“It has been long enough to inflict on me a misfortune so great, so crushingly overwhelming, that unconscious as I am of having in any way deserved it, I would fain know who, of all mankind, has been the accursed author of it, that I may no longer accuse Heaven, as I have done in my fury and despair, of wilful injustice towards an innocent and injured man.”
“Then you profess ignorance of the crime with which you are charged?”
“I do, indeed; and this I swear by the two beings most dear to me upon earth—my father and Mercédès.”
“Come,” said the abbé, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed back to its original situation, “let me hear your story.”
Dantès obeyed, and commenced what he called his history, but which consisted only of the account of a voyage to India and two or three in the Levant, until he arrived at the recital of his last cruise, with the death of Captain Leclere, and the receipt of a packet to be delivered by himself to the grand-maréchal; his interview with that personage, and his receiving in place of the packet brought a letter addressed to M. Noirtier—his arrival at Marseilles and interview with his father—his affection for Mercédès and their nuptial fête—his arrest and subsequent examination in the temporary prison of the Palais de Justice, ending in his final imprisonment in the Château d’If. From the period of his arrival all was a blank to Dantès—he knew nothing, not even the length of time he had been imprisoned. His recital finished, the abbé reflected long and earnestly.
“There is,” said he, at the end of his meditations, “a clever maxim which bears upon what I was saying to you some little while ago, and that is, that unless wicked ideas take root in a naturally depraved mind, human nature, in a right and wholesome state, revolts at crime. Still, from an artificial civilisation have originated wants, vices, and false tastes, which occasionally become so powerful as to stifle within us all good feelings, and ultimately to lead us into guilt and wickedness—from this view of things then comes the axiom I allude to—that if you wish to discover the author of any bad action, seek first to discover the person to whom the perpetration of that bad action could be in any way advantageous. Now, to apply it in your case:—to whom could your disappearance have been serviceable?”
“To no breathing soul. Why, who could have cared about the removal of so insignificant a person as myself?”
“Do not speak thus, for your reply evinces neither logic nor philosophy. Everything is relative, my dear young friend, from the king who obstructs his successor’s immediate possession of the throne, to the occupant of a place for which the supernumerary to whom it has been promised ardently longs. Now, in the event of the king’s death, his successor inherits a crown;—when the placeman dies, the supernumerary steps into his shoes, and receives his salary of twelve thousand livres. Well, these twelve thousand livres are his civil list, and are as essential to him as the twelve millions of a king. Every individual, from the highest to the lowest degree, has his place in the ladder of social life, and around him are grouped a little world of interests, composed of stormy passions and conflicting atoms; but let us return to your world. You say you were on the point of being appointed captain of the Pharaon?”
“I was.”
“And about to become the husband of a young and lovely girl?”
“True.”
“Now could any one have had an interest in preventing the accomplishment of these two circumstances? But let us first settle the question as to its being the interest of any one to hinder you from being captain of the Pharaon. What say you?”
“I cannot believe such was the case. I was generally liked on board; and had the sailors possessed the right of selecting a captain themselves, I feel convinced their choice would have fallen on me. There was only one person among the crew who had any feeling of ill-will towards me. I had quarrelled with him some time previously, and had even challenged him to fight me; but he refused.”
“Now we are getting on. And what was this man’s name?”
“Danglars.”
“What rank did he hold on board?”
“He was supercargo.”
“And, had you been captain, should you have retained him in his employment?”
“Not if the choice had remained with me; for I had frequently observed inaccuracies in his accounts.”
“Good again! Now then, tell me, was any person present during your last conversation with Captain Leclere?”
“No; we were quite alone.”
“Could your conversation be overheard by any one?”
“It might, for the cabin-door was open;—and—stay; now I recollect,—Danglars himself passed by just as Captain Leclere was giving me the packet for the grand-maréchal.”
“That will do,” cried the abbé; “now we are on the right scent. Did you take anybody with you when you put into the port of Elba?”
“Nobody.”
“Somebody there received your packet, and gave you a letter in place of it, I think?”
“Yes, the grand-maréchal did.”
“And what did you do with that letter?”
“Put it into my pocket-book.”
“Ah! indeed! You had your pocket-book with you, then? Now, how could a pocket-book, large enough to contain an official letter, find sufficient room in the pockets of a sailor?”
“You are right: I had it not with me,—it was left on board.”
“Then it was not till your return to the ship that you placed the letter in the pocket-book?”
“No.”
“And what did you do with this same letter while returning from Porto-Ferrajo to your vessel?”
“I carried it in my hand.”
“So that when you went on board the Pharaon, everybody could perceive you held a letter in your hand?”
“To be sure they could.”
“Danglars, as well as the rest?”
“Yes; he as well as others.”
“Now, listen to me, and try to recall every circumstance attending your arrest. Do you recollect the words in which the information against you was couched?”
“Oh, yes! I read it over three times, and the words sunk deeply into my memory.”
“Repeat it to me.”
Dantès paused a few instants as though collecting his ideas, then said, “This is it, word for word:—‘M. le Procureur du Roi is informed by a friend to the throne and religion, that an individual, named Edmond Dantès, second in command on board the Pharaon, this day arrived from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been charged by Murat with a packet for the usurper; again, by the usurper, with a letter for the Bonapartist Club in Paris. This proof of his guilt may be procured by his immediate arrest, as the letter will be found either about his person, at his father’s residence, or in his cabin on board the Pharaon.’”
The abbé shrugged up his shoulders. “The thing is clear as day,” said he; “and you must have had a very unsuspecting nature, as well as a good heart, not to have suspected the origin of the whole affair.”
“Do you really think so? Ah, that would, indeed, be the treachery of a villain!”
“How did Danglars usually write?”
“Oh! extremely well.”
“And how was the anonymous letter written?”
“All the wrong way—backwards, you know.”
Again