Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 269: The Prisoner’s Ordeal: I

Danglars woke up, and immediately wished he hadn’t.

His eyes opened to whitewashed stone walls and the musty smell of damp earth. For a man who spent every night wrapped in silk sheets and velvet curtains, who fell asleep to the gentle crackle of expensive firewood in his bedroom hearth, this was a nightmare made real.

Except it wasn’t a nightmare. This was actually happening.

"Right," he muttered, his voice echoing slightly in the small cell. "I’m in the hands of bandits. Just like that Morcerf boy warned me about."

His first instinct, borrowed from the only adventure novel he’d ever bothered reading, was to check if he’d been stabbed or shot. He ran his hands over his body, patting himself down frantically.

"No blood. Good. But what about my money?"

His hands dove into his pockets. Everything was still there. The hundred gold coins he’d set aside for traveling were tucked safely in his trouser pocket. His coat pocket still held his leather wallet with the letter of credit, worth over five million francs.

"Strange thieves," he said, genuinely confused. "They leave me my fortune? They must be planning to ransom me. That’s the only explanation." He pulled out his expensive pocket watch and checked the time. Half past five in the morning.

Without the watch, he would have had no idea what time it was. No sunlight reached this underground cell.

Should he demand answers? Or wait for them to make the first move? He decided waiting was smarter. So he sat there on the rough goatskin that served as his bed, trying not to think about how badly it smelled.

Hours crawled by. A guard stood outside his door the entire time, replaced by a fresh one at eight o’clock. Danglars could see slivers of lamplight through the gaps in the wooden door, and his curiosity finally got the better of him.

He crept to the door and peered through a crack.

The guard was taking a swig from a leather flask. The sharp, acidic smell of cheap brandy hit Danglars’ nose like a slap.

"Ugh!" He jerked back, retreating to the far corner of his cell. "Disgusting."

At noon, a new guard took over. Danglars couldn’t resist looking again.

This one was massive, a giant of a man with wild red hair that fell in tangled ropes around his shoulders. His eyes were too large, his lips too thick, his nose completely flat. He looked like something out of a fairy tale, and not the kind with happy endings.

"Great," Danglars whispered. "An actual ogre. Though I suppose I’m too old and stringy to make a good meal."

He was joking to keep his spirits up, but his humor died when the giant pulled out his lunch. Black bread, hard cheese, and raw onions. The man tore into the food like a wild animal.

Danglars watched through the crack in the door, his nose wrinkling. "I’d rather hang than eat garbage like that," he muttered, turning away.

But here’s the thing about hunger, it makes everything look better.

As the hours passed and Danglars’ stomach grew emptier, something changed. The giant didn’t look quite so ugly anymore. That black bread didn’t seem quite so stale. Even those revolting onions reminded him of the excellent sauces his personal chef used to make.

His mouth started watering.

"No," he told himself firmly. But his stomach disagreed, growling loudly enough to echo in the small cell.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up and pounded on the door.

The giant looked up from his meal.

Danglars kept knocking, harder this time.

"Che cosa?" the giant grunted, what is it?

"Listen," Danglars said, tapping the door insistently, "I think it’s about time someone brought me food!"

The giant stared at him for a moment, then went back to eating without a word.

Danglars’ face flushed red with anger and humiliation. Fine. He wasn’t going to beg some brute for scraps. He threw himself back down on the smelly goatskin and crossed his arms, refusing to say another word.

Four more hours dragged by before the giant’s shift ended.

When Danglars looked through the door crack again, he nearly smiled with relief. His guide from the previous day, Peppino, that was his name, was settling in for guard duty. The young man sat down across from the door, placing a clay pot between his legs. The smell of chickpeas stewed with bacon wafted through the cracks. Beside the pot, he set down a basket of fresh grapes and a bottle of wine.

Danglars’ stomach twisted painfully. This guy knew how to eat well, at least.

"Let me try this one," Danglars thought. "He seems more reasonable." He tapped gently on the door.

"On y va!" Peppino called out, coming! His French was perfect, probably from working at that hotel in Rome.

Danglars recognized the voice immediately. This was the same man who’d shouted at him to put his head down during the kidnapping. But now wasn’t the time to hold grudges.

He forced his most charming smile. "Excuse me, but... aren’t they going to give me any dinner?"

"Is your excellency hungry?"

"Happen to be hungry?" Danglars wanted to scream. "I haven’t eaten in twenty-four hours!" But he kept his voice level. "Yes. I’m very hungry."

"What would your excellency like?" Peppino set his pot on the ground, and steam rose directly toward Danglars’ face, carrying the mouthwatering smell of the stew. "Just give your orders."

"You have kitchens down here?"

"Kitchens? Of course. Fully equipped."

"And cooks?"

"Excellent ones!"

"Well then, I’ll have... a chicken. Or fish. Maybe game. Honestly, I don’t care what it is, as long as I can eat."

"Your excellency mentioned chicken, I believe?"

"Yes, a chicken."

Peppino turned and shouted down the corridor, "A chicken for his excellency!"

His voice was still echoing when a young man appeared, half-naked and carrying a silver platter on his head. On the platter sat a roasted chicken. The young man walked with perfect balance, not using his hands at all.

"I could almost believe I’m at a fancy Parisian restaurant," Danglars muttered in amazement.

"Here you are, your excellency." Peppino took the chicken and placed it on the cell’s only table, a worm-eaten piece of wood that, along with a stool and the goatskin bed, made up the entire furniture collection.

Danglars reached for the chicken. "Do you have a knife and fork?"

"Of course, excellency." Peppino handed him a small, dull knife and a wooden fork.

Danglars grabbed both utensils and was about to cut into the bird when Peppino’s hand landed on his shoulder.

"Pardon me, excellency, but people pay before they eat here. They might not be satisfied with the meal, you see, and-"

"Ah," Danglars thought, "here comes the shakedown. Well, this isn’t Paris, but I can handle it. Everyone knows poultry is dirt cheap in Italy. A chicken in Rome probably costs less than a franc." He pulled out a gold coin and tossed it to Peppino. "There."

Peppino caught the coin smoothly. Danglars reached for the chicken again.

"One moment, your excellency." Peppino stood up. "You still owe me something."

"I knew they’d try to overcharge me," Danglars thought, his jaw tightening. But he refused to be robbed without a fight. "How much do I owe you for this chicken?"

"Your excellency has given me one gold coin as a deposit."

"A deposit? For a chicken?"

"Certainly. And your excellency now owes me four thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine gold coins more."

Danglars’ eyes went wide. For a moment, he could only stare.

"That’s... that’s hilarious," he finally managed. "Very funny. I appreciate the joke, but I’m actually starving here, so if you could just, here, take another coin."

"Then you’ll only owe four thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-eight more," Peppino said with a completely straight face. "I’ll collect them eventually."

"Listen here," Danglars snapped, his patience finally breaking. "You’re not getting any more money. This joke has gone on long enough. Do you have any idea who you’re dealing with?"

Peppino made a subtle gesture. The young man swooped in and removed the chicken.

Danglars threw himself onto the goatskin bed as Peppino closed the door and went back to his meal of chickpeas and bacon.

Though Danglars couldn’t see him anymore, he could hear every bite, every chew, every swallow. The sounds echoed in the cell like torture.

"Animal," Danglars hissed.

Peppino either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He kept eating, slowly and noisily.

Danglars’ stomach felt like an empty cave. Half an hour passed, it felt like a year. Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. He dragged himself to the door.

"Please," he called out. "Stop starving me and just tell me what you people want!"

"Actually, your excellency, you should tell us what you want. Give us your order and we’ll fulfill it."

"Then open this door!"

Peppino obeyed.

"I want food!" Danglars shouted. "Food! Do you understand?"

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes! Obviously!"

"What would your excellency like to eat?"

Danglars took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. "Fine. Just... just give me some bread. Plain bread. Since apparently your chickens cost a fortune."

"Bread? Very well." Peppino called out, "Some bread!"

The young man returned with a small loaf.

"How much?" Danglars asked, dreading the answer.

"Four thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-eight gold coins. You’ve already paid two in advance."

"WHAT? One hundred thousand francs for a loaf of bread?"

"One hundred thousand francs," Peppino confirmed.

"But you only asked one hundred thousand francs for the chicken!"

"We have fixed prices for all our food. It doesn’t matter if you eat a lot or a little, ten dishes or one, the price is always the same."

"This is insane!" Danglars’ voice cracked. "This isn’t funny anymore! Just admit you’re going to starve me to death!"

"Oh no, your excellency, not unless you plan to kill yourself. All you have to do is pay and eat."

"Pay with what?" Danglars was shaking now. "Do you think I carry one hundred thousand francs in my pocket?"

"Your excellency has five million and fifty thousand francs in his pocket. That’s enough for fifty chickens at one hundred thousand each, plus half a chicken for the remaining fifty thousand."

The words hit Danglars like ice water.

Suddenly, everything made sense. This wasn’t a joke. This was calculated and deliberate. They knew exactly how much money he had on him.