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In the event, the inspector was visiting the rooms, cells and dungeons, one after the other. Several prisoners were questioned -- those who had earned the goodwill of the governors by their mild manner or sheer stupidity. The inspector asked them how they were fed and any demands that they might have to make.

Dantès heard all the trundling and grinding of preparations from the depth of his cell: there was a great deal of commotion upstairs, but the noise would have been imperceptible below for any ear other than that of a prisoner who was accustomed to hearing, in the silence of night, the sound made by a spider spinning its web or the regular fall of a drop of water which took an hour to gather on the ceiling of his dungeon.

He guessed that among the living something exceptional was taking place; he had lived so long in the tomb that he might justifiably have considered himself dead.

Approximately one year after the return of Louis XVIII, the Inspector General of Prisons paid a visit.

They replied unanimously that the food was execrable and that they demanded their freedom.

The inspector then asked if they had anything else to say to him.

The inspector turned around with a smile and said to the governor: "I can't think why they oblige us to make these pointless visits. When you have seen one prisoner, you have seen a hundred; when you have heard one prisoner, you have heard a thousand. It's always the same old song: badly fed and innocent. Have you got any others?"

They shook their heads. What can any prisoner have to ask for, apart from his freedom?

"Yes, we have the mad or dangerous prisoners, whom we keep in the dungeons."

"Very well," the inspector said, with an air of profound weariness. "We had better do the job properly. Let's go down to the dungeons."

They sent for two soldiers and began to go down a flight of stairs that was so foul-smelling, so filthy and so mildewed that even to pass through the place simultaneously offended one's sight, hampered one's breathing and assaulted one's nostrils.

"One moment," said the governor. "We should at least get a couple of men to go with us. Sometimes the prisoners, if only because they are sick of life and wish to be condemned to death, commit vain and desperate acts; you might be a victim of such an attempt."

"Then take some precautions," said the inspector.

"Worse than that," said the turnkey. "He's a devil."

"Well, I never! Is the man mad?"

"He tried to kill a turnkey?"

"He is alone."

"He did want to kill me for sure," the turnkey answered.

"For about a year."

"There is no need, Monsieur, he is being punished enough as it is. In any case, he is already close to madness and, judging by what we have observed, in another year he will be quite insane."

"This same one who is holding the lamp. Isn't that so, Antoine?" the governor asked.

"How long has he been here?"

"Well, so much the better for him," said the inspector. "When he is altogether mad, he will suffer less." As you can see, this inspector was a man of the utmost humanity and altogether worthy of the philanthropic office with which he had been entrusted.

"Was he thrown into this dungeon as soon as he arrived?"

"No, Monsieur, only after he had attempted to murder the turnkey who brought him his food."

"Indeed he is."

"The most dangerous of conspirators, against whom we have been warned as a man capable of anything."

"Who in hell's name can live here?" the inspector asked, stopping half-way.

"Would you like me to make a complaint about him?" the inspector asked the governor.

"I'll see them both," replied the inspector. "We must be conscientious about our work." He was carrying out his very first tour of inspection and wanted to make a good impression on the authorities.

"Let's go in here first," he added.

"You are right, Monsieur," said the governor. "Your remark proves that you have given the matter a good deal of thought. As it happens, in a dungeon not more than twenty feet away from this one which is reached by another staircase, we have an old abbé, a former leader of a faction in Italy, who has been here since 1811 and who lost his wits around the end of 1813. Since then, he has been physically unrecognizable: he used to weep, now he laughs; he was growing thin, now he is putting on weight. Would you like to see him instead of this one? His madness is entertaining; it won't depress you."

"Certainly," said the governor, indicating to the turnkey that he should open the door.

Dantès was crouching in a corner of the dungeon where he had the unspeakable happiness of enjoying the thin ray of daylight that filtered through the bars of a narrow window; hearing the grating of the massive locks and the screech of the rusty doorpost turning in its socket, he looked up. At the sight of a stranger, lit by two turnkeys with torches, who was being addressed by the governor, hat in hand, together with two soldiers, Dantès guessed what was going on and, seeing at last an opportunity to petition a higher authority, leapt forward with his hands clasped.

The soldiers immediately crossed their bayonets, thinking that the prisoner was rushed towards the inspector with some evil intent. The inspector himself took a step backwards.

Dantès realized that he had been depicted as someone dangerous; so he summoned up a look that expressed the utmost leniency and humility and spoke with a kind of pious eloquence that astonished everyone, in an attempt to touch the heart of his visitor.

"I want to know what crime I have committed, I am asking for judges to be appointed to my case and for a trial to be held; finally, I am asking to be shot, if I am guilty; but equally to be set free if I am innocent."

The inspector listened to what Dantès had to say until he had finished; then, turning to the governor, he whispered: "He has the makings of a religious devotee; already he is inclined to more benevolent feelings. You see, fear has had an effect on him. He recoiled from the bayonets, while a madman recoils at nothing: I have done some interesting research on the subject in Charenton."

Then, turning back to the prisoner, he said: "Tell me briefly, what do you want?"

"Are you well fed?" asked the inspector.

"You are very submissive today," said the governor. "You were not always like this. You spoke in quite a different manner, my good friend, the day when you tried to beat the life out of your warder."

"That is true, Monsieur," Dantès said, "and I humbly ask the forgiveness of this man, who has always been kind to me. But what do you expect? I was mad, I was raging."

"Yes, I think so, I don't know. It is of little importance. What is important, not only for me, a wretched prisoner, but also for all those officials who administer justice and for the king who rules us, is that an innocent man should not be the victim of an infamous denunciation and die behind bars, cursing his tormentors."

"Not any longer?"

"It is now July the thirtieth, 1816. So what do you mean? You have been a prisoner for only seventeen months."

"On the twenty-eighth of February, 1815, at two in the afternoon."

The inspector made a calculation.

"No, Monsieur, captivity has bowed me, broken me, demolished me. I have been here for so long!"

"So long? When were you arrested?" asked the inspector.

"Only seventeen months!" Dantès repeated. "Oh, Monsieur, you do not know what seventeen months are in prison: seventeen years, seventeen centuries; above all for a man like myself, who was on the brink of happiness, for a man like myself, who was about to marry a woman whom he loved, for a man who could see an honourable career ahead of him and who was deprived of it all in a moment; who, from the most glorious day, was plunged into the deepest night, who saw his career destroyed, who does not know if the woman who loved him does so still, who cannot tell if his old father is alive or dead. Seventeen months of prison, for a man accustomed to the sea air, to a sailor's independence, to space, immensity, infinity! Monsieur, seventeen months of prison is more than enough punishment for all the crimes reviled by the most odious names known to the tongues of men. Have pity on me, Monsieur, and beg for me, not indulgence, but firmness; not a pardon, but a verdict. A judge, Monsieur, I ask only for a judge: an accused man cannot be refused a judge."

"Very well," the inspector said, "we shall see." Then, turning to the governor: "Truly, I feel sorry for the poor devil. When we go back upstairs, you must show me his detention order."

"Certainly," said the governor, "but I think that you will find some dreadful charges against him."

"Enlighten me," said the inspector.

"Monsieur," Dantès continued, "I know that you cannot yourself make the decision to have me released, but you can pass on my request to the authorities, you can start an enquiry, you can have me brought to judgement: all I ask is to be judged; let me be told what crime I have committed and what sentence I have been given; because, you understand, uncertainty is the worst of torments."

"Monsieur," Dantès exclaimed, "I can see from the sound of your voice that you feel for me. Please tell me to hope."

"That I cannot do," the inspector replied. "All I can promise is that I shall examine your dossier."

"Who ordered your arrest?" the inspector asked.

"Oh! In that case, Monsieur, I am free, I am saved."

"Ah, that does not surprise me now," Dantès murmured. "My sole protector has left."

"So I can rely on any notes he may have left on your case, or which he may give me?"

"Did Monsieur de Villefort have any reason to hate you?" the inspector asked.

"None at all, Monsieur; he was well-disposed towards me."

"Fully."

"Monsieur de Villefort has not been in Marseille for the past year, but in Toulouse."

"Very well. Be patient."

"Do you wish to see the committal records straightaway," the governor asked, "or to go on to the abbé's dungeon?"

"Let's have done with the dungeons at once," the inspector replied. "If I were to go back into daylight, I might lose the resolve to carry on with this dreary task."

"Monsieur de Villefort," Dantès replied. "You may see him and consult with him."

Dantès fell to his knees, raising his hands to heaven and asking God to protect this man who had descended into his prison like Our Saviour going down to deliver the damned from hell. The door closed, but the hope that the inspector had brought with him remained locked in Dantès' dungeon.

"What kind of folly is it?"

"Well, well, that certainly is curious," said the inspector. "What is the name of this millionaire?"

"Number twenty-seven!" said the inspector.

"Abbé Faria."

"This is it. Open up, Antoine."

"A rare one, indeed: he believes himself to be the owner of a vast fortune. In the first year of his imprisonment, he made the government an offer of a million francs, if they would set him free; the second year, it was two million; the third, three, and so on upwards. He is now in his fifth year of imprisonment, so he will ask to speak to you privately and offer you five million."

The turnkey obeyed and the inspector strained to see into the dungeon of the "mad abbé", as the prisoner was usually known.

A man was lying in the middle of the room, in a circle drawn on the ground with a piece of plaster from the wall, almost naked, his clothes having fallen into tatters. He was drawing very precise geometrical lines in the circle and appeared as absorbed in solving his problem as Archimedes when he was killed by one of Marcellus' soldiers. He did not even look up at the noise made by the opening of the cell door, but only appeared to become aware of something when the beams of the torches cast an unfamiliar light on the damp ground where he was working. Then he turned around and was astonished to see that a group of people had just come down into his dungeon. He immediately leapt to his feet, took a blanket from the foot of his miserable bed and hurriedly wrapped it round him, to appear more decently dressed in front of these strangers.

"This prisoner is not like the last one: you will find his folly makes you less melancholy than the other's reason."

"What requests do you have?" the inspector asked, not varying his set question.

"You see," the governor whispered. "Isn't it just as I predicted?"

"Ah! In that case, it's another matter," the abbé exclaimed, livening up. "I hope we shall come to some understanding."

"I, Monsieur?" the abbé replied in astonishment. "I have no requests."

"You do not understand," the inspector continued. "I am a representative of the government with responsibility for visiting prisons and listening to the prisoners' demands."

"Monsieur," the prisoner continued, "I am Abbé Faria, born in Rome, twenty years secretary to Cardinal Rospigliosi. I was arrested early in 1811, I'm not quite sure why, and since then I have demanded my freedom from the Italian and French authorities."

"Why from the French authorities?" the governor asked.

The inspector and the governor looked at one another and laughed.

"Because I was arrested in Piombino and I assume that, like Milan and Florence, Piombino is now the capital of some French département."

"Fortunately," the inspector said, "providence has somewhat modified that ambitious plan, though you appear to me to support it quite enthusiastically."

"It dates from the day of my arrest. But since His Majesty the Emperor had just created the kingdom of Rome for the son that heaven had sent him, I assume that he has pursued his conquests to realize the dream of Machiavelli and Cesare Borgia, and united the whole of Italy in one single kingdom."

"It is the only means by which Italy can become a strong, independent and prosperous state," the abbé replied.

"Perhaps so," said the inspector. "But I have not come to debate ultramontane politics with you. I am here to ask, as I have already done, whether you have any complaints about your food and conditions."

"Well, I never!" the inspector said. "My friend, your news of Italy is rather stale."

"The food is like that in all prisons," the abbé answered. "In other words, vile. As for my lodging, you can see for yourself: it is damp and unhealthy, but nonetheless quite acceptable for a dungeon. However, all that is beside the point; I have something of the greatest significance and the most vital importance to reveal to the government."

"That is why I am pleased to see you," the abbé went on, "even though you have disturbed me in a most important calculation which, if it were to succeed, might alter the Newtonian system. Could you grant me the favour of a private interview?"

"There! What did I tell you?" the governor asked the inspector.

"You know your man," the latter answered, smiling. Then, turning to Faria, he said: "Monsieur, what you ask is impossible."

"Well, well!" the inspector said, turning to the governor. "You even guessed the amount!"

"Here it comes," the governor whispered to the inspector.

"One moment," the abbé went on, seeing the inspector make a movement towards the door. "It is not necessary for us to be entirely alone. The governor could hear what I have to say."

"Even so, Monsieur," the abbé insisted, "what if it were a matter of the government gaining a huge sum of money; a sum of five million francs, for example?"

"My dear friend," the governor said, "unfortunately we already know by heart what you will tell us. You are thinking of your treasure, aren't you?"

"Monsieur," the inspector said, "the government is rich and, thank heavens, has no need of your money. Keep it for the day when you get out of prison."

"That only goes to show, governor," the abbé said, "that you are like those men in the Scriptures who have eyes, but see not, and who have ears, but will not hear."

"My dear inspector," the governor continued, "I can tell you the story as well as the abbé himself, after hearing it over and over during the past four or five years."

The abbé's eyes dilated and he grasped the inspector's hand: "But if I don't get out of prison… Suppose that, contrary to all notions of justice, they should keep me in this dungeon and I should die here without bequeathing my secret to anyone, then the treasure will be lost! Isn't it better for the government to profit by it, and for me to do so? I shall go up to six million, Monsieur. Yes, I would give away six million and be satisfied with the remainder, if they would set me free."

Faria looked at the scornful man with eyes in which any disinterested observer would surely have seen the light of reason and truth. "Of course," he said. "What else should I talk about, if not that?"

The governor burst out laughing. "Is it a long way to your treasure?" he asked.

"About a hundred leagues from here," Faria said.

"I swear that if one did not know this man was mad," the inspector said, under his breath, "he speaks with such conviction that you would believe he was telling the truth."

"It's a clever idea," said the governor. "If every prisoner was to take his warders on a wild-goose chase for a hundred leagues, supposing the warders agreed to it, there is a good chance that the prisoner would manage to take to his heels as soon as he had the opportunity, which would no doubt occur in the course of such a journey."

"I am not mad, Monsieur, and I am telling the truth," Faria replied, having picked up every word that the governor said, with that acuteness of hearing that is peculiar to prisoners. "The treasure I mention really does exist and I am ready to sign an agreement with you, under which you will take me to a place that I shall designate, have the earth dug up in our presence and, if I am lying, if nothing is found, if I am mad, as you say, then you can bring me back to this same dungeon where I shall remain for ever, and die without asking for anything further from you or from anyone else."

"Monsieur," Faria replied, "swear to me in Christ's name to set me free if what I have told you is the truth, and I shall tell you the place where the treasure is buried."

"It's an old trick," said the inspector, "and this gentleman cannot even claim to have invented it for himself." Then he turned back to the abbé. "I asked you if you were well fed?"

"Are you well fed?" the inspector insisted.

"You haven't replied to my question," the inspector repeated impatiently.

"But in this way, you take no risk: you can see that it is not in order to contrive some opportunity to escape, since I shall remain in prison while the journey is made."

"And you haven't replied to my request!" cried the abbé. "Then be damned, like the other idiots who refused to believe me. You don't want my gold, then I shall keep it. You deny me my freedom, then God will give it to me. Go, I have nothing more to say."

Throwing off his blanket, he picked up his scrap of plaster and once more sat down in the middle of his circle, where he went back to his lines and his sums.

"Counting his treasure," the governor answered.

"Or dreamed about it," the governor replied, "and woke up the next morning, mad."

"What is he doing?" the inspector asked, at the door.

Faria's reply to this sarcastic remark was a look of the most sovereign contempt. They went out and the jailer locked the door behind them.

"Perhaps he did have some treasure, after all," the inspector said, on his way up the stairs.

For Abbé Faria, that was the end of the adventure. He remained a prisoner and, following the inspector's visit, his reputation as an entertaining imbecile was greater than ever.

Those great treasure-hunters, Caligula and Nero, searchers after the unattainable, would have listened to the poor man's words and given him the opportunity that he wanted, the space that he valued so highly and the freedom for which he was ready to pay so great a price. But kings today, confined within the limits of probability, no longer possess the audacity of willpower. They are afraid of the ears that listen to their orders and the eyes that watch whatever they do. They no longer have any sense of the superiority of their divine being: they are men who wear crowns, nothing more. At one time they would have believed themselves (or, at least, have claimed to be) the sons of Jupiter, and their manners would somehow have reflected those of their father, the god: what happens beyond the clouds is not so easily controlled, but nowadays kings are well within reach.

"Of course," the inspector remarked, with the naïvety of the corrupt, "if he had really been rich, he would not be in prison."

And, as despotic governments have always been loath to exhibit the effects of prison and torture in broad daylight -- just as there are few instances of a victim of the Inquisition emerging with broken bones and bleeding wounds -- so folly, that ulcer conceived in the mire of dungeons as a result of moral torture, almost always remains carefully hidden in the place of its birth, or else, if it should emerge, does so only to be buried once more in some dark hospital whose doctors can recognize neither the man nor his ideas in the shapeless wreck entrusted to them by its tired jailer.

As for Dantès, the inspector was as good as his word. On returning to the governor's lodgings, he asked to be shown the committal order. The note on the prisoner was couched in the following terms:

Abbé Faria had gone mad in prison and was condemned, by his very madness, to perpetual confinement.

Fanatical Bonapartist. Played an active role in the return from Elba.

EDMOND DANTES:

To be kept in solitary confinement, under the closest supervision.

The accusation was too precise to allow any latitude for discussion, so above the words, which were bracketed together, the inspector wrote: "No action."

The visit had in a sense revived Dantès. Since his arrival at the prison he had forgotten to count the days, but the inspector had given him a new date, which Dantès had not forgotten. Behind him, with a piece of plaster that had fallen from his ceiling, he wrote on the wall: July 30, 1816. From that time on, he made a mark every day, so that he would no longer lose track of the passage of time.

This note was in a different handwriting and ink from the rest of the order, proving that it had been added after Dantès' imprisonment.

The days went by, then weeks, then months. Dantès waited. He had begun by setting a limit of a fortnight on his release: if the inspector were to devote half the concern that he had appeared to feel to pursuing the matter, then a fortnight should be enough. When that time had expired, he decided that it had been ridiculous of him to think that the inspector would have taken up his case before returning to Paris. Since he could not return to Paris until the end of his tour of inspection, which might last a month or two, he gave himself three months instead of a fortnight. When the three months had passed, he found consolation in a different argument, with the result that he allowed six months; but when the six months were over, adding up all the days, it appeared that he had waited for ten and a half months. Nothing, in these ten months, had changed in the conditions of his imprisonment; he had received no encouraging news and when he questioned his jailer the man remained silent, as usual. Dantès began to doubt the evidence of his senses -- to think that what he had taken for a memory was nothing more than a hallucination and that the ministering angel who had appeared to him in his prison had flown in on the wings of a dream.

A year later, the governor was transferred: he had been appointed to manage the fort at Ham, and took with him several of his subordinates, including Dantès' jailer. A new governor arrived. It would have taken him too long to learn the names of his prisoners, so he asked only to be told their numbers. There were fifty furnished rooms in this frightful lodging-house. Its inhabitants were called by the number of the one that they occupied, and the unfortunate young man was no longer called by his first name, Edmond, or his family name, Dantès. He became Number 34.