Chapter 22: Imprisonment: III
When the first light of dawn appeared, the jailer returned with orders to leave Dantès where he was. He found Dantès in exactly the same position, as if he’d been frozen there all night. His eyes were swollen from crying. He’d spent the entire night standing without sleep.
The jailer approached. Dantès didn’t seem to notice him until he touched his shoulder, making him jump.
"Didn’t you sleep?" he asked.
"I don’t know," Dantès replied.
The jailer stared at him strangely.
"Are you hungry?"
"I don’t know."
"Do you want anything?"
"I want to see the warden."
The jailer shrugged and left the room.
Dantès watched him go, reaching toward the open door, but it slammed shut. Then all his emotions exploded. He threw himself on the ground, crying bitterly and asking himself what crime he could possibly have committed to deserve this punishment.
The day crawled by like that. Dantès barely touched his food, instead pacing around the cell like a caged animal. One thought in particular tortured him, ’during the boat ride here, I’d sat so passively when I could have jumped into the sea a dozen times. Thanks to my swimming abilities, which were well-known around the harbor, I could have reached shore, hidden until a Genoese or Spanish ship arrived, and escaped to Spain or Italy. Mercédès and my father could have joined me there. I had no fears about making a living, good sailors are welcome everywhere. I spoke Italian like a native Tuscan and Spanish like someone from Castile. I would have been free and happy with Mercédès and my father.’
Instead, here he was, trapped in the Château d’If, that impregnable fortress, not knowing what had happened to his father and Mercédès. All because he’d trusted Villefort’s promise.
The thought drove him crazy, and he threw himself furiously onto his straw bed.
The next morning, the jailer came again at the same time.
"Well," he said, "are you feeling more reasonable today?"
Dantès didn’t answer.
"Come on, cheer up. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"I want to see the warden."
"I already told you that’s impossible."
"Why?"
"Because it’s against prison rules. Prisoners aren’t even allowed to ask for it."
"What am I allowed to do then?"
"Better food if you can pay for it, books, and permission to walk around the courtyard."
"I don’t want books. I’m satisfied with my food, and I don’t care about walking around. I want to see the warden."
"If you keep bothering me with the same request, I won’t bring you any more food."
"Fine," he said. "If you don’t, I’ll starve to death. That’s all."
The jailer could tell by his tone that Dantès actually welcomed death. Since every prisoner was worth ten sous a day to his jailer, he replied in a gentler voice:
"What you’re asking is impossible. But if you behave very well, you’ll be allowed to walk in the courtyard, and someday you might run into the warden. If he chooses to talk to you, that’s his business."
"How long will I have to wait?" Dantès asked.
"Oh, a month, six months, a year."
"That’s too long. I want to see him immediately."
"Listen," the jailer said, "don’t keep obsessing over impossible things, or you’ll go insane within two weeks."
"You think so?"
"I know so. We had a case right here, an abbey priest who went mad by constantly offering the governor a million francs for his freedom. He was in this very cell before you."
"How long ago did he leave?"
"Two years ago."
"Was he freed then?"
"No, he was moved to a dungeon."
"Listen," Dantès said. "I’m not a priest, and I’m not insane, not yet, anyway, though I might become so. Let me make you a different offer."
"What’s that?"
"I’m not offering you a million francs because I don’t have it. But I’ll give you a hundred gold coins if, the next time you go into the city, you seek out a young woman named Mercédès in the Catalans fishing village and give her a two-line message from me."
"If I did that and got caught, I’d lose my job, which pays two thousand francs a year. So I’d be a fool to risk that for three hundred francs."
"Fine," Dantès said. "But mark my words, if you refuse to at least tell Mercédès I’m here, I’ll hide behind the door someday, and when you enter, I’ll smash your skull with this stool."
"Threats!" the jailer cried, backing away defensively. "You’re definitely going insane. The abbey priest started exactly like you, and within three days you’ll be like him, crazy enough to need restraints. Fortunately, we have dungeons for that."
Dantès spun the stool around his head menacingly.
"All right, all right!" the jailer said quickly. "Fine, if that’s how you want it, I’ll send word to the warden."
"Good," he said, setting the stool down and sitting on it as if he really had gone mad.
The jailer left and returned immediately with a corporal and four soldiers.
"By the warden’s orders," he announced, "take the prisoner to the lower level."
"To the dungeon then," the corporal said.
"Yes. We have to put the madman with the other madmen."
The soldiers grabbed Dantès, and he followed without resistance.
He descended fifteen steps, and the door of a dungeon opened. They shoved him inside. The door slammed shut, and he felt his way forward with outstretched hands until he touched the wall. Then he sat down in the corner and waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.
The jailer had been right. Dantès was very close to being completely insane.