manoeuvre was incomprehensible to Dantès.
“Whither are you taking me?” asked he.
“You will soon know.”
“But still—”
“We are forbidden to give you any explanation.”
Dantès, trained in discipline, knew that nothing would be more absurd than to question subordinates, who were forbidden to reply; and so he remained silent.
The most vague and wild thoughts passed through his mind. The boat they were in could not make a long voyage; there was no vessel at anchor outside the harbor; he thought, perhaps, they were going to leave him on some distant point.
He was not bound, nor had they made any attempt to handcuff him; this seemed a good augury.
Besides, had not the deputy, who had been so kind to him, told him that provided he did not pronounce the dreaded name of Noirtier, he had nothing to apprehend? Had not Villefort in his presence destroyed the fatal letter, the only proof against him?
He waited silently, striving to pierce through the darkness.
They had left the Ile Ratonneau, where the lighthouse stood, on the right, and were now opposite the Point des Catalans.
It seemed to the prisoner that he could distinguish a feminine form on the beach, for it was there Mercédès dwelt.
How was it that a presentiment did not warn Mercédès that her lover was within three hundred yards of her?