“Possibly nothing at all; the overflow of my brain would probably, in a state of freedom, have evaporated in a thousand follies; misfortune is needed to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect. Compression is needed to explode gunpowder. Captivity has brought my mental faculties to a focus; and you are well aware that from the collision of clouds electricity is produced—from electricity, lightning, from lightning, illumination.”
“No,” replied Dantès. “I know nothing. Some of your words are to me quite empty of meaning. You must be blessed indeed to possess the knowledge you have.”
The abbé smiled. “Well,” said he, “but you had another subject for your thoughts; did you not say so just now?”
“I did!”
“You have told me as yet but one of them—let me hear the other.”
“It was this—that while you had related to me all the particulars of your past life, you were perfectly unacquainted with mine.”
“Your life, my young friend, has not been of sufficient length to admit of your having passed through any very important events.”
“It has been long enough to inflict on me a great and undeserved misfortune. I would fain fix the source of it on man that I may no longer vent reproaches upon Heaven.”
“Then you profess ignorance of the crime with which you are charged?”
“I do, indeed; and this I swear by the two beings most dear to me upon earth—my father and Mercédès.”
“Come,” said the abbé, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed back to its original situation, “let me hear your story.”