“Are you well fed?” repeated the inspector.
“Monsieur, you run no risk, for, as I told you, I will stay here; so there is no chance of my escaping.”
“You do not reply to my question,” replied the inspector impatiently.
“Nor you to mine,” cried the abbé. “You will not accept my gold; I will keep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty; God will give it me.” And the abbé, casting away his coverlet, resumed his place, and continued his calculations.
“What is he doing there?” said the inspector.
“Counting his treasures,” replied the governor.
Faria replied to this sarcasm with a glance of profound contempt. They went out. The turnkey closed the door behind them.
“He was wealthy once, perhaps?” said the inspector.
“Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad.”
“After all,” said the inspector, “if he had been rich, he would not have been here.”
So the matter ended for the Abbé Faria. He remained in his cell, and this visit only increased the belief in his insanity.
Caligula or Nero, those treasure-seekers, those desirers of the impossible, would have accorded to the poor wretch, in exchange for his wealth, the liberty he so earnestly prayed for. But the kings of modern times, restrained by the limits of mere probability, have neither courage nor desire. They fear the ear that hears their orders, and the eye that scrutinizes their actions. Formerly they believed themselves sprung from Jupiter, and shielded by their birth; but nowadays they are not inviolable.