"What is the day of the month?" asked he of Jacopo, who sat down beside him.
"The 28th of February!"
"In what year?"
"In what year! you ask me in what year?"
"Yes," replied the young man, "I ask you in what year?"
"You have forgotten, then?"
"I have been so frightened last night," replied Dantès, smiling, "that I have almost lost my memory. I ask you what year is it?"
"The year 1829," returned Jacopo.
It was fourteen years, day for day, since Dantès' arrest. He was nineteen when he entered the Château d'If; he was thirty-three when he escaped. A sorrowful smile passed over his face; he asked himself what had become of Mercédès, who must believe him dead. Then his eyes lighted up with hatred as he thought of the three men who had caused him so long and wretched a captivity. He renewed against Danglars, Fernand, and Villefort the oath of implacable vengeance he had made in his dungeon.
This oath was no longer a vain menace; for the fastest sailer in the Mediterranean would have been unable to overtake the little tartan that, with every stitch of canvas set, was flying before the wind to Leghorn.
