Chapter 36: Number 34 & Number 27: II
At first, disposing of the food felt almost liberating. Then it became a grim duty. Eventually, it became torture. Hunger made even the worst slop look appetizing. Dantès would hold the plate for hours, staring at moldy bread and rotten meat, fighting between his death wish and his survival instincts.
’I’m still young,’ he’d think during weak moments. ’Maybe twenty-five years old. I could live fifty more years. Anything could happen. Someone might free me.’
But then he’d remember his oath and force himself to dump the food.
This continued until he was too weak to even lift the plate. The next morning, he could barely see or hear. The jailer panicked, thinking he was dangerously ill.
Dantès hoped he was finally dying.
A strange stupor crept over him, dulling the gnawing hunger and bringing an odd sense of peace. When he closed his eyes, lights danced behind his eyelids like fireflies. He felt like he was crossing the threshold into that mysterious country called Death.
Then, around nine in the evening, he heard it. A hollow scratching sound coming from the wall.
Prisons were full of rats and other creatures, so unusual noises were common. But whether his senses had sharpened from starvation or the sound was genuinely different, something made him lift his head and listen.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
It was continuous and deliberate, like a giant claw or metal tool working against stone.
Even weakened, his brain immediately jumped to the thought that haunts every prisoner, escape. Maybe heaven had finally heard his prayers. Maybe someone he loved was trying to reach him, working to close the distance between them.
Or maybe he was hallucinating as his mind prepared for death.
The sound continued for three hours, then stopped abruptly with what sounded like something falling.
Hours later, it resumed. Closer and more distinct.
When the jailer brought breakfast the next day, Dantès panicked. For a week, he’d been giving his guard the silent treatment as part of his death plan. But now the noise might give away his potential escape route.
So he started talking, complaining about everything he could think of. The food was terrible. The cell was too cold. He grumbled and whined, speaking loudly to mask any sounds from the wall. The confused jailer assumed delirium was setting in and left quickly.
’It has to be another prisoner,’ Dantès thought, his heart racing. ’Someone trying to escape. If only I could help!’
Then doubt crept in. What if it was just maintenance workers fixing a neighboring cell?
There was only one way to find out, but he needed to be careful. He forced himself to drink the broth the jailer had brought, feeling strength return to his body and clarity to his thoughts.
His plan was simple, knock on the wall and see what happened. If it was a worker, they’d stop briefly to investigate the noise, then resume their authorized job. If it was a fellow prisoner, they’d stop completely, too scared to continue while someone might be listening.
Using a loose stone, Dantès knocked three times against the wall.
The scratching stopped instantly.
He waited. One hour. Two hours. Complete silence.
’It’s a prisoner!’
he realized, joy flooding through him.That night, he couldn’t sleep. The next day, he paced his cell like a caged animal, listening for any sign that the work had resumed. When evening came, he pressed his ear against the stone and finally heard it, barely perceptible movement on the other side.
His mysterious neighbor had switched from a chisel to a lever, trying to work more quietly.
Inspired, Dantès decided to help. He moved his bed and searched for anything that could break through stone and mortar. But he had nothing, no knife, no tools. The window grating was solid iron. His furniture consisted of a bed, chair, table, bucket, and water jug.
Wait, the water jug.
He smashed it, hiding the sharpest fragments under his mattress and leaving the rest scattered on the floor. When the jailer saw the "accident" the next day, he just grumbled and brought a replacement without cleaning up the mess.
Working by feel in the darkness, Dantès discovered he’d been attacking solid stone instead of the mortar around it. The dampness had made the plaster soft and crumbly, much easier to scrape away.
’If I’d started this years ago instead of wasting time in despair,’ he thought bitterly, ’I might have been free by now.’
But there was no time for regrets. He worked with desperate efficiency, removing chunks of mortar and exposing the stone blocks underneath. When he tried to pry one loose, his fingernails broke and the pottery shards cracked.
Then inspiration struck.
The jailer brought soup in an iron pot with an iron handle, exactly what Dantès needed. The pot contained food for two prisoners, sometimes full, sometimes half-empty depending on who got served first.
That evening, Dantès placed his plate near the door where the jailer would step on it in the dark. The plan worked perfectly, the plate shattered, and the frustrated guard had nothing else to serve the soup in.
"Just leave the pot," Dantès suggested helpfully. "You can get it tomorrow."
The lazy jailer agreed, saving himself a trip.
Alone with his prize, Dantès devoured his food and waited an hour before getting to work. He used the iron handle as a lever, wedging it between the stones. After an hour of careful pressure, one block shifted. By dawn, he’d created an opening eighteen inches across.
He hid the debris, replaced the stone, and pushed his bed back into position just as footsteps approached.
Days passed in grueling labor. Dantès worked all night and slept during the day, carefully straightening the pot handle each morning and hiding his progress. His mysterious neighbor had gone silent again, which worried him, but he pressed on.
Then disaster, his makeshift lever struck something smooth and immovable. A wooden beam blocked his path, running perpendicular to his tunnel.