“You mistrust me, then,” said Dantes. Edmond fancied he heard a bitter
laugh resounding from the depths.

“Oh, I am a Christian,” cried Dantes, guessing instinctively that this man
meant to abandon him. “I swear to you by him who died for us that
naught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my jailers; but I
conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you, for I have got
to the end of my strength, that I will dash my brains out against the wall,
and you will have my death to reproach yourself with.”

“How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man.”

“I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have been
here. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was arrested, the
28th of February, 1815.”

“Not quite twenty–six!” murmured the voice; “at that age he cannot be a
traitor.”

“Oh, no, no,” cried Dantes. “I swear to you again, rather than betray you,
I would allow myself to be hacked in pieces!”

“You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance, for I was
about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age reassures me. I
will not forget you. Wait.”

“How long?”

“I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal.”

“But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let me
come to you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape we will talk; you
of those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You must love
somebody?”

“No, I am alone in the world.”

“Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your comrade; if you
are old, I will be your son. I have a father who is seventy if he yet lives;
I only love him and a young girl called Mercedes. My father has not yet
forgotten me, I am sure, but God alone knows if she loves me still; I
shall love you as I loved my father.”

“It is well,” returned the voice; “to–morrow.”