"Inspector," the warden continued, "I can tell you his story as well as he can, I’ve been hearing it for four or five years."
"That proves," the priest replied, "that you’re like those described in scripture, ’Having eyes, they see not; having ears, they hear not.’"
"My dear sir," the inspector said, "the government is wealthy and doesn’t need your treasure. Keep it until you’re released."
The priest’s eyes blazed. He seized the inspector’s hand. "But what if I’m never released? What if I die here? This treasure will be lost forever! Shouldn’t the government benefit from it? I’ll offer six million, keeping only what I need to live comfortably, if they’ll just grant me my freedom."
"I swear," the inspector said quietly, "if I hadn’t been warned beforehand that this man was insane, I’d believe every word he says."
"I am not insane!" Faria replied with the acute hearing that all prisoners develop. "The treasure I speak of truly exists. I’ll sign any agreement you want, promising to lead you to the exact location where you can dig it up. If I deceive you, bring me back here, I ask nothing more."
The warden laughed. "How far is this spot?"
"About three hundred miles."
"Very clever," the warden said. "If all prisoners decided to travel three hundred miles with their guards accompanying them, they’d have an excellent chance of escaping."
"It’s a well-known scheme," the inspector agreed. "The priest’s plan doesn’t even have the merit of originality."
Then, turning back to Faria, "Are you being fed adequately?"
"Swear to me," Faria replied, "that you’ll free me if what I tell you proves true, and I’ll remain here while you go to verify the location."
"I asked if you’re being fed adequately," the inspector repeated.
"Sir, you risk nothing, as I said, I’ll stay here. There’s no chance of my escaping."
"You’re not answering my question," the inspector said impatiently.
"Nor are you answering mine!" the priest cried. "You won’t accept my gold, so I’ll keep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty, so God will grant it to me instead!"
The priest threw off his covering, returned to his position, and resumed his calculations.
"What’s he doing now?" the inspector asked.
"Counting his treasures," the warden replied sarcastically.
Faria responded to this mockery with a look of profound contempt.
They left the cell, and the guard locked the door behind them.
"Was he wealthy once?" the inspector wondered.
"Either that, or he dreamed he was and woke up mad." The source of this content ɪs NoveI★Fire.net
"After all," the inspector concluded, "if he had really been rich, he wouldn’t be here."
And so ended the matter for Abbé Faria. He remained in his cell, and this visit only reinforced everyone’s belief in his insanity.
In ancient times, mad emperors like Caligula or Nero, those seekers of impossible treasures, might have granted the poor wretch his freedom in exchange for his wealth. But modern rulers, constrained by the bounds of probability, lack both the courage and desire for such gambles.
They fear the ears that hear their orders and the eyes that watch their actions. Ancient rulers believed themselves descended from gods and protected by divine birth, but today’s leaders know they’re not invincible.
Despotic governments have always made it policy never to allow victims of their persecution to reappear. Just as the Inquisition rarely permitted its victims to be seen with their limbs twisted and flesh torn by torture, madness is always concealed in its cell.
Should it ever depart, it’s transported to some grim hospital where doctors view the mutilated beings delivered by jailers as specimens rather than human souls. The very madness of Abbé Faria, driven insane by imprisonment, condemned him to perpetual captivity.
The inspector kept his word to Dantès. He examined the official register and found the following entry:
Violent supporter of Bonaparte; took active part in the return from exile. Requires maximum surveillance and security.
This note was written in different handwriting from the rest, showing it had been added after his imprisonment. The inspector couldn’t argue against this accusation. He simply wrote, "No action to be taken."
This visit had given Dantès new energy. Until then, he had lost track of time, but now he used a fragment of plaster to write the date, July 30th, 1816, and began making daily marks to never lose count again.
Days and weeks passed, then months. Dantès continued waiting. At first he expected freedom within two weeks. When that deadline passed, he decided the inspector would do nothing until returning to Paris, which wouldn’t happen until his circuit was complete.
So he set his hopes on three months. Three months passed, then six more. Finally, ten and a half months had gone by with no favorable change, and Dantès began to wonder if the inspector’s visit had been nothing but a dream.
After a full year, the warden was transferred to another fortress. He took several subordinates with him, including Dantès’ guard. A new warden arrived, but learning the names of fifty prisoners would have been too tedious. Instead, he learned their cell numbers.
This horrible place contained fifty cells, and their inhabitants were known only by their numbers. The unfortunate young man was no longer called Edmond Dantès. He was now simply Prisoner Number 34.