“That proves,” returned the abbé, “that you are like those of Holy Writ, who having eyes see not, and having ears hear not.”
“My dear sir, the government is rich and does not want your treasures,” replied the inspector; “keep them until you are liberated.” The abbé’s eyes glistened; he seized the inspector’s hand.
“But what if I am not liberated,” cried he, “and am detained here until my death? this treasure will be lost. Had not government better profit by it? I will offer six millions, and I will content myself with the rest, if they will only give me my liberty.”
“On my word,” said the inspector in a low tone, “had I not been told beforehand that this man was mad, I should believe what he says.”
“I am not mad,” replied Faria, with that acuteness of hearing peculiar to prisoners. “The treasure I speak of really exists, and I offer to sign an agreement with you, in which I promise to lead you to the spot where you shall dig; and if I deceive you, bring me here again,—I ask no more.”
The governor laughed. “Is the spot far from here?”
“A hundred leagues.”
“It is not ill-planned,” said the governor. “If all the prisoners took it into their heads to travel a hundred leagues, and their guardians consented to accompany them, they would have a capital chance of escaping.”
“The scheme is well known,” said the inspector; “and the abbé’s plan has not even the merit of originality.”