CAPTAIN JOLIETTE
Twenty feet under the Kiobeh were the cells hewn out of the rock. In one
of the darkest of these dungeons lay a young man with a ball and chain
around his ankles. Rags covered the emaciated form of the man, and only
from small strips of the rotten and withered clothing could it be seen
that he wore the uniform of a French soldier. From the left shoulder
part of an epaulet hung, and a scabbard without any sword in it was tied
around his waist.
A dark form appeared in the doorway, shoved some food toward the
prisoner, and disappeared without saying a word.
Ten years before the prisoner was the bearer of a proud name. Young,
rich and courted, Albert de Morcerf was the lion of the Parisian salons
and the joy of his parents. One day a crash came like lightning from a
clear sky, and destroyed his whole existence. His father was denounced
in the Chamber of Peers as a traitor and an assassin. Count de Morcerf
could not defend himself, for what he was charged with was the truth.
The Countess of Morcerf buried herself at Marseilles under the name of
Madame Joliette, while her son entered the army of Algeria or Chasseurs
d'Afrique. In three years Albert Joliette had become a captain. As he
lay now in his cell the past rose before him. He recollected his insult
and challenge to the Count of Monte-Cristo, and his subsequent apology
when he had heard Mercedes' story. That day on coming home he discovered
his father dead with a bullet in his brain, inflicted by his own hand.
But now the past had been atoned for. The bravery of the son expiated
the old father's crimes. When Albert returned home, Mercedes enjoyed new
life at his side. But alas! The proud hopes soon vanished. All news from
Albert ceased, and at the end of three months Mercedes, in despair, had
written to the Count of Monte-Cristo.
Three months before Albert had been captured by the rebels, and
incarcerated in the dungeon in which he still was. Not a human voice was
ever heard. The black slave who served him with coffee could not be
induced to say a word to him. Mercedes had told him the story of the
Count of Monte-Cristo; he knew that Edmond Dantes had spent fourteen
years in the Chateau d'If, and trembled when he thought of it. Yet if he
were only able to escape! But Albert soon became convinced that this was
impossible. There was no way out of these gloomy walls. He then made up
his mind to starve himself, and for several days he had eaten nothing,
so that he was astonished at finding himself still alive. When the slave
withdrew on this particular day, Albert felt his head turn and he
muttered half aloud:
"Mother, mother, forgive me, but I cannot do otherwise."
At this moment a loud noise was heard, and the assassins led by the
marabout entered Joliette's dungeon.
He resolved to die bravely as became a French soldier.
Heavy blows were rained against his cell, and at the same moment
Joliette heard a voice call to him:
"Captain, captain! Do not despair--help is at hand!"
Just then his cell door was burst open and the murderers rushed in.