CHAPTER XVII
THE TREASURE
HEN Dantès returned next morning to the chamber of his companion in captivity, he found Faria seated and looking composed. In the ray of light which entered by the narrow window of his cell, he held open in his left hand, of which alone, it will be recollected, he retained the use, a morsel of paper, which, from being constantly rolled into a small compass, had the form of a cylinder, and was not easily kept open. He did not speak, but showed the paper to Dantès.
"What is that?" he inquired.
"Look at it," said the abbé, with a smile.
"I have looked at it with all possible attention," said Dantès, "and I only see a half-burned paper, on which are traces of Gothic characters, traced with a peculiar kind of ink."
"This paper, my friend," said Faria, "I may now avow to you, since I have proved you — this paper is my treasure, of which, from this day forth, one-half belongs to you."
A cold damp started to Dantès' brow. Until this day — and what a space of time! — he had avoided talking to Faria of this treasure, the source whence the accusation of madness against the poor abbé was derived. With his instinctive delicacy Edmond had preferred avoiding any touch on this painful chord, and Faria had been equally silent. He had taken the silence of the old man for a return to reason, and now these few words uttered by Faria, after so painful a crisis, seemed to announce a serious relapse of mental alienation.
"Your treasure?" stammered Dantès. Faria smiled.
"Yes," said he. "You are, indeed, a noble heart, Edmond, and I see by your paleness and your shudder what is passing in your heart at this moment. No; be assured, I am not mad. This treasure exists,
215
