The Count looked around, truly recognizing his old prison.
"Yes," he said softly. "There's the stone where I used to sit. There's the impression my shoulders left on the wall. There's the mark of my blood from the day I smashed my head against the stone. Those figures on the wall, I remember making them. I calculated my father's age to know if he'd still be alive when I got out. I calculated Mercédès's age to know if she'd still be free."
His voice turned bitter. "After those calculations, I had one minute of hope. What I didn't account for was hunger and betrayal."
A harsh laugh escaped him.
In his mind, he saw his father's burial and Mercédès's wedding to another man.
On the opposite wall, he noticed an inscription. White letters still visible against the green stone:
"O God, preserve my memory!"
