The Count of Monte Cristo (With Original Illustrations) - Alexandre Dumas

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the street mentioned. M. de Boville was in his private room, and the Englishman, on perceiving him, made a gesture of surprise, which seemed to indicate that it was not the first time he had been in his presence. As to M. de Boville, he was in such a state of despair, that it was evident all the faculties of his mind, absorbed in the thought which occupied him at the moment, did not allow either his memory or his imagination to stray to the past. The Englishman, with the coolness of his nation, addressed him in terms nearly similar to those with which he had accosted the mayor of Marseilles. "Oh, sir," exclaimed M. de Boville, "your fears are unfortunately but too well founded, and you see before you a man in despair. I had two hundred thousand francs placed in the hands of Morrel & Son; these two hundred thousand francs were the dowry of my daughter, who was to be married in a fortnight, and these two hundred thousand francs were payable, half on the 15th of this month, and the other half on the 15th of next month. I had informed M. Morrel of my desire to have these payments punctually, and he has been here within the last half-hour to tell me that if his ship, the Pharaon, did not come into port on the 15th, he would be wholly unable to make this payment."

      "But," said the Englishman, "this looks very much like a suspension of payment."

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

      The Englishman appeared to reflect a moment, and then said,—"From which it would appear, sir, that this credit inspires you with considerable apprehension?"

      "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 Englishman with a laugh, "does not do things in that way."

      "And you will pay"—

      "Ready money." And the Englishman drew from his pocket a bundle of bank-notes, which might have been twice the sum M. de Boville feared to lose. A ray of joy passed across M. de Boville's countenance, yet he made an effort at self-control, and said,—"Sir, I ought to tell you that, in all probability, you will not realize six per cent of this sum."

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      "That's no affair of mine," replied the Englishman, "that is the affair of 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. But all I know, sir, is, that I am ready to hand you over this sum in exchange for your assignment of the debt. I only ask a brokerage."

      "Of course, that is perfectly just," cried M. de Boville. "The commission is usually one and a half; will you have two—three—five per cent, or even more? Whatever you say."

      "Sir," replied the Englishman, laughing, "I am like my house, and do not do 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 home by a poor devil of an abbe, who disappeared suddenly. I have since learned that he was confined in the Chateau d'If, and I should like to learn some particulars of his death."

      "What was his name?"

      "The Abbe 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 to the 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 a singular incident."

      "May I ask what that was?" said the Englishman with an expression of curiosity, which a close observer would have been astonished at discovering in his phlegmatic countenance.

      "Oh dear, yes, sir; the abbe's dungeon was forty or fifty feet distant from that of one of Bonaparte's emissaries,—one of those who had contributed the most to the return of the usurper in 1815,—a very resolute and very dangerous man."

      "Indeed!" said the Englishman.

      "Yes," replied M. de Boville; "I myself had occasion to see this man in 1816 or 1817, and we could only go into his dungeon with a file of soldiers. That man made a deep impression on me; I shall never forget his countenance!" The Englishman smiled imperceptibly.

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

      "Were separated by a distance of fifty feet; but it appears that this Edmond Dantes"—

      "This dangerous man's name was"—

      "Edmond Dantes. It appears, sir, that this Edmond Dantes had procured tools, or made them, for they found a tunnel through which the prisoners held communication with one another."

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

      "No doubt; but unfortunately for the prisoners, the Abbe Faria had an attack 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 the survivor; on the contrary, this Dantes saw a means of accelerating his escape. He, no doubt, thought that prisoners who died in the Chateau d'If were interred in an ordinary burial-ground, and he conveyed the dead man into his own cell, took his place in the sack in which they had sewed up the corpse, and awaited the moment of interment."

      "It was a bold step, and one that showed some courage," remarked the Englishman.

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

      "How was that?"

      "How? Do you not comprehend?"

      "No."

      "The Chateau d'If has no cemetery, and they simply throw the dead into the 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 him into the sea."

      "Really!" exclaimed the Englishman.

      "Yes, sir," continued the inspector of prisons. "You may imagine the amazement of the fugitive when he found himself flung headlong over the rocks! 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 certainty of recovering his two hundred thousand francs,—"no matter, I can fancy it." And he shouted

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