The iron made no impression,
but met with a smooth surface; Dantes touched it, and found that it was a
beam. This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole Dantes had
made; it was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under it. The unhappy
young man had not thought of this. “O my God, my God!” murmured
he, “I have so earnestly prayed to you, that I hoped my prayers had been
heard. After having deprived me of my liberty, after having deprived me
of death, after having recalled me to existence, my God, have pity on
me, and do not let me die in despair!”

“Who talks of God and despair at the same time?” said a voice that
seemed to come from beneath the earth, and, deadened by the distance,
sounded hollow and sepulchral in the young man’s ears. Edmond’s hair
stood on end, and he rose to his knees.

“Ah,” said he, “I hear a human voice.” Edmond had not heard any one
speak save his jailer for four or five years; and a jailer is no man to a
prisoner—he is a living door, a barrier of flesh and blood adding strength
to restraints of oak and iron.

“In the name of heaven,” cried Dantes, “speak again, though the sound
of your voice terrifies me. Who are you?”

“Who are you?” said the voice.

“An unhappy prisoner,” replied Dantes, who made no hesitation in
answering.

“Of what country?”

“A Frenchman.”

“Your name?”

“Edmond Dantes.”

“Your profession?”

“A sailor.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since the 28th of February, 1815.”

“Your crime?”

“I am innocent.”

“But of what are you accused?”

“Of having conspired to aid the emperor’s return.”

“What! For the emperor’s return?—the emperor is no longer on the
throne, then?”

“He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814, and was sent to the Island of
Elba. But how long have you been here that you are ignorant of all this?”

“Since 1811.”

Dantes shuddered; this man had been four years longer than himself in
prison.

“Do not dig any more,” said the voice; “only tell me how high up is your
excavation?”

“On a level with the floor.”

“How is it concealed?”

“Behind my bed.”

“Has your bed been moved since you have been a prisoner?”

“No.”

“What does your chamber open on?”

“A corridor.”

“And the corridor?”

“On a court.”

“Alas!” murmured the voice.

“Oh, what is the matter?” cried Dantes.

“I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the wrong
angle, and have come out fifteen feet from where I intended. I took the
wall you are mining for the outer wall of the fortress.”

“But then you would be close to the sea?”

“That is what I hoped.”

“And supposing you had succeeded?”

“I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the islands near
here—the Isle de Daume or the Isle de Tiboulen—and then I should
have been safe.”

“Could you have swum so far?”

“Heaven would have given me strength; but now all is lost.”

“All?”

“Yes; stop up your excavation carefully, do not work any more, and wait
until you hear from me.”

“Tell me, at least, who you are?”

“I am—I am No. 27.”