it was either quite full, or half empty, according as the turnkey gave it to him or to his companion first.
The handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dantès would have given ten years of his life in exchange for it.
The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the saucepan into Dantès’ plate, and Dantès, after eating his soup with a wooden spoon, washed the plate, which thus served for every day.
Now when evening came Dantès put his plate on the ground near the door; the jailer, as he entered, stepped on it and broke it.
This time he could not blame Dantès. He was wrong to leave it there, but the jailer was wrong not to have looked before him. The jailer, therefore, only grumbled. Then he looked about for something to pour the soup into; Dantès’ entire dinner service consisted of one plate—there was no alternative.
“Leave the saucepan,” said Dantès; “you can take it away when you bring me my breakfast.”
This advice was to the jailer’s taste, as it spared him the necessity of making another trip. He left the saucepan.
Dantès was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his food, and after waiting an hour, lest the jailer should change his mind and return, he removed his bed, took the handle of the saucepan, inserted the point between the hewn stone and rough stones of the wall, and employed it as a lever.
A slight oscillation showed Dantès that all went well. At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from the wall, leaving a cavity a foot and a half in diameter.