thought deeply about the subject. Now, we have in this room, about twenty feet away, which you will reach by some more steps, the leader of a party in Italy. He has been here since 1811; and in 1813 he went mad. The change is surprising. He used to weep; he now laughs: he grew thin; he now grows fat. You had better see him; his madness is curious."

"I will see them both," said the Officer. "I must do my duty."

This was the Officer's first visit: he wished to show what a great man he was.

"Let us visit this one first," he added.

"Certainly," replied the Governor, and he ordered the keeper to open the door.

At the sound of the key turning, Dantes, sitting in a corner, raised his head. He saw the stranger with two soldiers, and he noticed that the Governor stood with his hat off. He knew then that this must be some high officer, and sprang to meet him.

The soldiers stepped forward; Dantes drew back from them. Dantes saw that the Officer had been told that he was a dangerous man. Making his eyes and voice as gentle as possible, he spoke to the Officer, and tried to move his heart.

The Officer listened; then, turning to the Governor, he said, "He will be one of those that keep on praying to God. He is already more gentle. You noticed that he was afraid and drew back from the soldiers. Madmen are not afraid of anything. I noticed some curious things on this subject at Charenton Prison." Then, turning to the prisoner, he said, "What do you want to ask for?"

"I ask what is the wrong which I have done. If I have done wrong, I ask to be judged. If I am judged to be a wrong-doer, let me be shot. If not, let me be set free."

"Are you well fed?" said the Officer.

"I believe so. I do not know; but that does not matter. What matters really, not only to me, but to everyone, is that a man who has done no wrong should be kept in prison."

"You are very quiet and good today," said the Governor. " You are not so always. Not very long ago you tried to kill the keeper."

"It is true. He has always been very good to me: but I was mad."

"Are you so any longer?"

"No. I seem to have been here so long. You cannot think what it is to be in prison, a young man like me, on the point of marrying the girl he loved. Prison, to a seaman used to the wide ocean, is a fearful thing. Remember me, I pray you. I ask only to know what wrong I am supposed to have done, and to go before a judge, and know what is to happen to me. It is to be uncertain—that is the hardest thing of all."

"We shall see," said the Officer. Then, turning to the Governor, he said, "The poor fellow touches my heart. You must show me what there is against him in your books."

"Certainly."

"I know you cannot set me free," said Dantes, "but you can ask about me and have me brought before the judge. Tell me at least that there is hope."

"I cannot tell you that. I can only promise to ask about the matter. Who gave orders for you to be taken prisoner?"

"Mr. Villefort."

"Had he any reason to be your enemy?"

"None. He was very kind to me."

"Then I can trust anything that he has written about you?"

"Entirely."

The door was closed. Yet there was something in the room which had not been there before—Hope.

"Here is the other prisoner," said the Governor. "His madness is of a more curious kind. He thinks that he has a great treasure. He offered Government some very large amount of money to set him free—thousands and thousands. Then he doubled the offer, and doubled it again, and so on. He will take you to one side and offer you the same."

"How curious! What is his name?"

"Faria."

"Number 27," said the Officer.

"Yes. It is here. Open the door, Antoine."

The Officer looked into the room of the madman.

In the centre of the floor, in a circle drawn on the stone, sat a man whose clothes had almost fallen away from his body. He was drawing lines within the circle, and was attending so closely to his work that he did not move at the sound of the door opening. It was only when the light of the lamp fell upon him that he raised his head and saw a number of persons standing near him.

He quickly seized a cloth from the bed and put it about him.

"What do you want?" said the Officer.

"I? I want nothing."

"You do not understand," continued the Officer. "I am sent here by Government to visit the prisoners and to discover if there is anything they need."

"Oh, that's different," cried Faria; "and we shall understand each other, I hope."

"There!" said the Governor; "it is just as I told you."

"My name is Faria. I was born in Rome. For twenty years I served Prince Spada. I was made a prisoner—I do not know why—in 1811. Since then I have again and again asked to be set free."

"Yes, yes. But I have come to ask whether you think you are being treated properly in this prison."

"The food is the same as in other prisons—that is, very bad. This room is very unhealthy—but what would you expect in a prison? It is not of such things that I wish to speak. I wish to tell you something which is very important."

"We are coming to it, you see," said the Governor.

"For that reason I am delighted to see you, although you have broken in upon a very important piece of study on which I was busy. Could you allow me to say a few words to you alone?"

"What did I tell you?" said the Governor quietly.

"What you ask is not possible," replied the Officer.

"But," said Faria, "I wish to speak to you of a very large amount of money."

"Just as you told me," said the Officer.

"But," said Faria, seeing that the Officer was turning to go away, "it is not so very necessary that we should be alone; the Governor may hear what I say."

"Of course," said the Governor, "I know already what you are going to say. It is about that hidden treasure, isn't it?"

Faria fixed his eyes on him in a way that would have made anyone else believe him not mad at all.

"Yes, without doubt," said he. "Of what else should I speak?"

"I can tell that story now almost as well as you can yourself, for you have told it me again and again and again during the past five years."

"That shows," said Faria, "that you are not like those who 'have ears and hear not.'"

"The Government does not want your money," replied the Officer. "Keep it until you are set free." Faria's eyes were bright; he seized the Officer's hand.

"But what if I am not set free?" he cried, "What if I am kept here until I die? Should not the Government gain something? I will offer half of it, and keep the rest myself."

"Really," said the Officer in a low voice, "if I had not been told that this man was mad, I should believe what he says."

"I am not mad," replied Faria, with that quickness of hearing which prisoners have. "The money is really there. I will write out a paper promising to lead you to the place. If you do not find the money, bring me here again; I ask no more."

The Governor laughed. "Is the place far from here?"

"Three hundred miles."

"A very nice plan!" said the Governor. "If every prisoner could travel three hundred miles whenever he wanted to, he would have very good chances of escaping. This is a very old plan of escape. Mr. Faria is not even the first to think of it."

"I asked," said the Officer, "if you were well fed."

"Promise me," replied Faria, "that you will free me if what I tell you is found to be true; and I will stay here while you go to the place."

"I asked if you were well fed."

"There is no danger, for I will stay here; so there is no chance of my escaping."

"You do not answer my question."

"Nor do you answer mine," cried the old man. "You will not take my gold; I will keep it. You will not set me free; God will set me free."

He threw away the cloth and continued his writing on the floor.

"What is he doing there?" said the Officer.

"Adding up his money," replied the Governor.

Faria took no notice of these foolish words.

"Perhaps he was a rich man once," said the Officer.

"Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad," said the Governor.

Thus ended the matter of Faria. There he remained; the visit only made them more certain that he was mad.

The Officer kept his promise to Dantes. He looked in the prison-book and found this written against his name:

These last eight words were in a different writing, which showed they had been added since he had been thrown into prison.

Things being so, the Officer could do nothing. He just wrote, "Nothing to be done."