The fragments of the jug broke, and after an hour of useless toil, he paused.
Was he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to wait inactive until his fellow workman had completed his task?
Suddenly an idea occurred to him--he smiled, and the perspiration dried on his forehead.
The jailer always brought Dantes' soup in an iron saucepan; this saucepan contained soup for both prisoners, for Dantes had noticed that it was either quite full, or half empty, according as the turnkey gave it to him or to his companion first.
The handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dantes would have given ten years of his life in exchange for it.
The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the saucepan into Dantes' plate, and Dantes, after eating his soup with a wooden spoon, washed the plate, which thus served for every day.

Now when evening came Dantes put his plate on the ground near the door; the jailer, as he entered, stepped on it and broke it.
This time he could not blame Dantes.

He was wrong to leave it there, but the jailer was wrong not to have looked before him.
The jailer, therefore, only grumbled.

Then he looked about for something to pour the soup into; Dantes' entire dinner service consisted of one plate--there was no alternative.
"Leave the saucepan," said Dantes; "you can take it away when you bring me my breakfast." This advice was to the jailer's taste, as it spared him the necessity of making another trip.

He left the saucepan.
Dantes was beside himself with joy.