Late at night, when the jailers had long stopped coming, Edmond chose to continue his conversation with Favia. The more he spoke with the old priest, the more he realized how extraordinary the man truly was.
To call him a genius was no exaggeration.
For instance, he could tell the time simply by the light coming through the window, claiming it was based on the Earth's rotation and revolution—more accurate than any clock, and one that would never break.
To be honest, if it were some sort of supernatural magic, Edmond might have barely been able to accept it. But this scientific explanation left him completely baffled.
As a sailor, all Edmond had ever seen was the sun rising from behind the mountains and setting into the Mediterranean. To him, it was the sun that moved, not the Earth.
If someone had told him six years ago that the world he lived on rotated on its own axis and revolved around the sun, Edmond would have thought it impossible—for he had never once felt the slightest sense of motion.
And yet, even though he could not understand the priest's words, every sentence that came out of Favia's mouth carried an almost sacred mystery. It was like the dazzling treasures Edmond had once seen during his voyages—things that glittered and demanded to be pondered.
In short, the old man was learned, insightful, deeply experienced, and possessed of a noble intellect and far-reaching vision. His presence inspired both reverence and warmth.
That was how Edmond perceived Father Favia. Through their conversations, he also learned that Favia had been imprisoned in Château d'If because of the treachery of three men.
This revelation filled Edmond with profound sympathy. How could anyone be so cruel as to frame such a wise and gentle man?
The sailor, though he had already contemplated suicide, was still unaware that he, too, had been framed.
When he learned of the priest's misfortunes, the young man looked into those calm, earnest blue eyes and spoke softly.
"Father."
"What is it?"
"May I tell you my story? I truly don't understand what I've done wrong. I did nothing, yet I was struck by this calamity. I want to know why."
"I see."
"Please believe me, Father—I really did nothing. I swear it on the two people dearest to me: my father, and Mercédès."
Edmond drew in a breath unconsciously, clutching his hand over his chest.
If he told Father Favia everything, surely the priest could tell him what he could not see for himself.
That was what he believed.
"Then please, go ahead," said Favia.
The priest's voice carried a depth that made Edmond's heart skip a beat. The restlessness and fear circling in his mind faded like a vanishing dream. Slowly, he began to speak.
He spoke of his last voyage aboard the Pharaon—how the old captain who had entrusted him with a letter died, how Edmond returned to Marseille to see his father, how he and Mercédès fell in love, planned their wedding, were suddenly arrested, tried, detained in the court's cell, and finally, cast into Château d'If.
Everything that had happened before meeting the priest was a blur to Edmond. He didn't even know how long he had been in prison.
When Edmond finished, Favia sighed softly.
"Do you know, my child? There is malice in this world."
"You mean I offended someone? But I've never quarreled with anyone, nor done harm to anyone…"
"There is such a thing as pure malice," said Favia, shaking his head. "Tell me—you said you were about to be promoted to captain of the Pharaon, correct? And you were soon to be married?"
"Yes."
"If those two things were to fail, who would benefit most from your downfall? Who would not wish to see you become captain?"
"No one. The crew liked me. If they could have chosen the captain themselves, I'm sure they would've picked me. Only one man ever seemed to resent me. We quarreled once, and I even challenged him to a duel, but he refused."
"What was his name?"
"Danglars. He was the ship's purser."
"If you had become captain, would you have kept him in his position?"
"No. His accounts often didn't add up."
"Indeed," Favia said. "Now tell me—during your final conversation with the old captain, was anyone else present?"
"No, just the two of us."
"Or could someone have overheard you?"
"…Ah, yes. Now that I think of it, when the captain entrusted me with the letter, Danglars happened to pass by."
"I see," Favia said, his voice calm and measured. "When you received the letter, where did you put it?"
"I slipped it into my notebook. It was too large to carry easily, so I left it on the ship."
"And before you returned to the ship, where was it?"
"I held it in my hand."
"So when you went back aboard the Pharaon, anyone could have seen that you were holding a letter?"
"Yes."
"Danglars too?"
Edmond nodded.
"What's Danglars's handwriting like?"
"Beautiful—smooth and elegant."
"And the handwriting on the anonymous letter that accused you?"
"It leaned slightly backward."
"Then it was disguised." Favia smiled faintly. "Wait here a moment."
He dipped a finger into a bit of homemade ink and wrote several words on a scrap of cloth.
Edmond's eyes widened. "This handwriting—it's exactly the same as on the denunciation letter!"
"That's because it was written with the left hand."
"Why?"
"Right-handed writing differs from person to person, but left-handed writing tends to look almost the same."
"Father, you're incredible…"
"Now then, do you still remember what that anonymous letter said?"
"Give me a moment," Edmond said, frowning in concentration. After several seconds of silence, he recalled, "It went something like this:
'I am a loyal subject of the King and Church, and I hereby report that one Edmond Dantès, first mate of the Pharaon, arrived this morning from Smyrna via Naples, stopping at the port of Elba. He carries a letter from Murat to the usurper, and another from the usurper to the Bonapartist committee in Paris. Proof of his crime can be found upon his arrest—either the letter is on his person, in his father's house, or in his cabin aboard the Pharaon.'"
"See?" said Favia. "It's quite easy to deduce what happened. You're simply too kind-hearted to think in such a way."
"Is… is that really so…" Edmond bowed his head, disheartened, unable to believe he had been so completely deceived.
"Let's continue," said Favia gently.
"Yes, of course."
"Who would not want to see you marry Mercédès?"
"Her cousin, Fernand. He loved her… but he's not that sort of man. And he didn't know what was in the letter—maybe it was just a misunderstanding…"
Favia didn't argue with Edmond's lingering naivety. He merely asked, "Did Fernand know Danglars?"
"Yes. The day before my engagement, I saw them sitting together under a trellis, talking cheerfully. Danglars was joking good-naturedly, but Fernand looked pale and angry."
"Were they alone?"
"There was someone else with them—a man I knew well. In fact, he probably introduced them. His name was Caderousse, a tailor. He was drunk that day… Wait—wait a moment! Why didn't I realize this before? There was pen, ink, and paper on their table! Could it be—they were planning it right then and there?"
Edmond clutched his head in horror.
"It seems you've already understood," Favia said with a calm smile. "What else do you wish to know?"
By now, the sailor's admiration for the priest was boundless. He spoke with eager urgency.
"Father, explain to me—why was I interrogated only once? Why did I never go to trial? And most of all, why was I condemned without any proper legal procedure?"
"Very well," said Favia. "Tell me, who interrogated you? How old was he, and what was his manner?"
"Gérard de Villefort. He was young, about twenty-seven or twenty-eight. When he read the letter accusing me, he became emotional—as if he couldn't bear my misfortune. He burned the letter right before me, saying it was for my own good not to mention the one addressed to Monsieur Noirtier. He promised to help me…"
"Edmond," Favia interrupted, raising a hand, "during the Revolution, there was a man named Noirtier de Villefort."
"This… what about him?"
Edmond frowned, puzzled. Why had the priest suddenly mentioned someone with such a similar name?
Wait—Villefort… could it be—
"Yes. Noirtier is indeed Gérard's father."
The words struck Edmond like thunder crashing behind him.
"Gérard de Villefort's biological father," Favia pronounced, each syllable like a hammer against the young man's heart, "Noirtier de Villefort."
Only then did Edmond truly grasp the enormity of what he had heard. His hands clutched his head as though to keep it from splitting apart, and in a strangled, almost voiceless cry, he whispered again and again, "His father… his father… father…"
What lay before Favia at that moment was not yet the Count of Monte Cristo, but a man shattered by the realization that all his suffering was born from another's selfish desire. It was the despair of a soul unable to accept that his agony had no purpose—only malice.
But did the man who would one day become the world's most famous avenger ever shed such weakness again?
No. Or rather—yes, he did. For even as the Count, when facing a duel against his enemy's son, when the boy's mother—his former fiancée—came to plead for her child's life, the cold avenger bent beneath the weight of a mother's tears. His vengeance melted away in silence, and fourteen years of hatred were abandoned without a word.
Perhaps that weakness was the truest face of vengeance itself.
To take revenge is to run, screaming, through endless darkness. The steps never stop, because what was once loved is forever lost. All that remains is the roar of a broken heart.
And even beyond the shores of hatred—there is nothing.
A true avenger should not be worshipped as some proud idol, but seen as what he truly is—a human being.
After all, there are no beings without humanity; there are only humans who express their humanity through inhuman acts.
Edmond's trembling voice broke the silence.
"Why? Why would they do this to me? I never harmed Danglars—I even covered for him more than once. I gave him enough money to live comfortably after he left the ship! And Fernand—I shared my wine with him, he congratulated me and Mercédès! Why, Father… why did they hate me? For no reason at all?"
At that, Favia asked softly, almost curiously, "And why do you believe one needs a reason to hate someone?"
The familiar gentleness in his face faded, replaced by an unsettling calm. His blue eyes reflected something vast and deep, like an ocean without end.
Edmond fell silent, speechless.
"There's nothing strange about it," said the priest, his tone stripped of warmth. "The world overflows with malice—some born of reason, some without it. Sometimes people simply dislike something for no reason at all.
"When Danglars saw you promoted to first mate, what do you think passed through his mind? Perhaps he thought you were flaunting yourself. Perhaps he felt a stab of injustice, whispering to himself: Why him?
"That fleeting bitterness grew into hatred. It's as simple as that. There's no grand scheme—only resentment.
'Why should Edmond Dantès be made first mate when I am not? Why does he live such a blessed life while I do not? Why do all the good things fall to him alone? Why does he walk proudly while I, Danglars, must crawl? He's no better than me—so why should he be happier?'
"And Fernand? 'Why does Edmond have Mercédès's love while I am left alone? Why must I be the one to watch from the shadows as he takes everything I longed for?'
"This is the world, Edmond. Humanity is greedy. It desires endlessly, yet is never satisfied. And with every unfulfilled desire, malice is born."
Edmond's lips trembled. "Is… that truly all? Just that?"
He muttered in disbelief, his eyes vacant. How could something so trivial—so pitiful—be the cause of his ruin?
Because of such petty envy, he had been cast into hell.
Why? Why must I suffer for their jealousy?
His chest tightened; it was as though he couldn't breathe. The world suddenly seemed filled with filth—something loathsome and suffocating.
Favia watched him quietly, reading the turmoil in his heart. Edmond Dantès was a man of rare kindness, who had endured five years of darkness without once cursing another soul. Were it not for this moment—these words—he might have clung to his goodness until death, a saint forgotten by the world.
And because it was his words that lit the spark of vengeance in Edmond's heart, Favia felt he must bear that responsibility. Like an aging father handing down his final truth to his child. Like a teacher.
He spoke again, firmly this time:
"Raise your head, Edmond Dantès. Did you endure all this only to weep? Did we survive these years merely to lament our fate?
"My ten years. Your six. Neither crushed us. Even now, we fight to live. You are innocent, and have never once committed evil. That is why I swear—I will see you free!"
His eyes blazed with conviction, the deep blue within them burning like a passing flame.
"So lift your head, Edmond Dantès," Favia declared solemnly. "Do not bow."
The priest's voice filled the cell like a hymn:
"To be lost is not a sin. To hesitate is not a crime. No one can truly divide light from shadow. And yet, even amid uncertainty, one must choose a path. Hatred itself is proof that something precious was once loved—and that love was betrayed.
"The most terrible cruelty in the world is committed by those who believe themselves the embodiment of righteousness. But remember this—your self, your soul, belongs to no one else. Even if you are mocked or despised, guard it with all your strength.
"Better to glare back with defiance than to smile in falsehood.
"If something is not funny, do not laugh. If someone weeps, do not cry in their stead. Your joy, your sorrow, your life—these belong to you alone. Cherish that irreplaceable self. It will be hard, yes—but it will pass.
"Even if the world believes you dead, envy and malice will still fester in the darkness."
And then he said, quietly but with immense weight:
"Death is not the end—it is only the beginning. Your life is not over yet. You still have those who must answer for what they've done."
The moment his words fell, fire flickered in the young man's eyes—slowly, then brighter, until it blazed.
Memories surged like a flood. Faces twisted in deceit and laughter. The betrayal. The loss. The years stolen.
But when he met Favia's gaze—the clearest, most sincere blue he had ever seen—the turmoil within him stilled.
If the priest says it, then it must be true.
No matter how impossible, no matter how far-fetched, Edmond believed that if Favia declared it, it would come to pass.
Just as stars would always shine in the night, just as flowers would always bloom in spring—so too would this truth unfold.
He drew in a breath, steady and deep.
Now that he understood the cause of his misfortune, the sailor lifted his hands to his chest, clasping them unconsciously.
"If it's not too much to ask, Father… please, teach me," he said softly. "Even if it's only to pass the time—teach me what you know. I beg you."
Outside, the night deepened. The sea wind howled against the fortress walls, and streaks of starlight drifted silently across the sky.
There were no paths across the sea, and yet the waters flowed as if they knew their way.
Perhaps, Favia thought, the marks upon these cold stone walls would fade someday. In ten or twenty years, no one would remember who made them. But if, in that time, a student could climb the mountain of knowledge built by his teacher—then maybe, from that height, he might see something new.
A glimmer of hope. A memory of warmth. Something that could thaw a frozen heart.
That was all the teacher could wish for.
And so—Favia laughed. A deep, unrestrained, joyous laugh.
"That's no problem at all," he said, his voice full of life. "Then let's begin—today."
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