Many years later, after completing his fierce revenge, the sailor of Marseilles would look back on that distant night — the one that came six years into his stay in the Château d'If.
He would walk alone into the distance, and though the priest was no longer there in that gentle sea breeze, the memory of him would remain vivid in the sailor's heart — even if the world itself crumbled one day, that memory would never fade. It would go on shining—
Forever—
Like the stars in the sky.
In 1815, Edmond Dantès was only nineteen — an exceptionally outstanding sailor, very likely to soon become a ship's captain.
During that year, while on a Mediterranean trading voyage, the old captain he knew called him to his side before his death. He entrusted Edmond with delivering a letter to the Isle of Elba, where Napoleon — then exiled — was gathering strength to overthrow the restored monarchy. That old captain was a staunch Republican.
When he asked Edmund to deliver the letter to Napoleon, Edmond did not hesitate at all. He had no idea what the letter contained, but he could not bear to refuse the last request of a dying man.
Yet this matter fell into the knowledge of his fellow sailor, Danglars. When Captain Morrel later decided to promote Edmond to first mate of the Pharaon, jealousy took root — Danglars seized the opportunity and secretly colluded with Fernand, who harbored desire for Edmond's fiancée, Mercédès. Together, they forged an anonymous letter accusing Edmond of delivering correspondence to the former emperor Napoleon. And so, right during Edmond's engagement banquet, he was arrested by Gérard de Villefort, the deputy prosecutor of Marseilles.
Captain Morrel valued Edmond greatly — aside from Mercédès, he was the only one who tirelessly sought help for the young man. He first found Villefort and pleaded on Edmond's behalf. Villefort initially stated he could release him — but during the interrogation, he changed his mind.
For Villefort, a royalist, had a father who was a Bonapartist — and not just any follower, but one of the core members of Republican revolutionary groups, involved in numerous actions to overthrow the Bourbon monarchy, narrowly escaping arrest on several occasions.
This time, Villefort's father had taken part in an important secret plot — Republicans preparing to welcome Napoleon back to France in secret, to topple Louis XVIII. And for this operation, Villefort's father wrote a letter requesting support — the same letter passed to the dying captain, who then passed it on to Edmond.
Upon realizing this, Villefort panicked — if his father were exposed and arrested, the scandal would drag him down as well, ruining the royal favor he had just received. For his own political future, he decided to sacrifice the unfortunate Edmond. Villefort lied — saying he would release him soon — while secretly ordering his men to imprison Edmund in the Château d'If.
Thus, everything was over.
For Edmond Dantès, life had always been smooth sailing — yet in a single night, he was thrown into shackles, and his once-bright future dissolved into shadows.
Later, when Napoleon returned to France, Morrel again went to Villefort — arguing that Edmond had aided Napoleon. Now that Napoleon had regained power, Edmond should be considered a man of merit rather than a criminal. Villefort sweet-talked Morrel away — but after the fall of the Hundred Days, Morrel never returned. He had done all he could.
A young man who trusted others with all his heart received such a cruel ending — making one think that sincerity carried a trace of naivety, and righteousness a trace of ignorance…
But this was not his fault — it was the fault of the times.
Among countless prisoners, Edmond was not the only one who suffered such injustice. Thousands upon thousands were condemned due to political darkness and petty men — good and upright people framed, forgotten, and robbed of their precious lives.
Yes — countless men perished in the Château d'If — buried, erased, never spoken of again…
If no miracle or disruption occurred, Edmond Dantès would surely die on that island fortress — a foreseeable end.
In 1819, during another inspection tour, Moriarty — intending to visit the long unseen Abbé Faria — also checked on Edmund. And upon returning, he did fulfill his promise — he reviewed Edmond's file and found this entry:
"Edmond Dantès — Bonapartist. Assisted traitors returning from Elba. Must be strictly guarded. Extreme caution required. — Gérard de Villefort."
The handwriting differed from the rest — meaning it was added after Edmond's imprisonment. It was written by none other than the very prosecutor Edmond trusted — the man he believed was working to save him.
Moriarty noticed the trap — but he could not intervene. He was British, after all. All he could write was:
"Baseless accusations."
Yet that very inspection reignited hope within Edmond's heart.
Since his arrest, he had lost track of time — but Moriarty gave him a new date, one he would not — could not — forget.
Using a piece of fallen plaster from the ceiling, he carved into his cell wall:
"July 30th, 1819."
From then on, each passing day was marked — one stroke at a time. Days passed… weeks passed… then months.
He first believed he would be released within two weeks. When that passed, he reasoned Moriarty would only act upon returning to Paris — so he gave himself three months.
Three months passed.
Then another six.
And through all those long, suffocating months — not a single shred of good news came.
Fantasy crept in — perhaps that hope had only been a dream, a delusion of his starving mind.
Edmund tasted every kind of suffering known to prisoners of the Château d'If.
It was a prison from which no one ever escaped —
A fortress known to the world as:
The Hell of the Château d'If
A tomb for unforgivable souls.
People said —
All the pain in the world gathered here.
People said —
Cries of fury and sorrow never ceased here.
People said —
Once imprisoned, escape was impossible.
At first, Edmond was confident — for he had hope, and he knew he was innocent. Then doubt consumed him — what if he wasn't innocent after all?
He begged for a change of cell — refused.
He begged for some fresh air — refused.
For books, for work — refused.
Still, he begged.
Still, nothing changed.
He tried talking to himself — but his own voice startled him.
Once, he would have hated the idea of being with criminals — thieves, vagrants, killers. But now, he longed for it — for any face other than the silent guard. He envied the convicts shackled with chains — because they breathed fresh air… and could see each other.
Darkness slowly devoured his heart.
Nearly four years passed. He again lost count of time. The world, to him, was gone.
He was simple — uneducated — unable to escape through thought or memory. Alone in his cell, he could not reflect — could only endure.
Time dragged on — emptiness became unbearable — rage overtook him. He slammed his body against stone walls and screamed curses at God.
His hatred turned toward everything — even himself.
Soon, the thought arose —
Suicide.
And once that thought came, calmness followed.
He tidied his bed, ate little, slept less — learning he could live with death in his heart, shed life like a worn-out coat.
Two methods existed:
Strangle himself with a handkerchief tied to the barred window — or starve himself.
He rejected the first — pirates were hanged at the mast. As a sailor, he hated pirates. He would not share their ignominy.
So he chose starvation.
And began immediately.
"I want to die."
He murmured this.
Fearing he would waver, he vowed to himself he would die.
"When they bring breakfast and supper," he thought, "I'll throw it out the window — as if I've eaten it."
At first, he felt triumphant — then uncertain — then deeply regretful.
Once, he found the sight of the food disgusting — rotten meat, foul fish, stale black bread.
Now, starving — even that was tempting.
Often he held the plate for hours — staring at that single bite's worth of food.
Survival instincts wrestled against his resolve — weakening it. Suddenly the cell didn't look so dark — nor fate so cruel.
"The first decade of my life, I was happy.
The second decade, I gained so much — things only got better.
But the third decade… I fell into ruin.
I lost everything.
Everyone abandoned me.
Who would come to save me?"
Hahaha… no one.
No one will save me.
No one…"
So he forced himself onward — ruthlessly.
Until he no longer had the strength to even throw his supper out the window.
The next morning — he could no longer see or hear properly. The guard assumed illness — but Edmond only wished for death to come faster.
That day blurred past — and he hallucinated moldy bread and water appearing by the door.
He had seen small figures before — illusions from years of isolation. He chalked it up as madness — and laughed at himself.
Around nine that night, Edmond suddenly heard a hollow sound through the wall beside him.
There were many small creatures in the prison that made noises — he'd gotten used to them. But now — perhaps because starvation heightened his senses — or because nearing death gave everything meaning — this sound felt different.
He listened.
A steady scraping —
As if claws, or teeth, or metal gnawed at stone.
His weak body sparked with one thought every prisoner knows:
Freedom.
God must have finally taken pity — sending a warning to stop him from suicide.
Or perhaps — someone he loved was thinking of him — fighting to shorten the distance between them.
Mercédès…
Yes — sometimes he dared to dream so.
What if this was all just a nightmare?
What if everything — all these years of agony — were only a dream he had yet to wake from?
What if Mercédès — the real Mercédès — was still beside him?
One day this dream would end —
And Edmond would awaken —
With Mercédès at his side.
What a beautiful thought…
But perhaps — these were merely hallucinations from a dying mind.
Still — he listened three hours more. Then something fell —
Silence.
Several hours later, scraping resumed — louder, clearer.
Edmond's heart leapt — but suddenly, the guard entered.
A week ago, Edmond had vowed to die. Four days ago, he acted on it. Since then, he had not spoken a word. Yet now — desperate to hide the sound — he began complaining loudly: the food was bad, the cell too cold — whining, cursing — anything to drown out the noise.
The guard, believing he was merely acting strangely again, ignored him. He placed food on the crooked table and said:
"Try to eat."
Then left.
Relieved — Edmond listened again.
"No doubt…" he thought. "Someone is digging for freedom."
But hope — a stranger now — terrified him.
His mind, conditioned to misery, could barely allow joy to exist—
The sound… perhaps it came from laborers, men ordered by the warden to repair the adjoining cell.
With that idea soothing his nerves, Edmond stared blankly at the soup and white bread brought by the guard.
His hunger made it impossible to think straight. Staggering forward, he gulped down the broth, a wave of warmth and comfort spreading through his chilled body. Yet he forced himself not to devour the bread.
He remembered hearing once that people rescued at sea — starved and half-dead — sometimes killed themselves by eating too fast.
So Edmond put the bread back on the table, right as he was about to bite into it. After he lay back on the bed…
He no longer wanted to die.
If it is really a worker, he thought, I just need to tap the wall. He'll stop working, come check who disturbed him, why there was knocking — since he's here under the warden's orders, he'll be back to work soon enough.
But if it's a prisoner… then the noise will frighten him. He'll stop digging, waiting until he believes everyone is asleep before continuing.
After thinking it through, Edmond — the dizziness finally lifting — got up and went to a damp corner of the cell. He pried loose a piece of stone softened by moisture, and used it to strike the section of wall where the sound was clearest.
Three taps.
Then, as if in answer — three taps from the other side. In fact, a few more followed, then fell silent.
Edmond's heart lurched. He had been so certain it was a laborer… not a fellow prisoner.
Yet no one came to investigate. No footsteps. No keys jangling. No lantern light cutting through the darkness.
Curiosity replaced fear.
He listened… waited… time passed — how long he could not tell — but the wall remained quiet, the silence uninterrupted.
"…So it is a prisoner, then."
Joy surged through him — so fierce he couldn't sleep the entire night.
Morning came. The guard delivered his meal again. This time, Edmond ate.
His excitement only grew. He paced the cell, rattled the iron bars of his window, stretched his limbs — preparing for whatever might come next.
But as time dragged on, no sound returned.
Patience frayed into frustration.
Night fell. After the guard made his final inspection, Edmond once more pressed his ear firmly to the cold stone. He could almost hear something… faint shifting between the rocks.
He walked back and forth, trying to steady his mind. Then he returned to that same spot —
There was no longer any doubt.
I must help him. And escape — together.
Fired by this single conviction, Edmond set to work.
He dragged his bed aside — the digging sounded like it was happening from that direction. His eyes scanned the cell for something sharp, something that could pierce stone and pry apart mortar—
Suddenly, he spotted a piece of jagged metal.
Only then did he remember: sometime early in his imprisonment, this object had appeared near his door. Back then, still filled with hope, he had only hidden it — too afraid of losing his life before he saw justice.
How could I have forgotten this…?
But no matter. Edmond no longer wished for death — only escape, side by side with the unseen prisoner beyond the wall.
Thus began Edmond's "work" — relentless, tireless. When the guard arrived, he concealed everything, returning to his cot like nothing had happened.
Four… five days passed.
Then his tool struck something unyielding — sliding uselessly along a smooth surface.
He ran his fingers over it — a beam. A thick wooden crossbeam. It blocked — no, entirely sealed — the tunnel he'd carved. He would have to start again, above or below.
"What… how…?" Edmond whispered, stunned. "Was it… all in my imagination…?"
"You jerk! Why are you only now using a proper tool? My brother's been digging for years because of you…"
A voice — low, eerie — drifted up from beneath the floor.
To Edmond, it sounded like something risen
from a grave, filled with bitter resentment.
There was no one in the cell. The hairs at his nape rose like needles. He stumbled backward—
—And fainted dead away.
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