Chapter 38: The Fateful Meet: I
Dantès practically lifted his new companion off his feet, dragging him toward the small window to get a better look at him in the dim light that barely made it through the iron bars.
The man was short and thin, his hair gone white, not from old age, but from years of suffering and despair. His eyes were deep-set and sharp, almost hidden under thick gray eyebrows, and a long black beard hung down to his chest. His face was gaunt and lined with worry, the features of someone who spent more time thinking than fighting. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his clothes were so torn and ragged you could barely tell what they used to look like.
He looked to be around sixty or sixty-five, but there was still energy in the way he moved, as if prison had aged him faster than time itself. He seemed genuinely happy to meet Dantès, like someone whose heart had been frozen was finally warming up again. He thanked him warmly for the welcome, even though finding another prisoner here instead of freedom must have been crushing.
"First things first," he said, "we need to hide any trace that I was here. Our safety depends on the guards never finding out about this." He walked over to where he’d moved the stone, bent down, and lifted it back into place with surprising ease despite its weight. "You didn’t put this back very carefully," he observed. "But I guess you didn’t have the right tools."
"Wait," Dantès said, stunned, "you have tools?"
"I made some myself. Apart from a file, I’ve got everything I need. A chisel, pliers, and a lever."
"I’d love to see what you’ve created."
"Well, here’s my chisel, for starters." He pulled out a sharp, strong blade with a wooden handle.
"How did you even make that?" Dantès asked.
"From a metal piece of my bed frame. And this one tool was enough to dig the entire tunnel I used to get here, about fifty feet."
"Fifty feet!" Dantès could barely believe it.
"Keep your voice down," the man warned. "In prisons like this, they sometimes post guards outside the cells just to eavesdrop on conversations."
"But they think I’m alone in here."
"Doesn’t matter."
"And you’re saying you dug fifty feet just to reach me?"
"That’s right. That’s roughly the distance between your cell and mine. Unfortunately, I miscalculated the angle. Without proper measuring tools, instead of making a forty-foot curve, I made it fifty. I was trying to reach the outer wall, break through it, and escape into the sea. Instead, I ended up following the corridor your cell opens onto. All that work for nothing. I discovered the corridor just leads to a courtyard full of soldiers."
"You’re right about that," Dantès confirmed. "But that corridor only borders one side of my cell. There are three other walls, do you know what’s beyond them?"
"This one," he pointed, "is built against solid rock. It would take ten expert miners with proper equipment many years to break through. This one connects to the lower part of the governor’s quarters. If we broke through there, we’d just end up in some storage cellars where they’d catch us immediately. The fourth wall faces..." He paused, thinking. "Now where does that one face?"
He was talking about the wall with the small window that let light into the cell. The window got narrower as it went toward the outside, ending in an opening so small a child couldn’t fit through. For extra security, it had three iron bars across it, enough to calm even the most paranoid guard’s fears about escape attempts.
As he asked the question, the stranger dragged the table under the window.
"Climb up," he told Dantès. The young man did as instructed, positioning himself against the wall with his hands out for support. The stranger, whom Dantès still only knew by his cell number, jumped up with surprising agility for his age. Light and quick as a cat, he climbed from the table to Dantès’s hands, then to his shoulders. Bending over because the low ceiling wouldn’t let him stand straight, he managed to poke his head between the upper bars to get a complete view of what lay beyond.
A moment later he quickly pulled his head back. "Just as I thought!" He slid down from Dantès’s shoulders as skillfully as he’d climbed up, then jumped lightly from the table to the floor.
"What did you see?" Dantès asked anxiously, climbing down himself.
The older prisoner considered this carefully. "Yes," he said finally, "it’s exactly what I expected. This side of your cell overlooks some kind of open walkway where guards patrol constantly. Sentries are posted there day and night."
"Are you sure about that?"
"Absolutely. I saw a soldier’s silhouette and the top of his rifle. That’s why I pulled my head back so fast, I was afraid he might see me too."
"So what does that mean?"
"It means escaping through your cell is completely impossible."
"Then what do we-"
"Then," the older man said quietly, "God’s will be done." As he spoke these words slowly, his worn face took on an expression of deep acceptance. Dantès stared at this man who could give up such long-cherished hopes so philosophically, feeling a mixture of amazement and respect.
"Please, tell me who you are," he said finally. "I’ve never met anyone like you."
"Gladly," the stranger replied, "if you’re really curious about someone who, sadly, can’t help you in any way now."
"Don’t say that. You can comfort and support me with your wisdom. Please, who are you really?"
The stranger gave a sad smile. "Listen then," he said. "I am Father Faria. I’ve been imprisoned here in the Château d’If since 1811, and before that I spent three years in the fortress of Fenestrelle. In 1811 I was transferred to this place in France.
That’s when I learned that fate, which seemed to grant Napoleon’s every wish, had given him a son who was declared King of Rome even as a baby. I was far from expecting the change you’ve just told me about, that four years later, this giant of power would fall. So who rules France now? Napoleon II?"
"No, Louis XVIII."
"Louis XVI’s brother! How mysterious are the ways of fate, for what great purpose has heaven chosen to bring down someone so high and raise up someone who was so low?"
Dantès was completely focused on this man who could forget his own suffering while thinking about the fate of others.
"Yes, yes," Faria continued, "it’ll be the same as what happened in England. After Charles I came Cromwell, after Cromwell came Charles II, then James II, then some relative or in-law, some Prince of Orange who went from being a regional governor to a king. Then new concessions to the people, then a constitution, then liberty. Ah, my friend!" he said, turning to Dantès with the intense gaze of someone who could see the future, "you’re young, you’ll live to see all this happen."
"Maybe, if I ever get out of prison!"