Chapter 8. The Château d’If

The commissary of police—cloaked in a dark, rune-etched mantle—glided through the antechamber of the accursed fortress, motioning for two sturdy gendarmes to stand on either side of Edmond Dantès. A massive door, its iron braces etched with protective runes, groaned as it swung open, leading them into a maze of dim corridors. The walls were carved with ancient symbols and lit by flickering ghost-lights, snaking in so many directions that one might suspect a mad sorcerer had designed them. Even the bravest might have shivered at the eerie atmosphere. At last, after endless winding passages, Dantès noticed a heavy door fitted with a small iron grate. The commissary raised a hefty iron mallet—its head marked with binding runes—and knocked three times, each blow resonating deep in Dantès' chest like a curse. The door opened, and the gendarmes gently pressed him forward before it closed behind him with a booming clang, sealing off the once crisp, enchanted air and replacing it with a foul, stifling odor. Dantès had entered the prison.

He found himself in a modest cell, the walls barred with cold, unfeeling iron that seemed to radiate hopelessness. Still, he wasn't too surprised; he kept recalling M. de Villefort's parting words, which had hinted at some eventual release. It was four o'clock by the fortress's enchanted clocks on the 1st day of the Moon of Renewal when Dantès was left in this grim cell. Soon, darkness surrounded him, amplifying every tiny noise. Any creak or whisper sent him leaping to his feet, heart pounding with the hope of rescue—only to sink back when the sound faded. Finally, around the tenth hour, just when he felt despair creeping in, footsteps echoed in the hallway. A key turned with a metallic clatter, and a burst of torchlight lit up the room.

In that golden blaze, Dantès saw four gendarmes, their sabers and carbines gleaming. He stepped forward uncertainly, then paused, intimidated by their show of force.

"Are you here to get me?" he asked, his voice wavering between hope and fear.

"Yes," one of them answered in a calm, measured tone.

"On the deputy procureur's orders?" Dantès pressed, clinging to a sliver of hope.

"That's the word," the gendarme replied succinctly.

Hearing that they acted under M. de Villefort's command eased Dantès' anxiety a little. He walked forward and positioned himself in the middle of the guard detail. Outside, a carriage waited—a black coach etched with runic symbols and pulled by what looked like fiery, spectral horses. The coachman sat on a raised seat, next to a stern police officer.

"Is this for me?" Dantès asked, his mixed feelings evident in his voice.

"Yes," a gendarme confirmed.

Before Dantès could reply, gentle but firm hands guided him into the carriage. He sank onto a seat between two gendarmes, with two more facing him. The carriage rumbled onto the cobbled roads—each stone etched with runes—while Dantès watched the receding prison behind the barred windows.

They traveled along several winding streets: first Rue Caisserie, then Rue Saint-Laurent, then Rue Taramis, until at last they reached the quay. Beyond the carriage lanterns, the lights of La Consigne sparkled like distant stars in the magical night.

They stopped before a guardhouse, where an officer stepped out and spoke to a dozen soldiers with muskets that shimmered as though charged with arcane energy. Dantès couldn't help wondering if all this was really for him.

The officer opened a heavily reinforced door. Silently answering Dantès' unasked question, rows of disciplined soldiers formed a narrow path from the carriage to the port. The gendarmes got out first and instructed Dantès to follow. Together, they walked toward a waiting boat chained to the dock with an enchanted lock watched over by a custom-house officer.

Dantès noticed the curious and guarded looks from the soldiers. In a flash, he found himself placed in the stern of a small boat, two gendarmes beside him and two across from him. With a strong push, they launched onto the water. Four muscular rowers—men who seemed to channel ancient sea magic—pulled on the oars, swiftly steering the boat toward the Pilon. A quick command released a chain blocking the port's entrance, allowing them to slip from the inner harbor into the open waters of the Frioul.

The cool ocean air felt wonderful after his stifling cell. But when they passed La Réserve, the memory of his carefree happiness from earlier that day pained him. He heard the muffled sounds of music and laughter drifting from its windows. Folding his hands, he looked up at the sky and mouthed a quiet prayer, his words mixing with the breeze.

The boat glided farther from the shore, passing the Tête de Mort—a rocky spot whispered to be haunted—and soon circled around the Anse du Pharo, drawing near an old battery whose massive cannons had protected these shores for centuries. The course confused Dantès.

"Where are you taking me?" he finally asked, both defiance and fear coloring his voice.

"You'll know soon," said one of the rowers in a guarded, mysterious tone.

"But—" Dantès began.

"We can't say," the oarsman cut him off. "We're sworn to secrecy."

Dantès, who was disciplined from years at sea, recognized he'd get no answers. His mind raced: maybe they intended to leave him on some remote, enchanted island. At least, he noted, he wasn't chained—perhaps there was a chance to escape. He recalled the deputy's promise not to mention Noirtier's name, a small sign of hope. He also thought of how M. de Villefort had burned that incriminating letter.

Time passed in tense silence. They floated past Ile Ratonneau, where a runic lighthouse glowed faintly. To the left, he glimpsed the ragged shape of the Point des Catalans. Through the boat's narrow view, he thought he saw a slim figure on the shore—Mercédès' home. How, he wondered, did she not sense he was so near?

Only one faint light was visible—a lone candle shining from her room. Dantès imagined she was awake, worried, or perhaps crying out for him. But he stayed silent, too proud and too scared of how he might sound calling out from the water at this hour.

Lost in these thoughts, he barely realized they had left familiar landmarks behind and were now on the open sea. Suddenly, the rowers raised their oars, set the sails, and let the enchanted wind carry them.

The gendarmes remained quiet, so Dantès grasped the nearest guard's hand, speaking in a low, urgent voice: "Friend, I beg you as a fellow Marseilles native: tell me where you're taking me. I'm Captain Dantès, accused but innocent. Please, help me understand."

The gendarme paused, then spoke with his partner. With a small nod, his partner seemed to say, "Fine." Leaning closer, the gendarme murmured, "You're from Marseilles, a real sailor, and you say you don't know this route?"

"No clue," Dantès insisted.

"You can't guess at all?" the gendarme pressed.

"None," he said honestly.

"That's strange," the gendarme replied. Then he gestured. "Look up ahead."

Standing, Dantès squinted through the murky darkness. Emerging about a hundred yards away was a towering, ominous rock crowned by walls that looked ready to swallow anyone who approached. The Château d'If loomed there, a fortress rumored to hold the darkest of prisoners and curses.

"The Château d'If?" cried Dantès. Horror and disbelief flickered in his voice. "Why are we going there?"

Smiling grimly, the gendarme said, "It's where you'll be held. Political prisoners, or anyone the authorities find suspicious, end up in that place. You might be innocent, but larger forces are at work. You do realize it's heavily guarded, right?"

"There are only walls, a governor, and a few jailers," Dantès replied, trying to compose himself. "How could this be happening?"

The gendarme looked at him with a mix of pity and irony. "We're just following orders," he said. "Whatever promises you heard from that Villefort fellow might not count for much."

Suddenly, another gendarme shouted, "Help! Grab him!" as Dantès made a desperate leap, hoping to dive into the sea. But strong hands caught him, yanking him back into the boat. He cursed in frustration.

"Ah, so that's how a 'loyal sailor' keeps his word," growled a gendarme, forcing Dantès down. "Try that again, and I won't hesitate to fire." The muzzle of a rune-marked carbine pressed against Dantès' temple.

A brief, chilling moment passed where Dantès considered fighting back. But then he remembered Villefort's promise. Dying here, shot by a guard in a boat, was too horrific. So he lay still, fuming and clenching his teeth.

Soon, the boat jolted ashore. A sailor jumped onto the rocks, and a creaking pulley signaled that they'd reached their destination. Dantès heard a chain being moved and felt a cold certainty: his journey was over.

Pulled to his feet by the guards, he trudged toward a massive entrance. A police officer carrying a musket with a bayonet marched behind. Dantès, too dazed to resist, barely registered the soldiers lined on the wharf. He was dimly aware of climbing numerous steps, the final slam of a door echoing like a doom. It all felt like a strange nightmare.

They paused in a grim courtyard ringed by towering, mossy walls. Sentinels paced nearby, their muskets gleaming in ghostly torchlight. After several minutes, the gendarmes let go of him.

"Where's the prisoner?" barked a new voice.

"Here," the gendarmes answered.

"Follow me. I'll show him to his cell," the voice commanded.

"Move!" the gendarmes ordered, pushing Dantès forward.

He followed this new guide into a subterranean hall, its walls wet and dripping with the sorrow of ages. In a small, cramped room stood an under-jailer, a lean, tired-looking man in sooty robes. A single lamp sat on a rough stool, casting shadows on the prison's grimy stones.

"This is your cell for tonight," the under-jailer said, sounding bored. "It's late, the governor's asleep. Maybe tomorrow he'll let you move around. For now, you get bread, water, and some straw. That's it. Good night." Before Dantès could speak, the lamp vanished, and the door slammed shut, plunging the room back into darkness.

Left alone in the cold silence—dark as the depths of the underworld—Dantès could do nothing but wait for morning. At dawn, the jailer returned, muttering that no one would disturb Dantès unless ordered. The new day changed nothing: Dantès was still stuck in the same cell, his eyes swollen from sleepless grief. When the jailer touched his shoulder, he barely reacted.

"Did you sleep?" the jailer asked quietly.

"I don't know," Dantès said, voice shaky.

"Hungry?" the jailer persisted.

"I'm not sure."

"Need anything?"

"I need to see the governor."

The jailer shrugged. "Not my call," he said, leaving Dantès alone. As the door latched shut with a decisive click, Dantès fell to his knees, overcome by despair. He cursed this mysterious offense that had destroyed him.

He spent the day pacing his cramped cell, hardly touching the scant food left for him. His mind churned over one fact: during the trip here, he'd stayed put instead of trying harder to escape. He was known as a brilliant swimmer—he could have leapt from the carriage, or from the boat, and made for the open sea. A Genoese or Spanish ship might have rescued him. Any port would welcome a skilled sailor who spoke Tuscan and Castilian. But no—now he was locked in the Château d'If, an unbreakable fortress of misery, clueless about what had happened to his father or Mercédès. And all because he had trusted Villefort's hollow words. Anger welled up, and he hurled himself onto the straw with a furious cry.

Next morning, the jailer came again. "Well, you calmer now?" he asked, sounding annoyed. Dantès said nothing.

"Anything you want?" the jailer pressed.

"I want to see the governor," Dantès insisted.

"I told you, that's not allowed," the jailer snapped. "Prisoners can't just demand that."

"Then what can I do?"

"You can read," the jailer said with a shrug. "Or walk around a bit—if you behave. But if you keep complaining, you'll lose food privileges."

"If that's how it is, I'll starve," Dantès muttered, half in anger.

The jailer, looking torn, said more gently, "Look, it's not in my hands. If you're respectful, you might earn some privileges someday. Seeing the governor, though… that's not guaranteed."

"For how long must I wait?" Dantès asked in desperation.

"Who knows—maybe a month, six months, a year," the jailer replied with a sigh.

"That's forever! I need to see him now!"

"Don't torment yourself with impossible demands," the jailer warned. "We once had an abbé locked here who kept offering huge bribes for his freedom. He went insane."

"How long did he try?" Dantès asked, eyes flickering with concern.

"Two years," the jailer said quietly.

"Was he ever released?"

"No. He died here."

A sudden determination came over Dantès. "Listen, I'll pay you a hundred crowns—no fortune, I know—if you go to Marseilles and tell Mercédès, a Sea-Gypsy girl, that I'm here. Just two lines from me."

The jailer paled. "You'd have me risk my job—worth two thousand crowns a year—for a simple message? That's foolish."

Dantès, eyes burning, raised the stool overhead. "If you won't do even that, then one day I'll hide behind that door, and when you enter, I'll crack your skull with this stool!"

"Threats, is it?" the jailer yelped, backing away. "You really will lose your mind if you go on like this."

The tension built until the jailer finally threw up his hands. "Fine, I'll let the governor know you want to see him," he conceded.

"Good," Dantès said, letting the stool clatter to the floor. He collapsed onto it as if all strength had left him. Moments later, the jailer returned with a corporal and four soldiers.

"Governor's orders," he announced. "Take him to the lower cells."

"The dungeon," the corporal echoed grimly.

"Yes. We've got a madman on our hands," one soldier added. They dragged Dantès down fifteen damp steps, unlocked a heavy door, and pushed him in. It slammed shut, swallowing him in total blackness. Groping until he felt the cold, wet stone, he sank into a corner, his eyes slowly adjusting. The jailer's warning about madness circled in his head: Dantès wanted more than anything to stay sane.

Time crawled by in suffocating silence. At dawn, the jailer returned, only to confirm they'd keep leaving Dantès alone. Dantès hadn't moved except to press his forehead against the wall in anguish. When the jailer nudged him, he barely stirred.

"You sleep at all?" asked the jailer gently.

"I…don't know," Dantès murmured.

"Hungry?"

"I'm…not sure."

"Is there something you want?"

"I want to see the governor," Dantès whispered.

The jailer sighed and left again, the door's finality echoing as it shut. Overcome by despair, Dantès collapsed fully onto the floor, cursing the unnamed charge that had destroyed his life.

Another day crept by. He barely ate, mostly pacing the cell like an animal in a cage. One thought haunted him: if only he'd trusted his swimming ability on the journey, he might have dived into the sea, found a friendly vessel, and fled to a foreign land where he could have brought his father and Mercédès eventually. But instead, he was stuck here, ignorant of their fates, all thanks to Villefort's empty assurances. Seized by rage, he flung himself onto the straw, sobbing in frustration.

Morning came again with the same dreaded routine. "Feeling better?" the jailer asked.

Dantès stayed silent.

"Need something?" the jailer pressed.

"I just want to see the governor," he repeated.

"I've told you, that's not allowed," the jailer said, growing exasperated. "You're not supposed to keep asking."

"Then what am I allowed to do?" Dantès demanded.

"Read a book or take a short walk if you behave," the jailer answered, "but if you keep demanding things we can't give, we'll cut your rations."

"Then I'll starve," Dantès snapped. "Because I'm not giving up."

The jailer shifted uneasily. "If you truly behave yourself, maybe someday you'll get a little freedom to stretch your legs. But I can't promise any meetings."

Dantès took a shaky breath. "When might I get this so-called freedom?"

"Could be a month, six, or a year," the jailer replied, as if quoting a tired script.

"A year?" Dantès cried, horrified. "I can't wait that long."

The jailer shrugged again. "Better that than driving yourself crazy. We had an abbé here who tried buying his release and lost his mind."

Dantès' fury flared once more. "If you won't at least tell Mercédès I'm here, I'll kill you if I get the chance. Do you hear me?" He grabbed the stool and waved it wildly, his voice cracked with desperation.

"Threats again?" the jailer exclaimed, dodging back. "You'll be as mad as that abbé in no time if you keep on."

But seeing how serious Dantès was, the jailer backed down. "I'll let the governor know," he muttered, signaling for reinforcements. A corporal and four soldiers returned.

"Governor says take him lower," the jailer reported. "It's the dungeon for him."

"So be it," the corporal replied. "He acts like a madman, he'll stay with madmen." They hauled Dantès down the same fifteen steps and into an even darker chamber. The door's clang echoed through the gloom, leaving him alone once again.

The jailer's last words replayed in Dantès' mind: "If you keep this up, you'll go insane." He resolved to hold onto his wits, no matter what. He spent another sleepless night in the cold darkness, leaning against the slick walls, tears drying on his cheeks.

At dawn, the jailer peered in again, letting Dantès know he'd remain there. Dantès, eyes puffy and voice hoarse from crying, had barely shifted all night. The jailer touched his shoulder gently.

"Have you slept?" the jailer asked softly.

"I... don't know," Dantès replied in a whisper.

"Hungry?" the jailer tried.

"I can't tell."

"Anything else?"

"I need to see the governor," Dantès said, voice trembling.

Another shrug from the jailer, another exit. Another hopeless slam of the door. Once it latched, Dantès broke down again, cursing whatever offense had put him here.

So passed the day. He refused the stale bread, pacing so relentlessly that the stone floor left his feet aching. Over and over, his mind returned to the moment he had chosen not to jump ship, not to swim for freedom. He had enough skill and languages to survive anywhere—but he'd let Villefort's promises fool him. Now he was cut off from everyone he loved, in a fortress known for its cruelty. Weeping, he collapsed onto the straw, his soul in turmoil.

The next morning, the jailer arrived right on schedule. "So, feeling any calmer?" he asked, his tone cold.

Dantès didn't answer.

The jailer sighed. "Anything I can do?"

"I just want to see the governor," Dantès said again.

"Forbidden," the jailer barked. "Stop asking."

"What can I do, then?" Dantès insisted.

"Read something. Take a short stroll if you don't cause trouble," the jailer replied. "But if you keep bugging me, I'll stop feeding you."

"Then I'll starve," Dantès shot back bitterly.

The jailer's expression softened a bit. "If you behave, maybe eventually you'll get some privileges. Can't promise an audience with the governor, though."

Dantès let out a frustrated breath. "How long do I have to wait?"

The jailer repeated the same refrain. "Could be a month… six months… maybe a year."

"That's an eternity," Dantès groaned, burying his face in his hands. "I need to see him now."

"Don't torture yourself," the jailer cautioned. "We had an abbé who did that. He lost his mind. You don't want that fate."

"I'm already losing it," Dantès whispered. "I'll pay you if you just tell Mercédès I'm here."

But the jailer was too frightened of losing his income. Again, Dantès threatened him with the stool, and again the jailer rushed out, returning with soldiers.

"Governor says down to the lower dungeon," the jailer told them, sounding weary.

Dantès let himself be dragged down the same path into the same bleak pit, darkness closing over him. The cell reeked of damp and despair. He heard the door slam and sensed the jailer's final warning: "Stay quiet, or it'll be worse."

Time blurred in blackness. Dawn found him unmoving, tears crusted on his cheeks. When the jailer visited, Dantès didn't stir until he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.

"You sleep?" asked the jailer quietly.

"I can't tell," Dantès mumbled.

"You hungry?"

"I don't know."

"Need anything?"

"I only want to see the governor," Dantès repeated.

The jailer left with a sigh, and Dantès reached out to the open door. It clicked shut, sealing him in once more. His strangled sobs echoed as he cursed the silent injustice of it all.

Every day went the same: he hardly ate, paced the cell like a caged animal, and thought about how he could have dived overboard and escaped to some distant shore. He pictured reuniting with Mercédès and his father, free from the clutches of this ancient prison. But that hope was gone. The Château d'If was rumored to be unbreakable, and Villefort's reassurance now felt like a cruel joke. This tortured Dantès so deeply that he flung himself on the damp straw, shaking with anger.

The jailer returned each morning, always asking the same question: "Feeling more reasonable yet?" Each time, Dantès insisted on seeing the governor, and each time he was denied. If he persisted, the jailer threatened to cut rations altogether. It was a brutal cycle.

"Then I'll die," Dantès snapped one morning, eyes dull with exhaustion.

The jailer, grudgingly sympathetic, would only repeat that if Dantès behaved perfectly, maybe he'd earn a walk, and maybe—someday—a meeting with the governor. But it might take months or more. Dantès felt his heart sink further each time.

He'd recall how an abbé once raved just like he did, promising treasure for his freedom, and ended up hopelessly insane in the same depths. Still, desperation drove Dantès to try bribing the jailer to contact Mercédès. Each time he was refused, he threatened again, raising the stool in a rage. Soldiers arrived and escorted him even deeper into the fortress, where the darkness was thicker and the air even heavier.

And so Dantès endured, alone in the gloom. Dawn after dawn, the jailer merely confirmed that there were no new orders. Dantès' eyes were always red and sore from weeping, and his body ached from sleepless nights. The jailer's gentle prodding in the morning—"Did you sleep? Are you hungry?"—was always met with the same hollow answers:

"I don't know. I only want the governor."

The jailer, resigned, would leave him to the silent cell. Dantès would then collapse, sobbing, damning the unknown crime that cursed him to this living nightmare.

All day he paced, ignoring the stale bread, lashing out at his fate. He couldn't stop imagining that moment during the boat ride when he might have dived into the dark waves, trusting his strong arms to carry him away. He knew good sailors were welcome in any harbor, and he spoke multiple languages, so he could have managed somehow. But now he was locked inside the Château d'If, entirely powerless and ignorant of his father's or Mercédès' wellbeing—because he had put his faith in M. de Villefort's empty promise.

Caught in this torment, Dantès threw himself to the floor again, cursing the cruelty of fate and sobbing until exhaustion took him. Day after day, he repeated the same pleas. Day after day, the jailer refused, citing rules. Whenever Dantès threatened violence or tried bribery, soldiers dragged him down farther into the fortress, where each cell felt more hopeless than the last.

Eventually, he reached a point of hollow resignation, scarcely reacting when the jailer asked if he wanted food. "I just want the governor," he'd mumble. The jailer would leave with that same regretful shrug, and Dantès would weep until he had no tears left.

Thus ended Dantès' long, harrowing journey from light into the abyss of the Château d'If—a journey marked by the relentless cruelty of fate and the inexorable power of ancient, immutable magic.