Every sleep -- apart from the one that Danglars feared -- ends with an awakening.

Danglars woke up. For a Parisian who was accustomed to silk curtains, velvet hangings on the walls and the scent that rises from wood whitening in the chimney-piece or is wafted back from a ceiling lined in satin, to wake up in a chalky stone grotto must be like a dream in the worst possible taste. As he touched the goatskin curtains, Danglars must have thought he was dreaming about the Samoyeds or the Lapps. But in such circumstances it is only a second before the most intractable doubt becomes certainty.

"Yes," he thought. "Yes, I'm in the hands of the bandits about whom Albert de Morcerf was telling us."

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