Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 270: The Prisoner’s Ordeal: II

"If I pay you the hundred thousand francs," he said slowly, "will you be satisfied? Will you let me eat in peace?"

"Absolutely," said Peppino.

"But how can I pay you?"

"Simple. You have an account with Thomson and French banking, on Via dei Banchi in Rome. Just write me a bank draft for four thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-eight gold coins to those gentlemen. Our banker will collect it."

Danglars realized he had no choice. He took the pen, ink, and paper Peppino offered and wrote out the draft with shaking hands. "Here. A draft payable on sight."

"And here is your chicken."

Danglars carved into the bird with trembling hands. For one hundred thousand francs, it was disappointingly small and thin. Meanwhile, Peppino examined the paper carefully, tucked it into his pocket, and returned to his chickpeas.

The next day, Danglars was hungry again.

The dungeon air seemed designed to increase appetite. But he’d been smart, he’d hidden half the chicken and some bread in the corner of his cell, like a prudent man saving for hard times.

Then he ate his hidden food and immediately felt thirsty. He’d forgotten about that.

He tried to resist, but his tongue felt like sandpaper stuck to the roof of his mouth. Finally, he called out.

A new guard opened the door, another unfamiliar face. Danglars asked for Peppino instead. Better to deal with someone he knew.

"Here I am, your excellency," Peppino said, appearing with an eagerness that gave Danglars false hope. "What do you need?"

"Something to drink."

"Your excellency knows that wine is extremely expensive near Rome."

"Then give me water!" Danglars thought he’d found a loophole.

"Oh, water is even more scarce than wine, your excellency. There’s been a terrible drought."

"Of course there has," Danglars thought bitterly. But he forced a smile. "Come on, my friend. You won’t refuse me a glass of wine, will you?"

"I already told you, we don’t sell individual glasses."

"Fine. Then let me have a bottle. The cheapest one you have."

"They’re all the same price."

Danglars’ smile disappeared. "And what price is that?"

"Twenty-five thousand francs per bottle."

Something inside Danglars snapped. "Just tell me you want to rob me of everything!" he screamed. "Get it over with instead of bleeding me dry piece by piece!"

"That may very well be the master’s intention."

"The master? Who is this master?"

"The person you were brought to yesterday."

"Where is he?"

"Here."

"Then let me see him!"

"Certainly."

A moment later, a man appeared in the doorway. Luigi Vampa, the bandit chief Danglars had met so briefly the day before.

"You sent for me?" Vampa asked calmly.

"Are you the leader of these people who kidnapped me?"

"Yes, your excellency. What of it?"

"How much do you want for my ransom?"

"Simply the five million francs you’re carrying."

Danglars felt like his heart was being crushed in a vice. "But that’s all I have left in the world," he whispered. "From an immense fortune. If you take that from me, you might as well take my life too."

"We’re forbidden to shed your blood."

"Forbidden by whom?"

"By the one we obey."

"So you do obey someone?"

"Yes. A chief."

"I thought you said you were the chief?"

"I am the chief of these men. But there is another above me."

"And this superior of yours ordered you to treat me this way?"

"Yes."

"But eventually my money will run out."

"Most likely."

Desperation made Danglars bold. "Will you take one million?"

"No."

"Two million? Three? Four? I’ll give you four million if you let me go!"

"Why would you offer me four million for something worth five million? That’s a type of usury I don’t understand, banker."

"Then take it all!" Danglars shouted. "Take everything and kill me!"

"Calm yourself," Vampa said coolly. "Getting excited will only make you hungrier, and that would cost you a million a day to satisfy. Be more economical."

"What happens when I have no money left to pay you?"

"Then you’ll go hungry."

"Go... hungry?" The color drained from Danglars’ face.

"Most likely," Vampa replied with complete indifference.

"But you said you don’t want to kill me!"

"Correct."

"Yet you’ll let me starve to death?"

"That’s different."

"You... you monsters!" Danglars’ voice shook with rage. "I’ll defy your evil scheme! I’d rather die now than play your game! You can torture me, torment me, kill me, but you’ll never get another signature from me!"

"As your excellency wishes," Vampa said, and left the cell.

Danglars collapsed onto the goatskin, his mind racing. Who were these people? Who was this mysterious master they spoke of? What did he want? Why was Danglars being singled out when other prisoners could be ransomed normally?

Maybe a quick death would be better. At least it would cheat these heartless enemies out of their revenge, whatever incomprehensible revenge they were seeking.

But to die? For the first time in his entire life, Danglars truly confronted his own mortality. Death stopped being an abstract concept and became a real, terrifying possibility. Every heartbeat seemed to whisper, You’re going to die. You’re going to die.

He was like a cornered animal, first it runs, then it despairs, and finally, in a burst of desperate energy, sometimes it escapes.

Danglars considered escape. But the walls were solid rock. A guard sat outside his door constantly. Behind that guard, armed men patrolled with guns.

His resolution to never sign another payment lasted two days. Then he offered one million francs for food.

They sent him a magnificent supper and took his million.

After that, Danglars decided not to resist anymore. He would eat whatever he wanted. Twelve days later, after finishing a splendid dinner, he calculated his remaining funds.

Fifty thousand francs left.

Something strange happened then. The man who had just spent five million francs desperately tried to save the last fifty thousand. Rather than spend it, he decided to starve himself again. He was falling into madness without realizing it, clinging to hope like a drowning man clinging to driftwood.

He who had forgotten God for so long suddenly started believing in miracles. Maybe soldiers would discover this cave and rescue him. Then he’d have fifty thousand francs left, enough to keep him from starving. He prayed that this small sum would be preserved, and as he prayed, he wept.

Three days passed in prayer. Sometimes his mind slipped away entirely, and he hallucinated an old man lying on a prison cot, also dying of hunger.

On the fourth day, he was barely human anymore, just a living corpse. He scraped up every crumb left from previous meals. He even started eating the straw mat that covered his cell floor.

Then he began begging Peppino like a man praying to a guardian angel. He offered one thousand francs for a single bite of bread.

Peppino didn’t answer.

On the fifth day, Danglars dragged himself to the door on his hands and knees.

"Aren’t you a Christian?" he sobbed. "Don’t you see I’m your brother in the eyes of God? My friends... my old friends..." He collapsed face-first on the ground.

Then, gathering the last of his strength, he screamed, "The chief! I want to see the chief!"

"Here I am," said Vampa, appearing instantly. "What do you want?"

"Take my last bit of gold," Danglars gasped, holding out his wallet with shaking hands. "Just let me live here. I’m not asking for freedom anymore, just let me live!"

"So you’re suffering greatly?"

"Yes! Terribly!"

"Still, some men have suffered more than you."

"I don’t think that’s possible."

"Yes. Those who died of hunger."

Danglars thought of the old man from his hallucinations, groaning on his deathbed. He pressed his forehead to the ground and moaned.

"Yes," he whispered. "There have been others who suffered more than me. But they must have been martyrs at least."

"Do you repent?" asked a deep, solemn voice that made every hair on Danglars’ head stand up.

His weak eyes tried to focus. Behind the bandit stood a man wrapped in a cloak, half-hidden in the shadow of a stone pillar.

"Repent of what?" Danglars stammered.

"Of the evil you have done," said the voice.

"Yes! Yes, I repent!" Danglars beat his emaciated chest with his fist.

"Then I forgive you," the man said, dropping his cloak and stepping into the light.

"The Count of Monte Cristo!" Danglars’ face went even paler than hunger and suffering had made it.

"You’re mistaken. I am not the Count of Monte Cristo."

"Then who are you?"

"I am the man you sold out and dishonored. I am the man whose fiancée you helped destroy. I am the man you trampled on your way to building your fortune. I am the man whose father you condemned to die of starvation. I am the man who you also condemned to starve, and who forgives you anyway, because he hopes to be forgiven himself. I am Edmond Dantès!"

Danglars screamed and collapsed.

"Stand up," the count said. "Your life is safe. The same fortune hasn’t blessed your accomplices, one went insane, the other is dead. Keep the fifty thousand francs you have left. I’m giving them to you. The five million you stole from the hospitals has been returned to them by an anonymous donor. Now eat and drink. I’ll be your host tonight. Vampa, once this man has eaten his fill, set him free."

Danglars stayed prostrated as the count walked away. When he finally lifted his head, he saw nothing but a shadow disappearing down the corridor, a shadow before which all the bandits bowed.

Following the count’s orders, Vampa served Danglars the finest wine and fruit in Italy. Then he led him to the road, pointed to a waiting carriage, and left him leaning against a tree.

Danglars stayed there all night, not knowing where he was or what had happened.

When dawn broke, he found himself near a stream. Thirsty, he dragged himself toward the water to drink.

As he bent down, he caught his reflection in the clear surface.

His hair had turned completely white.