Dantès carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the corner of his cell, and covered it with earth.
Then, wishing to make the best use of his time while he had the means of labor, he continued to work without ceasing.
At the dawn of day he replaced the stone, pushed his bed against the wall, and lay down.
The breakfast consisted of a piece of bread; the jailer entered and placed the bread on the table.
“Well, don’t you intend to bring me another plate?” said Dantès.
“No,” replied the turnkey; “you destroy everything. First you break your jug, then you make me break your plate; if all the prisoners followed your example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave you the saucepan, and pour your soup into that. So for the future I hope you will not be so destructive.”
Dantès raised his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands beneath the coverlet. He felt more gratitude for the possession of this piece of iron than he had ever felt for anything. He had noticed, however, that the prisoner on the other side had ceased to labor; no matter, this was a greater reason for proceeding—if his neighbor would not come to him, he would go to his neighbor. All day he toiled on untiringly, and by the evening he had succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of plaster and fragments of stone. When the hour for his jailer’s visit arrived, Dantès straightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could, and placed it in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of soup into it, together with the fish—for thrice a week the prisoners were deprived of