“No; he was put in a dungeon.”
“Listen!” said Dantès. “I am not an abbé, I am not mad; perhaps I shall be, but at present, unfortunately, I am not. I will make you another offer.”
“What is that?”
“I do not offer you a million, because I have it not; but I will give you a hundred crowns if, the first time you go to Marseilles, you will seek out a young girl named Mercédès, at the Catalans, and give her two lines from me.”
“If I took them, and were detected, I should lose my place, which is worth two thousand francs a year; so that I should be a great fool to run such a risk for three hundred.”
“Well,” said Dantès, “mark this; if you refuse at least to tell Mercédès I am here, I will some day hide myself behind the door, and when you enter I will dash out your brains with this stool.”
“Threats!” cried the jailer, retreating and putting himself on the defensive; “you are certainly going mad. The abbé began like you, and in three days you will be like him, mad enough to tie up; but, fortunately, there are dungeons here.”
Dantès whirled the stool round his head.
“All right, all right,” said the jailer; “all right, since you will have it so. I will send word to the governor.”