XXVIII. Les registres des prisons.

XXVIII

The Prison Registers.

The day after the scene we have just related took place on the road from Bellegarde to Beaucaire, a man of thirty to thirty-two years, dressed in a cornflower-blue frock coat, nankeen trousers, and a white waistcoat, having both the bearing and the accent of a Briton, presented himself at the mayor's office in Marseille.

"Sir," he said to him, "I am the chief clerk of the house of Thomson and French of Rome. We have been in business with the house of Morrel and Son of Marseille for ten years. We have some hundred thousand francs or thereabouts engaged in these dealings, and we are not without anxiety, seeing that it is said the house is threatened with ruin: I have therefore come expressly from Rome to ask you for information about this firm."

"Sir," replied the mayor, "I do indeed know that for four or five years misfortune seems to have pursued M. Morrel: he has successively lost four or five vessels, suffered three or four bankruptcies; but it is not for me, although I am myself his creditor for some ten thousand francs, to give any information as to the state of his fortune. Ask me as mayor what I think of M. Morrel, and I will answer you that he is a man honest to the point of rigidity, and who until now has fulfilled all his engagements with perfect punctuality. That is all I can tell you, sir; if you wish to know more, apply to M. de Boville, inspector of prisons, Rue de Noailles, No. 15; he has, I believe, two hundred thousand francs invested in the house of Morrel, and if there is really anything to fear, as that sum is larger than mine, you will probably find him better informed on this point than I."

The Englishman seemed to appreciate this supreme delicacy, bowed, went out, and made his way with that particular step of the sons of Great Britain toward the street indicated.

M. de Boville was in his study. On seeing him, the Englishman started with a look of surprise which seemed to indicate that this was not the first time he had found himself before the man he had come to visit. As for M. de Boville, he was so despairing that it was evident all the faculties of his mind, absorbed in the thought that occupied him at that moment, left neither his memory nor his imagination the leisure to wander into the past.

The Englishman, with the phlegm of his nation, put to him almost in the same terms the same question he had just put to the mayor of Marseille.

"Oh! sir," cried M. de Boville, "your fears are, unhappily, only too well founded, and you see a desperate man. I had two hundred thousand francs invested in the house of Morrel: these two hundred thousand francs were my daughter's dowry, whom I intended to marry off in fifteen days; these two hundred thousand francs were repayable, one hundred thousand on the 15th of this month, one hundred thousand on the 15th of next month. I had notified M. Morrel of my wish that this repayment be made exactly, and here he came, sir, scarcely half an hour ago, to tell me that if his vessel the _Pharaon_ had not returned by the 15th, he would find himself unable to make me this payment."

"But," said the Englishman, "this very much resembles a postponement."

"Say rather, sir, that it resembles a bankruptcy!" cried M. de Boville in despair.

The Englishman seemed to reflect for a moment, then he said:

"Thus, sir, this debt inspires fears in you?"

"That is to say that I regard it as lost."

"Well, I buy it from you."

"You?"

"Yes, me."

"But at an enormous discount, no doubt?"

"No, for two hundred thousand francs; our house," added the Englishman laughing, "does not do that sort of business."

"And you pay?"

"In cash."

And the Englishman drew from his pocket a bundle of banknotes which might have been double the sum M. de Boville feared to lose. A flash of joy passed over M. de Boville's face; but nevertheless he made an effort upon himself and said:

"Sir, I must warn you that, in all probability, you will not get six per cent of this sum."

"That is no concern of mine," replied the Englishman; "it concerns the house of Thomson and French, in whose name I act. Perhaps it has an interest in hastening the ruin of a rival house. But what I know, sir, is that I am ready to count you this sum against the assignment you will make me; only I shall ask a brokerage fee."

"How, sir, that is but just!" cried M. de Boville. "The commission is usually one and a half: will you have two? will you have three? will you have five? will you have more, in short? Speak?"

"Sir," resumed the Englishman laughing, "I am like my house, I do not do that sort of business; no: my brokerage fee is of quite another nature."

"Speak then, sir, I listen."

"You are inspector of prisons?"

"For more than fourteen years."

"You keep registers of entry and exit?"

"Undoubtedly."

"To these registers must be joined notes relating to the prisoners?"

"Each prisoner has his file."

"Well, sir, I was brought up in Rome by a poor devil of an abbe who disappeared all at once. I have since learned that he had been detained at the Chateau d'If, and I should like to have some details as to his death."

"What was his name?"

"The Abbe Faria."

"Oh! I remember him perfectly!" cried M. de Boville; "he was mad."

"So it was said."

"Oh! he certainly was."

"That is possible; and what was his kind of madness?"

"He claimed to know of an immense treasure, and offered wild sums to the government if they would set him free."

"Poor devil! and he is dead?"

"Yes, sir, some five or six months ago, last February."

"You have a happy memory, sir, to recall dates thus."

"I recall this one because the death of the poor devil was accompanied by a singular circumstance."

"May one know this circumstance?" asked the Englishman with an expression of curiosity which a profound observer would have been astonished to find upon his phlegmatic face.

"Oh! my God, yes, sir: the abbe's dungeon was distant some forty-five to fifty feet from that of a former Bonapartist agent, one of those who had most contributed to the return of the usurper in 1815, a very determined 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 one went down into his dungeon only with a detachment of soldiers: this man made a deep impression on me, and I shall never forget his face."

The Englishman smiled imperceptibly.

"And you were saying then, sir," he resumed, "that the two dungeons...."

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

"This dangerous man was called...."

"Edmond Dantes. Yes, sir; it appears that this Edmond Dantes had procured tools or had made them, for a passage was found by means of which the prisoners communicated."

"This passage had no doubt been made with a view to escape?"

"Exactly; but unfortunately for the prisoners, the Abbe Faria was seized with a cataleptic fit and died."

"I understand; that must have cut short the escape plans."

"For the dead man, yes," answered M. de Boville, "but not for the living; on the contrary, this Dantes saw in it a means of hastening his flight; he thought no doubt that prisoners who died at the Chateau d'If were buried in an ordinary cemetery; he transported the deceased into his chamber, took his place in the sack in which he had been sewn, and awaited the moment of burial."

"It was a hazardous means, and one which indicated some courage," resumed the Englishman.

"Oh! I told you, sir, that he was a very dangerous man; happily he relieved the government himself of the fears it had regarding him."

"How so?"

"How? you do not understand?"

"No."

"The Chateau d'If has no cemetery; they simply throw the dead into the sea, after attaching a thirty-six-pound ball to their feet."

"Well?" said the Englishman, as if he were slow of comprehension.

"Well, they attached a thirty-six-pound ball to his feet and threw him into the sea."

"Indeed?" cried the Englishman.

"Yes, sir," continued the inspector. "You understand what must have been the astonishment of the fugitive when he felt himself precipitated from the top down the rocks. I should have liked to see his face at that moment."

"That would have been difficult."

"No matter!" said M. de Boville, whom the certainty of recovering his two hundred thousand francs put in a fine humor; "no matter! I picture it to myself."

And he burst out laughing.

"And I too," said the Englishman.

And he began to laugh on his side, but as Englishmen laugh, that is to say, from the corner of the mouth.

"Thus," continued the Englishman, who first recovered his composure, "thus the fugitive was drowned?"

"Thoroughly."

"So that the governor of the chateau was rid at once of the madman and the fool?"

"But some sort of record must have been drawn up of this event?" asked the Englishman.

"Yes, yes, a death certificate. You understand, the relatives of Dantes, if he has any, might have an interest in ascertaining whether he was dead or alive."

"So that now they may be at ease if they inherit from him. He is dead and well dead?"

"Oh! my God, yes. And they will be given attestation whenever they wish."

"So be it," said the Englishman. "But let us return to the registers."

"That is true. This story had led us away from them. Pardon."

"Pardon for what? for the story? Not at all, it seemed curious to me."

"It is indeed. Thus, you wish to see, sir, all that relates to your poor abbe, who was indeed gentleness itself, was he not?"

"It will give me pleasure."

"Step into my study and I will show you that."

And both passed into M. de Boville's study. Everything there was indeed in perfect order: each register was in its number, each file in its compartment. The inspector seated the Englishman in his armchair, and placed before him the register and the file relating to the Chateau d'If, giving him every leisure to turn the pages, while he himself, seated in a corner, read his newspaper.

The Englishman easily found the file relating to the Abbe Faria; but it appears that the story M. de Boville had told him had vividly interested him, for after acquainting himself with these first papers, he continued turning pages until he came to the bundle of Edmond Dantes. There, he found everything in its place: denunciation, interrogation, petition of Morrel, note of M. de Villefort. He folded the denunciation very gently, put it in his pocket, read the interrogation, and saw that the name of Noirtier was not pronounced there; ran through the request dated 10 April 1815, in which Morrel, following the advice of the deputy, exaggerated in an excellent intention, since Napoleon was then reigning, the services Dantes had rendered to the imperial cause, services which Villefort's certificate rendered incontestable. Then, he understood it all. This petition to Napoleon, kept by Villefort, had become under the second Restoration a terrible weapon in the hands of the king's attorney. He was no longer astonished, therefore, in turning the pages of the register, at this note placed in brackets opposite his name:

_Edmond Dantes: raging Bonapartist: took an active part in the return from the Isle of Elba. To be kept in the greatest secrecy and under the strictest surveillance._

Below these lines, was written in another hand:

"Seen the above note, _nothing to be done_."

Only, in comparing the handwriting of the bracketed note with that of the certificate placed at the foot of Morrel's request, he acquired the certainty that the bracketed note was in the same handwriting as the certificate, that is to say, traced by the hand of Villefort.

As for the note accompanying the note, the Englishman understood that it must have been entered by some inspector who had taken a passing interest in Dantes's situation, but that the information we have just cited had made it impossible for him to follow up that interest.

As we have said, the inspector, out of discretion and so as not to embarrass the pupil of the Abbe Faria in his researches, had moved away and was reading _Le Drapeau Blanc_.

He did not see, therefore, the Englishman fold and put in his pocket the denunciation written by Danglars under the arbor of La Reserve, and bearing the postmark of Marseille, 27 February, evening collection at 6 o'clock.

But, be it said, had he seen it, he attached too little importance to this paper and too much to his two hundred thousand francs, to oppose what the Englishman was doing, incorrect though it might be.

"Thank you," said the latter, closing the register noisily. "I have what I need; now it is for me to keep my promise: make me a simple assignment of your debt; acknowledge in this assignment having received the amount, and I am going to count you the sum."

And he yielded his place at the desk to M. de Boville, who sat down there without ceremony and hastened to make the requested assignment, while the Englishman counted the banknotes on the edge of the cabinet.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”