The Count of Monte Cristo

A year after Louis XVIII.’s restoration, a visit was made by the inspector-general of prisons. Dantès in his cell heard the noise of preparation,—sounds that at the depth where he lay would have been inaudible to any but the ear of a prisoner, who could hear the splash of the drop of water that every hour fell from the roof of his dungeon. He guessed something uncommon was passing among the living; but he had so long ceased to have any intercourse with the world, that he looked upon himself as dead. The inspector visited, one after another, the cells and dungeons of several of the prisoners, whose good behavior or stupidity recommended them to the clemency of the government. He inquired how they were fed, and if they had any request to make. The universal response was, that the fare was detestable, and that they wanted to be set free. The inspector asked if they had anything else to ask for. They shook their heads. What could they desire beyond their liberty? The inspector turned smilingly to the governor. “I do not know what reason government can assign for these useless visits; when you see one prisoner, you see all,—always the same thing,—ill fed and innocent. Are there any others?” “Yes; the dangerous and mad prisoners are in the dungeons.” “Let us visit them,” said the inspector with an air of fatigue. “We must play the farce to the end. Let us see the dungeons.” “Let us first send for two soldiers,” said the governor. “The prisoners sometimes, through mere uneasiness of life, and in order to be sentenced to death, commit acts of useless violence, and you might fall a victim.” “Take all needful precautions,” replied the inspector. Two soldiers were accordingly sent for, and the inspector descended a stairway, so foul, so humid, so dark, as to be loathsome to sight, smell, and respiration. “Oh,” cried the inspector, “who can live here?” “A most dangerous conspirator, a man we are ordered to keep the most strict watch over, as he is daring and resolute.” “He is alone?” “Certainly.” “How long has he been there?” “Nearly a year.” “Was he placed here when he first arrived?” “No; not until he attempted to kill the turnkey, who took his food to him.” “To kill the turnkey?” “Yes, the very one who is lighting us. Is it not true, Antoine?” asked the governor. “True enough; he wanted to kill me!” returned the turnkey. “He must be mad,” said the inspector. “He is worse than that,—he is a devil!” returned the turnkey. “Shall I complain of him?” demanded the inspector. “Oh, no; it is useless. Besides, 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 inspector. He was, as this remark shows, a man full of philanthropy, and in every way fit for his office. “You are right, sir,” replied the governor; “and this remark...