"What is that to you, Jacopo?" returned the Captain. "Every one is free
to ask what he pleases."

"That's true," replied Jacopo; "I only make a remark."

"Well, you would do much better to find him a jacket and a pair of
trousers, if you have them."

"No," said Jacopo; "but I have a shirt and a pair of trousers."

"That is all I want," interrupted Dantes. Jacopo dived into the hold and
soon returned with what Edmond wanted.

"Now, then, do you wish for anything else?" said the patron.

"A piece of bread and another glass of the capital rum I tasted, for
I have not eaten or drunk for a long time." He had not tasted food for
forty hours. A piece of bread was brought, and Jacopo offered him the
gourd.

"Larboard your helm," cried the captain to the steersman. Dantes glanced
that way as he lifted the gourd to his mouth; then paused with hand in
mid-air.

"Hollo! what's the matter at the Chateau d'If?" said the captain.

A small white cloud, which had attracted Dantes' attention, crowned the
summit of the bastion of the Chateau d'If. At the same moment the faint
report of a gun was heard. The sailors looked at one another.

"What is this?" asked the captain.

"A prisoner has escaped from the Chateau d'If, and they are firing
the alarm gun," replied Dantes. The captain glanced at him, but he had
lifted the rum to his lips and was drinking it with so much composure,
that suspicions, if the captain had any, died away.

"At any rate," murmured he, "if it be, so much the better, for I have
made a rare acquisition." Under pretence of being fatigued, Dantes asked
to take the helm; the steersman, glad to be relieved, looked at the
captain, and the latter by a sign indicated that he might abandon it to
his new comrade. Dantes could thus keep his eyes on Marseilles.

"What is the day of the month?" asked he of Jacopo, who sat down beside
him.

"The 28th of February."

"In what year?"

"In what year--you ask me in what year?"

"Yes," replied the young man, "I ask you in what year!"

"You have forgotten then?"

"I got such a fright last night," replied Dantes, smiling, "that I have
almost lost my memory. I ask you what year is it?"

"The year 1829," returned Jacopo. It was fourteen years day for day
since Dantes' arrest. He was nineteen when he entered the Chateau d'If;
he was thirty-three when he escaped. A sorrowful smile passed over his
face; he asked himself what had become of Mercedes, who must believe him