hat, surely, cannot be
denied to one who is accused!"

"We shall see," said the inspector; then, turning to the governor, "On
my word, the poor devil touches me. You must show me the proofs against
him."

"Certainly; but you will find terrible charges."

"Monsieur," continued Dantes, "I know it is not in your power to release
me; but you can plead for me--you can have me tried--and that is all
I ask. Let me know my crime, and the reason why I was condemned.
Uncertainty is worse than all."

"Go on with the lights," said the inspector.

"Monsieur," cried Dantes, "I can tell by your voice you are touched with
pity; tell me at least to hope."

"I cannot tell you that," replied the inspector; "I can only promise to
examine into your case."

"Oh, I am free--then I am saved!"

"Who arrested you?"

"M. Villefort. See him, and hear what he says."

"M. Villefort is no longer at Marseilles; he is now at Toulouse."

"I am no longer surprised at my detention," murmured Dantes, "since my
only protector is removed."

"Had M. de Villefort any cause of personal dislike to you?"

"None; on the contrary, he was very kind to me."

"I can, then, rely on the notes he has left concerning you?"

"Entirely."

"That is well; wait patiently, then." Dantes fell on his knees, and
prayed earnestly. The door closed; but this time a fresh inmate was left
with Dantes--hope.

"Will you see the register at once," asked the governor, "or proceed to
the other cell?"

"Let us visit them all," said the inspector. "If I once went up those
stairs. I should never have the courage to come down again."

"Ah, this one is not like the other, and his madness is less affecting
than this one's display of reason."

"What is his folly?"

"He fancies he possesses an immense treasure. The first year he offered
government a million of francs for his release; the second, two; the
third, three; and so on progressively. He is now in his fifth year of
captivity; he will ask to speak to you in private, and offer you five
millions."

"How curious!--what is his name?"

"The Abbe Faria."

"No. 27," said the inspector.

"It is here; unlock the door, Antoine." The turnkey obeyed, and the
inspector gazed curiously into the chamber of the "mad abbe."

In the centre of the cell, in a circle traced with a fragment of plaster
detached from the wall, sat a man whose tattered garments scarcely
covered him. He was drawing in this circle geometrical lines,