The Count of Monte Cristo, Illustrated by Alexandre Dumas
Chapter 19. The Third Attack
Now that this treasure, which had so long been the object of the abbé’smeditations, could insure the future happiness of him whom Faria reallyloved as a son, it had doubled its value in his eyes, and every day heexpatiated on the amount, explaining to Dantès all the good which, withthirteen or fourteen millions of francs, a man could do in these days tohis friends; and then Dantès’ countenance became gloomy, for the oath ofvengeance he had taken recurred to his memory, and he reflected how muchill, in these times, a man with thirteen or fourteen millions could doto his enemies.
The abbé did not know the Island of Monte Cristo; but Dantès knew it,and had often passed it, situated twenty-five miles from Pianosa,between Corsica and the Island of Elba, and had once touched there. Thisisland was, always had been, and still is, completely deserted. It is arock of almost conical form, which looks as though it had been thrust upby volcanic force from the depth to the surface of the ocean. Dantèsdrew a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave Dantès advice as tothe means he should employ to recover the treasure. But Dantès was farfrom being as enthusiastic and confident as the old man. It was past aquestion now that Faria was not a lunatic, and the way in which he hadachieved the discovery, which had given rise to the suspicion of hismadness, increased Edmond’s admiration of him; but at the same timeDantès could not believe that the deposit, supposing it had everexisted, still existed; and though he considered the treasure as by nomeans chimerical, he yet believed it was no longer there.
However, as if fate resolved on depriving the prisoners of their lastchance, and making them understand that they were condemned to perpetualimprisonment, a new misfortune befell them; the gallery on the sea side,which had long been in ruins, was rebuilt. They had repaired itcompletely, and stopped up with vast masses of stone the hole Dantès hadpartly filled in. But for this precaution, which, it will be remembered,the abbé had made to Edmond, the misfortune would have been stillgreater, for their attempt to escape would have been detected, and theywould undoubtedly have been separated. Thus a new, a stronger, and moreinexorable barrier was interposed to cut off the realization of theirhopes.
“You see,” said the young man, with an air of sorrowful resignation, toFaria, “that God deems it right to take from me any claim to merit forwhat you call my devotion to you. I have promised to remain forever withyou, and now I could not break my promise if I would. The treasure willbe no more mine than yours, and neither of us will quit this prison. Butmy real treasure is not that, my dear friend, which awaits me beneaththe sombre rocks of Monte Cristo, it is your presence, our livingtogether five or six hours a day, in spite of our jailers; it is therays of intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages youhave implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with alltheir philological ramifications. These different sciences that you havemade so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you possess of them,and the clearness of the principles to which you have reduced them—thisis my treasure, my beloved friend, and with this you have made me richand happy. Believe me, and take comfort, this is better for me than tonsof gold and cases of diamonds, even were they not as problematical asthe clouds we see in the morning floating over the sea, which we takefor terra firma, and which evaporate and vanish as we draw near to them.To have you as long as possible near me, to hear your eloquentspeech,—which embellishes my mind, strengthens my soul, and makes mywhole frame capable of great and terrible things, if I should ever befree,—so fills my whole existence, that the despair to which I was juston the point of yielding when I knew you, has no longer any hold overme; and this—this is my fortune—not chimerical, but actual. I owe you myreal good, my present happiness; and all the sovereigns of the earth,even Cæsar Borgia himself, could not deprive me of this.”
Thus, if not actually happy, yet the days these two unfortunates passedtogether went quickly. Faria, who for so long a time had kept silence asto the treasure, now perpetually talked of it. As he had prophesiedwould be the case, he remained paralyzed in the right arm and the leftleg, and had given up all hope of ever enjoying it himself. But he wascontinually thinking over some means of escape for his young companion,and anticipating the pleasure he would enjoy. For fear the letter mightbe some day lost or stolen, he compelled Dantès to learn it by heart;and Dantès knew it from the first to the last word. Then he destroyedthe second portion, assured that if the first were seized, no one wouldbe able to discover its real meaning. Whole hours sometimes passed whileFaria was giving instructions to Dantès,—instructions which were toserve him when he was at liberty. Then, once free, from the day and hourand moment when he was so, he could have but one only thought, whichwas, to gain Monte Cristo by some means, and remain there alone undersome pretext which would arouse no suspicions; and once there, toendeavor to find the wonderful caverns, and search in the appointedspot,—the appointed spot, be it remembered, being the farthest angle inthe second opening.
In the meanwhile the hours passed, if not rapidly, at least tolerably.Faria, as we have said, without having recovered the use of his hand andfoot, had regained all the clearness of his understanding, and hadgradually, besides the moral instructions we have detailed, taught hisyouthful companion the patient and sublime duty of a prisoner, wholearns to make something from nothing. They were thus perpetuallyemployed,—Faria, that he might not see himself grow old; Dantès, forfear of recalling the almost extinct past which now only floated in hismemory like a distant light wandering in the night. So life went on forthem as it does for those who are not victims of misfortune and whoseactivities glide along mechanically and tranquilly beneath the eye ofProvidence.
But beneath this superficial calm there were in the heart of the youngman, and perhaps in that of the old man, many repressed desires, manystifled sighs, which found vent when Faria was left alone, and whenEdmond returned to his cell.
One night Edmond awoke suddenly, believing that he heard someone callinghim. He opened his eyes upon utter darkness. His name, or rather aplaintive voice which essayed to pronounce his name, reached him. He satup in bed and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow. Undoubtedly the callcame from Faria’s dungeon.
“Alas,” murmured Edmond; “can it be?”
He moved his bed, drew up the stone, rushed into the passage, andreached the opposite extremity; the secret entrance was open. By thelight of the wretched and wavering lamp, of which we have spoken, Dantèssaw the old man, pale, but yet erect, clinging to the bedstead. Hisfeatures were writhing with those horrible symptoms which he alreadyknew, and which had so seriously alarmed him when he saw them for thefirst time.
“Alas, my dear friend,” said Faria in a resigned tone, “you understand,do you not, and I need not attempt to explain to you?”
Edmond uttered a cry of agony, and, quite out of his senses, rushedtowards the door, exclaiming, “Help, help!”
Faria had just sufficient strength to restrain him.
“Silence,” he said, “or you are lost. We must now only think of you, mydear friend, and so act as to render your captivity supportable or yourflight possible. It would require years to do again what I have donehere, and the results would be instantly destroyed if our jailers knewwe had communicated with each other. Besides, be assured, my dearEdmond, the dungeon I am about to leave will not long remain empty; someother unfortunate being will soon take my place, and to him you willappear like an angel of salvation. Perhaps he will be young, strong, andenduring, like yourself, and will aid you in your escape, while I havebeen but a hindrance. You will no longer have half a dead body tied toyou as a drag to all your movements. At length Providence has donesomething for you; he restores to you more than he takes away, and itwas time I should die.”
Edmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim, “Oh, my friend, myfriend, speak not thus!” and then resuming all his presence of mind,which had for a moment staggered under this blow, and his strength,which had failed at the words of the old man, he said, “Oh, I have savedyou once,
“See,” he exclaimed, “there remains still some of the magic draught.Quick, quick! tell me what I must do this time; are there any freshinstructions? Speak, my friend; I listen.”
“There is not a hope,” replied Faria, shaking his head, “but no matter;God wills it that man whom he has created, and in whose heart he has soprofoundly rooted the love of life, should do all in his power topreserve that existence, which, however painful it may be, is yet alwaysso dear.”
“Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed Dantès; “and I tell you that I will save youyet.”
“Well, then, try. The cold gains upon me. I feel the blood flowingtowards my brain. These horrible chills, which make my teeth chatter andseem to dislocate my bones, begin to pervade my whole frame; in fiveminutes the malady will reach its height, and in a quarter of an hourthere will be nothing left of me but a corpse.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Dantès, his heart wrung with anguish.
“Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs of lifeare now exhausted in me, and death,” he continued, looking at hisparalyzed arm and leg, “has but half its work to do. If, after havingmade me swallow twelve drops instead of ten, you see that I do notrecover, then pour the rest down my throat. Now lift me on my bed, for Ican no longer support myself.”
Edmond took the old man in his arms, and laid him on the bed.
“And now, my dear friend,” said Faria, “sole consolation of my wretchedexistence,—you whom Heaven gave me somewhat late, but still gave me, apriceless gift, and for which I am most grateful,—at the moment ofseparating from you forever, I wish you all the happiness and all theprosperity you so well deserve. My son, I bless thee!”
The young man cast himself on his knees, leaning his head against theold man’s bed.
“Listen, now, to what I say in this my dying moment. The treasure of theSpadas exists. God grants me the boon of vision unrestricted by time orspace. I see it in the depths of the inner cavern. My eyes pierce theinmost recesses of the earth, and are dazzled at the sight of so muchriches. If you do escape, remember that the poor abbé, whom all theworld called mad, was not so. Hasten to Monte Cristo—avail yourself ofthe fortune—for you have indeed suffered long enough.”
A violent convulsion attacked the old man. Dantès raised his head andsaw Faria’s eyes injected with blood. It seemed as if a flow of bloodhad ascended from the chest to the head.
“Adieu, adieu!” murmured the old man, clasping Edmond’s handconvulsively—“adieu!”
“Oh, no,—no, not yet,” he cried; “do not forsake me! Oh, succor him!Help—help—help!”
“Hush! hush!” murmured the dying man, “that they may not separate us ifyou save me!”
“You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be assured I shall save you! Besides,although you suffer much, you do not seem to be in such agony as youwere before.”
“Do not mistake! I suffer less because there is in me less strength toendure. At your age we have faith in life; it is the privilege of youthto believe and hope, but old men see death more clearly. Oh, ’tishere—’tis here—’tis over—my sight is gone—my senses fail! Your hand,Dantès! Adieu! adieu!”
And raising himself by a final effort, in which he summoned all hisfaculties, he said,—“Monte Cristo, forget not Monte Cristo!” And he fellback on the bed.
The crisis was terrible, and a rigid form with twisted limbs, swolleneyelids, and lips flecked with bloody foam, lay on the bed of torture,in place of the intellectual being who so lately rested there.
Dantès took the lamp, placed it on a projecting stone above the bed,whence its tremulous light fell with strange and fantastic ray on thedistorted countenance and motionless, stiffened body. With steady gazehe awaited confidently the moment for administering the restorative.
When he believed that the right moment had arrived, he took the knife,pried open the teeth, which offered less resistance than before, countedone after the other twelve drops, and watched; the phial contained,perhaps, twice as much more. He waited ten minutes, a quarter of anhour, half an hour,—no change took place. Trembling, his hair erect, hisbrow bathed with perspiration, he counted the seconds by the beating ofhis heart. Then he thought it was time to make the last trial, and heput the phial to the purple lips of Faria, and without having occasionto force open his jaws, which had remained extended, he poured the wholeof the liquid down his throat.
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The draught produced a galvanic effect, a violent trembling pervaded theold man’s limbs, his eyes opened until it was fearful to gaze upon them,he heaved a sigh which resembled a shriek, and then his convulsed bodyreturned gradually to its former immobility, the eyes remaining open.
Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and during thisperiod of anguish, Edmond leaned over his friend, his hand applied tohis heart, and felt the body gradually grow cold, and the heart’spulsation become more and more deep and dull, until at length itstopped; the last movement of the heart ceased, the face became livid,the eyes remained open, but the eyeballs were glazed.
It was six o’clock in the morning, the dawn was just breaking, and itsfeeble ray came into the dungeon, and paled the ineffectual light of thelamp. Strange shadows passed over the countenance of the dead man, andat times gave it the appearance of life. While the struggle between dayand night lasted, Dantès still doubted; but as soon as the daylightgained the pre-eminence, he saw that he was alone with a corpse. Then aninvincible and extreme terror seized upon him, and he dared not againpress the hand that hung out of bed, he dared no longer to gaze on thosefixed and vacant eyes, which he tried many times to close, but invain—they opened again as soon as shut. He extinguished the lamp,carefully concealed it, and then went away, closing as well as he couldthe entrance to the secret passage by the large stone as he descended.
It was time, for the jailer was coming. On this occasion he began hisrounds at Dantès’ cell, and on leaving him he went on to Faria’sdungeon, taking thither breakfast and some linen. Nothing betokened thatthe man knew anything of what had occurred. He went on his way.
Dantès was then seized with an indescribable desire to know what wasgoing on in the dungeon of his unfortunate friend. He therefore returnedby the subterraneous gallery, and arrived in time to hear theexclamations of the turnkey, who called out for help. Other turnkeyscame, and then was heard the regular tramp of soldiers. Last of all camethe governor.
Edmond heard the creaking of the bed as they moved the corpse, heard thevoice of the governor, who asked them to throw water on the dead man’sface; and seeing that, in spite of this application, the prisoner didnot recover, they sent for the doctor. The governor then went out, andwords of pity fell on Dantès’ listening ears, mingled with brutallaughter.
“Well, well,” said one, “the madman has gone to look after his treasure.Good journey to him!”
“With all his millions, he will not have enough to pay for his shroud!”said another.
“Oh,” added a third voice, “the shrouds of the Château d’If are notdear!”
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“Perhaps,” said one of the previous speakers, “as he was a churchman,they may go to some expense in his behalf.”
“They may give him the honors of the sack.”
Edmond did not lose a word, but comprehended very little of what wassaid. The voices soon ceased, and it seemed to him as if everyone hadleft the cell. Still he dared not to enter, as they might have left someturnkey to watch the dead. He remained, therefore, mute and motionless,hardly venturing to breathe. At the end of an hour, he heard a faintnoise, which increased. It was the governor who returned, followed bythe doctor and other attendants. There was a moment’s silence,—it wasevident that the doctor was examining the dead body. The inquiries sooncommenced.
The doctor analyzed the symptoms of the malady to which the prisoner hadsuccumbed, and declared that he was dead.
“I am very sorry for what you tell me,” said the governor, replying tothe assurance of the doctor, “that the old man is really dead; for hewas a quiet, inoffensive prisoner, happy in his folly, and required nowatching.”
“Ah,” added the turnkey, “there was no occasion for watching him; hewould have stayed here fifty years, I’ll answer for it, without anyattempt to escape.”
“Still,” said the governor, “I believe it will be requisite,notwithstanding your certainty, and not that I doubt your science, butin discharge of my official duty, that we should be perfectly assuredthat the prisoner is dead.”
There was a moment of complete silence, during which Dantès, stilllistening, knew that the doctor was examining the corpse a second time.
“You may make your mind easy,” said the doctor; “he is dead. I willanswer for that.”
“You know, sir,” said the governor, persisting, “that we are not contentin such cases as this with such a simple examination. In spite of allappearances, be so kind, therefore, as to finish your duty by fulfillingthe formalities described by law.”
“Let the irons be heated,” said the doctor; “but really it is a uselessprecaution.”
This order to heat the irons made Dantès shudder. He heard hasty steps,the creaking of a door, people going and coming, and some minutesafterwards a turnkey entered, saying:
“Here is the brazier, lighted.”
There was a moment’s silence, and then was heard the crackling ofburning flesh, of which the peculiar and nauseous smell penetrated evenbehind the wall where Dantès was listening in horror. The perspirationpoured forth upon the young man’s brow, and he felt as if he shouldfaint.
“You see, sir, he is really dead,” said the doctor; “this burn in theheel is decisive. The poor fool is cured of his folly, and deliveredfrom his captivity.”
“Wasn’t his name Faria?” inquired one of the officers who accompaniedthe governor.
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“Yes, sir; and, as he said, it was an ancient name. He was, too, verylearned, and rational enough on all points which did not relate to histreasure; but on that, indeed, he was intractable.”
“It is the sort of malady which we call monomania,” said the doctor.
“You had never anything to complain of?” said the governor to the jailerwho had charge of the abbé.
“Never, sir,” replied the jailer, “never; on the contrary, he sometimesamused me very much by telling me stories. One day, too, when my wifewas ill, he gave me a prescription which cured her.”
“Ah, ah!” said the doctor, “I did not know that I had a rival; but Ihope, governor, that you will show him all proper respect inconsequence.”
“Yes, yes, make your mind easy, he shall be decently interred in thenewest sack we can find. Will that satisfy you?”
“Must this last formality take place in your presence, sir?” inquired aturnkey.
“Certainly. But make haste—I cannot stay here all day.” Other footsteps,going and coming, were now heard, and a moment afterwards the noise ofrustling canvas reached Dantès’ ears, the bed creaked, and the heavyfootfall of a man who lifts a weight sounded on the floor; then the bedagain creaked under the weight deposited upon it.
“This evening,” said the governor.
“Will there be any mass?” asked one of the attendants.
“That is impossible,” replied the governor. “The chaplain of the châteaucame to me yesterday to beg for leave of absence, in order to take atrip to Hyères for a week. I told him I would attend to the prisoners inhis absence. If the poor abbé had not been in such a hurry, he mighthave had his requiem.”
“Pooh, pooh;” said the doctor, with the impiety usual in persons of hisprofession; “he is a churchman. God will respect his profession, and notgive the devil the wicked delight of sending him a priest.” A shout oflaughter followed this brutal jest. Meanwhile the operation of puttingthe body in the sack was going on.
“This evening,” said the governor, when the task was ended.
“At what hour?” inquired a turnkey.
“Why, about ten or eleven o’clock.”
“Shall we watch by the corpse?”
“Of what use would it be? Shut the dungeon as if he were alive—that isall.”
Then the steps retreated, and the voices died away in the distance; thenoise of the door, with its creaking hinges and bolts ceased, and asilence more sombre than that of solitude ensued,—the silence of death,which was all-pervasive, and struck its icy chill to the very soul ofDantès.
Then he raised the flag-stone cautiously with his head, and lookedcarefully around the chamber. It was empty, and Dantès emerged from thetunnel.