smugglers, will prefer selling me to doing a good action. I must
wait. But I cannot —-I am starving. In a few hours my strength will
be utterly exhausted; besides, perhaps I have not been missed at
the fortress. I can pass as one of the sailors wrecked last night.
My story will be accepted, for there is no one left to contradict
me."
As he spoke, Dantes looked toward the spot where the
fishing-vessel had been wrecked, and started. The red cap of one of
the sailors hung to a point of the rock and some timbers that had
formed part of the vessel's keel, floated at the foot of the crag.
In an instant Dantes' plan was formed. He swam to the cap, placed
it on his head, seized one of the timbers, and struck out so as to
cut across the course the vessel was taking.
"I am saved!" murmured he. And this conviction restored his
strength.
He soon saw that the vessel, with the wind dead ahead, was
tacking between the Chateau d'If and the tower of Planier. For an
instant he feared lest, instead of keeping in shore, she should
stand out to sea; but he soon saw that she would pass, like most
vessels bound for Italy, between the islands of Jaros and
Calaseraigne. However, the vessel and the swimmer insensibly neared
one another, and in one of its tacks the tartan bore down within a
quarter of a mile of him. He rose on the waves, making signs of
distress; but no one on board saw him, and the vessel stood on
another tack. Dantes would have shouted, but he knew that the wind
would drown his voice.
It was then he rejoiced at his precaution in taking the timber,
for without it he would have been unable, perhaps, to reach the
vessel — certainly to return to shore, should he be unsuccessful in
attracting attention.
Dantes, though almost sure as to what course the vessel would
take, had yet watched it anxiously until it tacked and stood
towards him. Then he advanced; but before they could meet, the
vessel again changed her course. By a violent effort he rose half
out of the water, waving his cap, and uttering a loud shoutout of the water, waving his cap, and uttering a loud shout
peculiar to sailers. This time he was both seen and heard, and the
tartan instantly steered towards him. At the same time, he saw they
were about to lower the boat.
An instant after, the boat, rowed by two men, advanced rapidly
towards him. Dantes let go of the timber, which he now thought to
be useless, and swam vigorously to meet them. But he had reckoned
too much upon his strength, and then he realized how serviceable
the timber had been to him. His arms became stiff, his legs lost
their flexibility, and he was almost breathless.
He shouted again. The two sailors redoubled their efforts, and
one of them cried in Italian, "Courage!"
The word reached his ear as a wave which he no longer had the
strength to surmount passed over his head. He rose again to the
surface, struggled with the last desperate effort of a drowning
man, uttered a third cry, and felt himself sinking, as if the fatal
cannon shot were again tied to his feet. The water passed over his
head, and the sky turned gray. A convulsive movement again brought
him to the surface. He felt himself seized by the hair, then he saw
and heard nothing. He had fainted.
When he opened his eyes Dantes found himself on the deck of the
tartan. His first care was to see what course they were taking.
They were rapidly leaving the Chateau d'If behind. Dantes was so
exhausted that the exclamation of joy he uttered was mistaken for a
sigh.
As we have said, he was lying on the deck. A sailor was rubbing
his limbs with a woollen cloth; another, whom he recognized as the
one who had cried out "Courage!" held a gourd full of rum to his
mouth; while the third, an old sailer, at once the pilot and
captain, looked on with that egotistical pity men feel for a
misfortune that they have escaped yesterday, and which may overtake
them to-morrow.
A few drops of the rum restored suspended animation, while the
friction of his limbs restored their elasticity.
"Who are you?" said the pilot in bad French.friction of his limbs restored their elasticity.
"Who are you?" said the pilot in bad French.
"I am," replied Dantes, in bad Italian, "a Maltese sailor. We
were coming from Syracuse laden with grain. The storm of last night
overtook us at Cape Morgion, and we were wrecked on these
rocks."
"Where do you come from?"
"From these rocks that I had the good luck to cling to while our
captain and the rest of the crew were all lost. I saw your vessel,
and fearful of being left to perish on the desolate island, I swam
off on a piece of wreckage to try and intercept your course. You
have saved my life, and I thank you," continued Dantes. "I was lost
when one of your sailors caught hold of my hair."
"It was I," said a sailor of a frank and manly appearance; "and
it was time, for you were sinking."
"Yes," returned Dantes, holding out his hand, "I thank you
again."
"I almost hesitated, though," replied the sailor; "you looked
more like a brigand than an honest man, with your beard six inches,
and your hair a foot long." Dantes recollected that his hair and
beard had not been cut all the time he was at the Chateau d'If.
"Yes," said he, "I made a vow, to our Lady of the Grotto not to
cut my hair or beard for ten years if I were saved in a moment of
danger; but to-day the vow expires."
"Now what are we to do with you?" said the captain.
"Alas, anything you please. My captain is dead; I have barely
escaped; but I am a good sailor. Leave me at the first port you
make; I shall be sure to find employment."
"Do you know the Mediterranean?"
"I have sailed over it since my childhood."
"You know the best harbors?"
"There are few ports that I could not enter or leave with a
bandage over my eyes."
"I say, captain," said the sailor who had cried "Courage!" to
Dantes, "if what he says is true, what hinders his staying with
us?"
"If he says true," said the captain doubtingly. "But in his
present condition he will promise anything, and take his chance of
keeping it afterwards."
"I will do more than I promise," said Dantes.


keeping it afterwards."
"I will do more than I promise," said Dantes.
"We shall see," returned the other, smiling.
"Where are you going?" asked Dantes.
"To Leghorn."
"Then why, instead of tacking so frequently, do you not sail
nearer the wind?"
"Because we should run straight on to the Island of Rion."
"You shall pass it by twenty fathoms."
"Take the helm, and let us see what you know." The young man
took the helm, felt to see if the vessel answered the rudder
promptly and seeing that, without being a first-rate sailer, she
yet was tolerably obedient, —
"To the sheets," said he. The four seamen, who composed the
crew, obeyed, while the pilot looked on. "Haul taut." — They
obeyed.
"Belay." This order was also executed; and the vessel passed, as
Dantes had predicted, twenty fathoms to windward.
"Bravo!" said the captain.
"Bravo!" repeated the sailors. And they all looked with
astonishment at this man whose eye now disclosed an intelligence
and his body a vigor they had not thought him capable of
showing.
"You see," said Dantes, quitting the helm, "I shall be of some
use to you, at least during the voyage. If you do not want me at
Leghorn, you can leave me there, and I will pay you out of the
first wages I get, for my food and the clothes you lend me."
"Ah," said the captain, "we can agree very well, if you are
reasonable."
"Give me what you give the others, and it will be all right,"
returned Dantes.
"That's not fair," said the seaman who had saved Dantes; "for
you know more than we do."
"What is that to you, Jacopo?" returned the Captain. "Every one
is free to ask what he pleases."
"That's true," replied Jacopo; "I only make a remark."
"Well, you would do much better to find him a jacket and a pair
of trousers, if you have them."
"No," said Jacopo; "but I have a shirt and a pair of
trousers."
"That is all I want," interrupted Dantes. Jacopo dived into the
hold and soon returned with what Edmond wanted.
"Now, then, do you wish for anything else?" said the patron."Now, then, do you wish for anything else?" said the patron.
"A piece of bread and another glass of the capital rum I tasted,
for I have not eaten or drunk for a long time." He had not tasted
food for forty hours. A piece of bread was brought, and Jacopo
offered him the gourd.
"Larboard your helm," cried the captain to the steersman. Dantes
glanced that way as he lifted the gourd to his mouth; then paused
with hand in mid-air.
"Hollo! what's the matter at the Chateau d'If?" said the
captain.
A small white cloud, which had attracted Dantes' attention,
crowned the summit of the bastion of the Chateau d'If. At the same
moment the faint report of a gun was heard. The sailors looked at
one another.
"What is this?" asked the captain.
"A prisoner has escaped from the Chateau d'If, and they are
firing the alarm gun," replied Dantes. The captain glanced at him,
but he had lifted the rum to his lips and was drinking it with so
much composure, that suspicions, if the captain had any, died
away.
"At any rate," murmured he, "if it be, so much the better, for I
have made a rare acquisition." Under pretence of being fatigued,
Dantes asked to take the helm; the steersman, glad to be relieved,
looked at the captain, and the latter by a sign indicated that he
might abandon it to his new comrade. Dantes could thus keep his
eyes on Marseilles.
"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 got such a fright last night," replied Dantes, 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 Dantes' arrest. He was nineteen when he entered the
Chateau d'If; he was thirty-three when he escaped. A sorrowful
smile passed over his face; he asked himself what had become of
Mercedes, who must believe him dead. Then his eyes lighted up withMercedes, 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.Dantes had not been a day on board before he had a very clear
idea of the men with whom his lot had been cast. Without having
been in the school of the Abbe Faria, the worthy master of The
Young Amelia (the name of the Genoese tartan) knew a smattering of
all the tongues spoken on the shores of that large lake called the
Mediterranean, from the Arabic to the Provencal, and this, while it
spared him interpreters, persons always troublesome and frequently
indiscreet, gave him great facilities of communication, either with
the vessels he met at sea, with the small boats sailing along the
coast, or with the people without name, country, or occupation, who
are always seen on the quays of seaports, and who live by hidden
and mysterious means which we must suppose to be a direct gift of
providence, as they have no visible means of support. It is fair to
assume that Dantes was on board a smuggler.
At first the captain had received Dantes on board with a certain
degree of distrust. He was very well known to the customs officers
of the coast; and as there was between these worthies and himself a
perpetual battle of wits, he had at first thought that Dantes might
be an emissary of these industrious guardians of rights and duties,
who perhaps employed this ingenious means of learning some of the
secrets of his trade. But the skilful manner in which Dantes had
handled the lugger had entirely reassured him; and then, when he
saw the light plume of smoke floating above the bastion of the
Chateau d'If, and heard the distant report, he was instantly struck
with the idea that he had on board his vessel one whose coming and
going, like that of kings, was accompanied with salutes of
artillery. This made him less uneasy, it must be owned, than if the
new-comer had proved to be a customs officer; but this supposition
also disappeared like the first, when he beheld the perfect
tranquillity of his recruit.
Edmond thus had the advantage of knowing what the owner was,
without the owner knowing who he was; and however the old sailor


without the owner knowing who he was; and however the old sailor
and his crew tried to "pump" him, they extracted nothing more from
him; he gave accurate descriptions of Naples and Malta, which he
knew as well as Marseilles, and held stoutly to his first story.
Thus the Genoese, subtle as he was, was duped by Edmond, in whose
favor his mild demeanor, his nautical skill, and his admirable
dissimulation, pleaded. Moreover, it is possible that the Genoese
was one of those shrewd persons who know nothing but what they
should know, and believe nothing but what they should believe.
In this state of mutual understanding, they reached Leghorn.
Here Edmond was to undergo another trial; he was to find out
whether he could recognize himself, as he had not seen his own face
for fourteen years. He had preserved a tolerably good remembrance
of what the youth had been, and was now to find out what the man
had become. His comrades believed that his vow was fulfilled. As he
had twenty times touched at Leghorn, he remembered a barber in St.
Ferdinand Street; he went there to have his beard and hair cut. The
barber gazed in amazement at this man with the long, thick and
black hair and beard, which gave his head the appearance of one of
Titian's portraits. At this period it was not the fashion to wear
so large a beard and hair so long; now a barber would only be
surprised if a man gifted with such advantages should consent
voluntarily to deprive himself of them. The Leghorn barber said
nothing and went to work.
When the operation was concluded, and Edmond felt that his chin
was completely smooth, and his hair reduced to its usual length, he
asked for a hand-glass. He was now, as we have said,
three-and-thirty years of age, and his fourteen years' imprisonment
had produced a great transformation in his appearance. Dantes had
entered the Chateau d'If with the round, open, smiling face of a
young and happy man, with whom the early paths of life have been
smooth, and who anticipates a future corresponding with his past.smooth, and who anticipates a future corresponding with his past.
This was now all changed. The oval face was lengthened, his smiling
mouth had assumed the firm and marked lines which betoken
resolution; his eyebrows were arched beneath a brow furrowed with
thought; his eyes were full of melancholy, and from their depths
occasionally sparkled gloomy fires of misanthropy and hatred; his
complexion, so long kept from the sun, had now that pale color
which produces, when the features are encircled with black hair,
the aristocratic beauty of the man of the north; the profound
learning he had acquired had besides diffused over his features a
refined intellectual expression; and he had also acquired, being
naturally of a goodly stature, that vigor which a frame possesses
which has so long concentrated all its force within itself.
To the elegance of a nervous and slight form had succeeded the
solidity of a rounded and muscular figure. As to his voice,
prayers, sobs, and imprecations had changed it so that at times it
was of a singularly penetrating sweetness, and at others rough and
almost hoarse. Moreover, from being so long in twilight or
darkness, his eyes had acquired the faculty of distinguishing
objects in the night, common to the hyena and the wolf. Edmond
smiled when he beheld himself: it was impossible that his best
friend — if, indeed, he had any friend left — could recognize him;
he could not recognize himself.
The master of The Young Amelia, who was very desirous of
retaining amongst his crew a man of Edmond's value, had offered to
advance him funds out of his future profits, which Edmond had
accepted. His next care on leaving the barber's who had achieved
his first metamorphosis was to enter a shop and buy a complete
sailor's suit — a garb, as we all know, very simple, and consisting
of white trousers, a striped shirt, and a cap. It was in this
costume, and bringing back to Jacopo the shirt and trousers he had
lent him, that Edmond reappeared before the captain of the lugger,lent him, that Edmond reappeared before the captain of the lugger,
who had made him tell his story over and over again before he could
believe him, or recognize in the neat and trim sailor the man with
thick and matted beard, hair tangled with seaweed, and body soaking
in seabrine, whom he had picked up naked and nearly drowned.
Attracted by his prepossessing appearance, he renewed his offers of
an engagement to Dantes; but Dantes, who had his own projects,
would not agree for a longer time than three months.
The Young Amelia had a very active crew, very obedient to their
captain, who lost as little time as possible. He had scarcely been
a week at Leghorn before the hold of his vessel was filled with
printed muslins, contraband cottons, English powder, and tobacco on
which the excise had forgotten to put its mark. The master was to
get all this out of Leghorn free of duties, and land it on the
shores of Corsica, where certain speculators undertook to forward
the cargo to France. They sailed; Edmond was again cleaving the
azure sea which had been the first horizon of his youth, and which
he had so often dreamed of in prison. He left Gorgone on his right
and La Pianosa on his left, and went towards the country of Paoli
and Napoleon. The next morning going on deck, as he always did at
an early hour, the patron found Dantes leaning against the bulwarks
gazing with intense earnestness at a pile of granite rocks, which
the rising sun tinged with rosy light. It was the Island of Monte
Cristo. The Young Amelia left it three-quarters of a league to the
larboard, and kept on for Corsica.
Dantes thought, as they passed so closely to the island whose
name was so interesting to him, that he had only to leap into the
sea and in half an hour be at the promised land. But then what
could he do without instruments to discover his treasure, without
arms to defend himself? Besides, what would the sailors say? What
would the patron think? He must wait.
Fortunately, Dantes had learned how to wait; he had waited


would the patron think? He must wait.
Fortunately, Dantes had learned how to wait; he had waited
fourteen years for his liberty, and now he was free he could wait
at least six months or a year for wealth. Would he not have
accepted liberty without riches if it had been offered to him?
Besides, were not those riches chimerical? — offspring of the brain
of the poor Abbe Faria, had they not died with him? It is true, the
letter of the Cardinal Spada was singularly circumstantial, and
Dantes repeated it to himself, from one end to the other, for he
had not forgotten a word.
Evening came, and Edmond saw the island tinged with the shades
of twilight, and then disappear in the darkness from all eyes but
his own, for he, with vision accustomed to the gloom of a prison,
continued to behold it last of all, for he remained alone upon
deck. The next morn broke off the coast of Aleria; all day they
coasted, and in the evening saw fires lighted on land; the position
of these was no doubt a signal for landing, for a ship's lantern
was hung up at the mast-head instead of the streamer, and they came
to within a gunshot of the shore. Dantes noticed that the captain
of The Young Amelia had, as he neared the land, mounted two small
culverins, which, without making much noise, can throw a four ounce
ball a thousand paces or so.
But on this occasion the precaution was superfluous, and
everything proceeded with the utmost smoothness and politeness.
Four shallops came off with very little noise alongside the lugger,
which, no doubt, in acknowledgement of the compliment, lowered her
own shallop into the sea, and the five boats worked so well that by
two o'clock in the morning all the cargo was out of The Young
Amelia and on terra firma. The same night, such a man of regularity
was the patron of The Young Amelia, the profits were divided, and
each man had a hundred Tuscan livres, or about eighty francs. But
the voyage was not ended. They turned the bowsprit towards
Sardinia, where they intended to take in a cargo, which was toSardinia, where they intended to take in a cargo, which was to
replace what had been discharged. The second operation was as
successful as the first, The Young Amelia was in luck. This new
cargo was destined for the coast of the Duchy of Lucca, and
consisted almost entirely of Havana cigars, sherry, and Malaga
wines.
There they had a bit of a skirmish in getting rid of the duties;
the excise was, in truth, the everlasting enemy of the patron of
The Young Amelia. A customs officer was laid low, and two sailors
wounded; Dantes was one of the latter, a ball having touched him in
the left shoulder. Dantes was almost glad of this affray, and
almost pleased at being wounded, for they were rude lessons which
taught him with what eye he could view danger, and with what
endurance he could bear suffering. He had contemplated danger with
a smile, and when wounded had exclaimed with the great philosopher,
"Pain, thou art not an evil." He had, moreover, looked upon the
customs officer wounded to death, and, whether from heat of blood
produced by the encounter, or the chill of human sentiment, this
sight had made but slight impression upon him. Dantes was on the
way he desired to follow, and was moving towards the end he wished
to achieve; his heart was in a fair way of petrifying in his bosom.
Jacopo, seeing him fall, had believed him killed, and rushing
towards him raised him up, and then attended to him with all the
kindness of a devoted comrade.
This world was not then so good as Doctor Pangloss believed it,
neither was it so wicked as Dantes thought it, since this man, who
had nothing to expect from his comrade but the inheritance of his
share of the prize-money, manifested so much sorrow when he saw him
fall. Fortunately, as we have said, Edmond was only wounded, and
with certain herbs gathered at certain seasons, and sold to the
smugglers by the old Sardinian women, the wound soon closed. Edmond
then resolved to try Jacopo, and offered him in return for his
attention a share of his prize-money, but Jacopo refused itattention a share of his prize-money, but Jacopo refused it
indignantly.
As a result of the sympathetic devotion which Jacopo had from
the first bestowed on Edmond, the latter was moved to a certain
degree of affection. But this sufficed for Jacopo, who
instinctively felt that Edmond had a right to superiority of
position — a superiority which Edmond had concealed from all
others. And from this time the kindness which Edmond showed him was
enough for the brave seaman.
Then in the long days on board ship, when the vessel, gliding on
with security over the azure sea, required no care but the hand of
the helmsman, thanks to the favorable winds that swelled her sails,
Edmond, with a chart in his hand, became the instructor of Jacopo,
as the poor Abbe Faria had been his tutor. He pointed out to him
the bearings of the coast, explained to him the variations of the
compass, and taught him to read in that vast book opened over our
heads which they call heaven, and where God writes in azure with
letters of diamonds. And when Jacopo inquired of him, "What is the
use of teaching all these things to a poor sailor like me?" Edmond
replied, "Who knows? You may one day be the captain of a vessel.
Your fellow-countryman, Bonaparte, became emperor." We had
forgotten to say that Jacopo was a Corsican.
Two months and a half elapsed in these trips, and Edmond had
become as skilful a coaster as he had been a hardy seaman; he had
formed an acquaintance with all the smugglers on the coast, and
learned all the Masonic signs by which these half pirates recognize
each other. He had passed and re-passed his Island of Monte Cristo
twenty times, but not once had he found an opportunity of landing
there. He then formed a resolution. As soon as his engagement with
the patron of The Young Amelia ended, he would hire a small vessel
on his own account — for in his several voyages he had amassed a
hundred piastres — and under some pretext land at the Island of
Monte Cristo. Then he would be free to make his researches, not


Monte Cristo. Then he would be free to make his researches, not
perhaps entirely at liberty, for he would be doubtless watched by
those who accompanied him. But in this world we must risk
something. Prison had made Edmond prudent, and he was desirous of
running no risk whatever. But in vain did he rack his imagination;
fertile as it was, he could not devise any plan for reaching the
island without companionship.
Dantes was tossed about on these doubts and wishes, when the
patron, who had great confidence in him, and was very desirous of
retaining him in his service, took him by the arm one evening and
led him to a tavern on the Via del' Oglio, where the leading
smugglers of Leghorn used to congregate and discuss affairs
connected with their trade. Already Dantes had visited this
maritime Bourse two or three times, and seeing all these hardy
free-traders, who supplied the whole coast for nearly two hundred
leagues in extent, he had asked himself what power might not that
man attain who should give the impulse of his will to all these
contrary and diverging minds. This time it was a great matter that
was under discussion, connected with a vessel laden with Turkey
carpets, stuffs of the Levant, and cashmeres. It was necessary to
find some neutral ground on which an exchange could be made, and
then to try and land these goods on the coast of France. If the
venture was successful the profit would be enormous, there would be
a gain of fifty or sixty piastres each for the crew.
The patron of The Young Amelia proposed as a place of landing
the Island of Monte Cristo, which being completely deserted, and
having neither soldiers nor revenue officers, seemed to have been
placed in the midst of the ocean since the time of the heathen
Olympus by Mercury, the god of merchants and robbers, classes of
mankind which we in modern times have separated if not made
distinct, but which antiquity appears to have included in the same
category. At the mention of Monte Cristo Dantes started with joy;category. At the mention of Monte Cristo Dantes started with joy;
he rose to conceal his emotion, and took a turn around the smoky
tavern, where all the languages of the known world were jumbled in
a lingua franca. When he again joined the two persons who had been
discussing the matter, it had been decided that they should touch
at Monte Cristo and set out on the following night. Edmond, being
consulted, was of opinion that the island afforded every possible
security, and that great enterprises to be well done should be done
quickly. Nothing then was altered in the plan, and orders were
given to get under weigh next night, and, wind and weather
permitting, to make the neutral island by the following day.Thus, at length, by one of the unexpected strokes of fortune
which sometimes befall those who have for a long time been the
victims of an evil destiny, Dantes was about to secure the
opportunity he wished for, by simple and natural means, and land on
the island without incurring any suspicion. One night more and he
would be on his way.
The night was one of feverish distraction, and in its progress
visions good and evil passed through Dantes' mind. If he closed his
eyes, he saw Cardinal Spada's letter written on the wall in
characters of flame — if he slept for a moment the wildest dreams
haunted his brain. He ascended into grottos paved with emeralds,
with panels of rubies, and the roof glowing with diamond
stalactites. Pearls fell drop by drop, as subterranean waters
filter in their caves. Edmond, amazed, wonderstruck, filled his
pockets with the radiant gems and then returned to daylight, when
be discovered that his prizes had all changed into common pebbles.
He then endeavored to re-enter the marvellous grottos, but they had
suddenly receded, and now the path became a labyrinth, and then the
entrance vanished, and in vain did he tax his memory for the magic
and mysterious word which opened the splendid caverns of Ali Baba
to the Arabian fisherman. All was useless, the treasure
disappeared, and had again reverted to the genii from whom for a
moment he had hoped to carry it off. The day came at length, and
was almost as feverish as the night had been, but it brought reason
to the aid of imagination, and Dantes was then enabled to arrange a
plan which had hitherto been vague and unsettled in his brain.
Night came, and with it the preparation for departure, and these
preparations served to conceal Dantes' agitation. He had by degrees
assumed such authority over his companions that he was almost like
a commander on board; and as his orders were always clear,
distinct, and easy of execution, his comrades obeyed him with
celerity and pleasure.
The old patron did not interfere, for he too had recognized thecelerity and pleasure.
The old patron did not interfere, for he too had recognized the
superiority of Dantes over the crew and himself. He saw in the
young man his natural successor, and regretted that he had not a
daughter, that he might have bound Edmond to him by a more secure
alliance. At seven o'clock in the evening all was ready, and at ten
minutes past seven they doubled the lighthouse just as the beacon
was kindled. The sea was calm, and, with a fresh breeze from the
south-east, they sailed beneath a bright blue sky, in which God
also lighted up in turn his beacon lights, each of which is a
world. Dantes told them that all hands might turn in, and he would
take the helm. When the Maltese (for so they called Dantes) had
said this, it was sufficient, and all went to their bunks
contentedly. This frequently happened. Dantes, cast from solitude
into the world, frequently experienced an imperious desire for
solitude; and what solitude is more complete, or more poetical,
than that of a ship floating in isolation on the sea during the
obscurity of the night, in the silence of immensity, and under the
eye of heaven?
Now this solitude was peopled with his thoughts, the night
lighted up by his illusions, and the silence animated by his
anticipations. When the patron awoke, the vessel was hurrying on
with every sail set, and every sail full with the breeze. They were
making nearly ten knots an hour. The Island of Monte Cristo loomed
large in the horizon. Edmond resigned the lugger to the master's
care, and went and lay down in his hammock; but, in spite of a
sleepless night, he could not close his eyes for a moment. Two
hours afterwards he came on deck, as the boat was about to double
the Island of Elba. They were just abreast of Mareciana, and beyond
the flat but verdant Island of La Pianosa. The peak of Monte Cristo
reddened by the burning sun, was seen against the azure sky. Dantes
ordered the helmsman to put down his helm, in order to leave La
Pianosa to starboard, as he knew that he should shorten his course


Pianosa to starboard, as he knew that he should shorten his course
by two or three knots. About five o'clock in the evening the island
was distinct, and everything on it was plainly perceptible, owing
to that clearness of the atmosphere peculiar to the light which the
rays of the sun cast at its setting.
Edmond gazed very earnestly at the mass of rocks which gave out
all the variety of twilight colors, from the brightest pink to the
deepest blue; and from time to time his cheeks flushed, his brow
darkened, and a mist passed over his eyes. Never did gamester,
whose whole fortune is staked on one cast of the die, experience
the anguish which Edmond felt in his paroxysms of hope. Night came,
and at ten o'clock they anchored. The Young Amelia was first at the
rendezvous. In spite of his usual command over himself, Dantes
could not restrain his impetuosity. He was the first to jump on
shore; and had he dared, he would, like Lucius Brutus, have "kissed
his mother earth." It was dark, but at eleven o'clock the moon rose
in the midst of the ocean, whose every wave she silvered, and then,
"ascending high," played in floods of pale light on the rocky hills
of this second Pelion.
The island was familiar to the crew of The Young Amelia, — it
was one of her regular haunts. As to Dantes, he had passed it on
his voyage to and from the Levant, but never touched at it. He
questioned Jacopo. "Where shall we pass the night?" he
inquired.
"Why, on board the tartan," replied the sailor.
"Should we not do better in the grottos?"
"What grottos?"
"Why, the grottos — caves of the island."
"I do not know of any grottos," replied Jacopo. The cold sweat
sprang forth on Dantes' brow.
"What, are there no grottos at Monte Cristo?" he asked.
"None."
For a moment Dantes was speechless; then he remembered that
these caves might have been filled up by some accident, or even
stopped up, for the sake of greater security, by Cardinal Spada.
The point was, then, to discover the hidden entrance. It wasThe point was, then, to discover the hidden entrance. It was
useless to search at night, and Dantes therefore delayed all
investigation until the morning. Besides, a signal made half a
league out at sea, and to which The Young Amelia replied by a
similar signal, indicated that the moment for business had come.
The boat that now arrived, assured by the answering signal that all
was well, soon came in sight, white and silent as a phantom, and
cast anchor within a cable's length of shore.
Then the landing began. Dantes reflected, as he worked, on the
shout of joy which, with a single word, he could evoke from all
these men, if he gave utterance to the one unchanging thought that
pervaded his heart; but, far from disclosing this precious secret,
he almost feared that he had already said too much, and by his
restlessness and continual questions, his minute observations and
evident pre-occupation, aroused suspicions. Fortunately, as
regarded this circumstance at least, his painful past gave to his
countenance an indelible sadness, and the glimmerings of gayety
seen beneath this cloud were indeed but transitory.
No one had the slightest suspicion; and when next day, taking a
fowling-piece, powder, and shot, Dantes declared his intention to
go and kill some of the wild goats that were seen springing from
rock to rock, his wish was construed into a love of sport, or a
desire for solitude. However, Jacopo insisted on following him, and
Dantes did not oppose this, fearing if he did so that he might
incur distrust. Scarcely, however, had they gone a quarter of a
league when, having killed a kid, he begged Jacopo to take it to
his comrades, and request them to cook it, and when ready to let
him know by firing a gun. This and some dried fruits and a flask of
Monte Pulciano, was the bill of fare. Dantes went on, looking from
time to time behind and around about him. Having reached the summit
of a rock, he saw, a thousand feet beneath him, his companions,
whom Jacopo had rejoined, and who were all busy preparing thewhom Jacopo had rejoined, and who were all busy preparing the
repast which Edmond's skill as a marksman had augmented with a
capital dish.
Edmond looked at them for a moment with the sad and gentle smile
of a man superior to his fellows. "In two hours' time," said he,
"these persons will depart richer by fifty piastres each, to go and
risk their lives again by endeavoring to gain fifty more; then they
will return with a fortune of six hundred francs, and waste this
treasure in some city with the pride of sultans and the insolence
of nabobs. At this moment hope makes me despise their riches, which
seem to me contemptible. Yet perchance to-morrow deception will so
act on me, that I shall, on compulsion, consider such a
contemptible possession as the utmost happiness. Oh, no!" exclaimed
Edmond, "that will not be. The wise, unerring Faria could not be
mistaken in this one thing. Besides, it were better to die than to
continue to lead this low and wretched life." Thus Dantes, who but
three months before had no desire but liberty had now not liberty
enough, and panted for wealth. The cause was not in Dantes, but in
providence, who, while limiting the power of man, has filled him
with boundless desires.
Meanwhile, by a cleft between two walls of rock, following a
path worn by a torrent, and which, in all human probability, human
foot had never before trod, Dantes approached the spot where he
supposed the grottos must have existed. Keeping along the shore,
and examining the smallest object with serious attention, he
thought he could trace, on certain rocks, marks made by the hand of
man.
Time, which encrusts all physical substances with its mossy
mantle, as it invests all things of the mind with forgetfulness,
seemed to have respected these signs, which apparently had been
made with some degree of regularity, and probably with a definite
purpose. Occasionally the marks were hidden under tufts of myrtle,
which spread into large bushes laden with blossoms, or beneath


which spread into large bushes laden with blossoms, or beneath
parasitical lichen. So Edmond had to separate the branches or brush
away the moss to know where the guide-marks were. The sight of
marks renewed Edmond fondest hopes. Might it not have been the
cardinal himself who had first traced them, in order that they
might serve as a guide for his nephew in the event of a
catastrophe, which he could not foresee would have been so
complete. This solitary place was precisely suited to the
requirements of a man desirous of burying treasure. Only, might not
these betraying marks have attracted other eyes than those for whom
they were made? and had the dark and wondrous island indeed
faithfully guarded its precious secret?
It seemed, however, to Edmond, who was hidden from his comrades
by the inequalities of the ground, that at sixty paces from the
harbor the marks ceased; nor did they terminate at any grotto. A
large round rock, placed solidly on its base, was the only spot to
which they seemed to lead. Edmond concluded that perhaps instead of
having reached the end of the route he had only explored its
beginning, and he therefore turned round and retraced his
steps.
Meanwhile his comrades had prepared the repast, had got some
water from a spring, spread out the fruit and bread, and cooked the
kid. Just at the moment when they were taking the dainty animal
from the spit, they saw Edmond springing with the boldness of a
chamois from rock to rock, and they fired the signal agreed upon.
The sportsman instantly changed his direction, and ran quickly
towards them. But even while they watched his daring progress,
Edmond's foot slipped, and they saw him stagger on the edge of a
rock and disappear. They all rushed towards him, for all loved
Edmond in spite of his superiority; yet Jacopo reached him
first.
He found Edmond lying prone, bleeding, and almost senseless. He
had rolled down a declivity of twelve or fifteen feet. They poured
a little rum down his throat, and this remedy which had before beena little rum down his throat, and this remedy which had before been
so beneficial to him, produced the same effect as formerly. Edmond
opened his eyes, complained of great pain in his knee, a feeling of
heaviness in his head, and severe pains in his loins. They wished
to carry him to the shore; but when they touched him, although
under Jacopo's directions, he declared, with heavy groans, that he
could not bear to be moved.
It may be supposed that Dantes did not now think of his dinner,
but he insisted that his comrades, who had not his reasons for
fasting, should have their meal. As for himself, he declared that
he had only need of a little rest, and that when they returned he
should be easier. The sailors did not require much urging. They
were hungry, and the smell of the roasted kid was very savory, and
your tars are not very ceremonious. An hour afterwards they
returned. All that Edmond had been able to do was to drag himself
about a dozen paces forward to lean against a moss-grown rock.
But, instead of growing easier, Dantes' pains appeared to
increase in violence. The old patron, who was obliged to sail in
the morning in order to land his cargo on the frontiers of Piedmont
and France, between Nice and Frejus, urged Dantes to try and rise.
Edmond made great exertions in order to comply; but at each effort
he fell back, moaning and turning pale.
"He has broken his ribs," said the commander, in a low voice.
"No matter; he is an excellent fellow, and we must not leave him.
We will try and carry him on board the tartan." Dantes declared,
however, that he would rather die where he was than undergo the
agony which the slightest movement cost him. "Well," said the
patron, "let what may happen, it shall never be said that we
deserted a good comrade like you. We will not go till evening."
This very much astonished the sailors, although, not one opposed
it. The patron was so strict that this was the first time they had
ever seen him give up an enterprise, or even delay in itsever seen him give up an enterprise, or even delay in its
execution. Dantes would not allow that any such infraction of
regular and proper rules should be made in his favor. "No, no," he
said to the patron, "I was awkward, and it is just that I pay the
penalty of my clumsiness. Leave me a small supply of biscuit, a
gun, powder, and balls, to kill the kids or defend myself at need,
and a pickaxe, that I may build a shelter if you delay in coming
back for me."
"But you'll die of hunger," said the patron.
"I would rather do so," was Edmond reply, "than suffer the
inexpressible agonies which the slightest movement causes me." The
patron turned towards his vessel, which was rolling on the swell in
the little harbor, and, with sails partly set, would be ready for
sea when her toilet should be completed.
"What are we to do, Maltese?" asked the captain. "We cannot
leave you here so, and yet we cannot stay."
"Go, go!" exclaimed Dantes.
"We shall be absent at least a week," said the patron, "and then
we must run out of our course to come here and take you up
again."
"Why," said Dantes, "if in two or three days you hail any
fishing-boat, desire them to come here to me. I will pay
twenty-five piastres for my passage back to Leghorn. If you do not
come across one, return for me." The patron shook his head.
"Listen, Captain Baldi; there's one way of settling this," said
Jacopo. "Do you go, and I will stay and take care of the wounded
man."
"And give up your share of the venture," said Edmond, "to remain
with me?"
"Yes," said Jacopo, "and without any hesitation."
"You are a good fellow and a kind-hearted messmate," replied
Edmond, "and heaven will recompense you for your generous
intentions; but I do not wish any one to stay with me. A day or two
of rest will set me up, and I hope I shall find among the rocks
certain herbs most excellent for bruises."
A peculiar smile passed over Dantes' lips; he squeezed Jacopo's
hand warmly, but nothing could shake his determination to remain —hand warmly, but nothing could shake his determination to remain —
and remain alone. The smugglers left with Edmond what he had
requested and set sail, but not without turning about several
times, and each time making signs of a cordial farewell, to which
Edmond replied with his hand only, as if he could not move the rest
of his body. Then, when they had disappeared, he said with a smile,
— "'Tis strange that it should be among such men that we find
proofs of friendship and devotion." Then he dragged himself
cautiously to the top of a rock, from which he had a full view of
the sea, and thence he saw the tartan complete her preparations for
sailing, weigh anchor, and, balancing herself as gracefully as a
water-fowl ere it takes to the wing, set sail. At the end of an
hour she was completely out of sight; at least, it was impossible
for the wounded man to see her any longer from the spot where he
was. Then Dantes rose more agile and light than the kid among the
myrtles and shrubs of these wild rocks, took his gun in one hand,
his pickaxe in the other, and hastened towards the rock on which
the marks he had noted terminated. "And now," he exclaimed,
remembering the tale of the Arabian fisherman, which Faria had
related to him, "now, open sesame!"


The sun had nearly reached the meridian, and his scorching rays
fell full on the rocks, which seemed themselves sensible of the
heat. Thousands of grasshoppers, hidden in the bushes, chirped with
a monotonous and dull note; the leaves of the myrtle and olive
trees waved and rustled in the wind. At every step that Edmond took
he disturbed the lizards glittering with the hues of the emerald;
afar off he saw the wild goats bounding from crag to crag. In a
word, the island was inhabited, yet Edmond felt himself alone,
guided by the hand of God. He felt an indescribable sensation
somewhat akin to dread — that dread of the daylight which even in
the desert makes us fear we are watched and observed. This feeling
was so strong that at the moment when Edmond was about to begin his
labor, he stopped, laid down his pickaxe, seized his gun, mounted
to the summit of the highest rock, and from thence gazed round in
every direction.
But it was not upon Corsica, the very houses of which he could
distinguish; or on Sardinia; or on the Island of Elba, with its
historical associations; or upon the almost imperceptible line that
to the experienced eye of a sailor alone revealed the coast of
Genoa the proud, and Leghorn the commercial, that he gazed. It was
at the brigantine that had left in the morning, and the tartan that
had just set sail, that Edmond fixed his eyes. The first was just
disappearing in the straits of Bonifacio; the other, following an
opposite direction, was about to round the Island of Corsica. This
sight reassured him. He then looked at the objects near him. He saw
that he was on the highest point of the island, — a statue on this
vast pedestal of granite, nothing human appearing in sight, while
the blue ocean beat against the base of the island, and covered it
with a fringe of foam. Then he descended with cautious and slow
step, for he dreaded lest an accident similar to that he had so
adroitly feigned should happen in reality.
Dantes, as we have said, had traced the marks along the rocks,Dantes, as we have said, had traced the marks along the rocks,
and he had noticed that they led to a small creek. which was hidden
like the bath of some ancient nymph. This creek was sufficiently
wide at its mouth, and deep in the centre, to admit of the entrance
of a small vessel of the lugger class, which would be perfectly
concealed from observation.
Then following the clew that, in the hands of the Abbe Faria,
had been so skilfully used to guide him through the Daedalian
labyrinth of probabilities, he thought that the Cardinal Spada,
anxious not to be watched, had entered the creek, concealed his
little barque, followed the line marked by the notches in the rock,
and at the end of it had buried his treasure. It was this idea that
had brought Dantes back to the circular rock. One thing only
perplexed Edmond, and destroyed his theory. How could this rock,
which weighed several tons, have been lifted to this spot, without
the aid of many men? Suddenly an idea flashed across his mind.
Instead of raising it, thought he, they have lowered it. And he
sprang from the rock in order to inspect the base on which it had
formerly stood. He soon perceived that a slope had been formed, and
the rock had slid along this until it stopped at the spot it now
occupied. A large stone had served as a wedge; flints and pebbles
had been inserted around it, so as to conceal the orifice; this
species of masonry had been covered with earth, and grass and weeds
had grown there, moss had clung to the stones, myrtle-bushes had
taken root, and the old rock seemed fixed to the earth.
Dantes dug away the earth carefully, and detected, or fancied he
detected, the ingenious artifice. He attacked this wall, cemented
by the hand of time, with his pickaxe. After ten minutes' labor the
wall gave way, and a hole large enough to insert the arm was
opened. Dantes went and cut the strongest olive-tree he could find,
stripped off its branches, inserted it in the hole, and used it as
a lever. But the rock was too heavy, and too firmly wedged, to bea lever. But the rock was too heavy, and too firmly wedged, to be
moved by any one man, were he Hercules himself. Dantes saw that he
must attack the wedge. But how? He cast his eyes around, and saw
the horn full of powder which his friend Jacopo had left him. He
smiled; the infernal invention would serve him for this purpose.
With the aid of his pickaxe, Dantes, after the manner of a
labor-saving pioneer, dug a mine between the upper rock and the one
that supported it, filled it with powder, then made a match by
rolling his handkerchief in saltpetre. He lighted it and retired.
The explosion soon followed; the upper rock was lifted from its
base by the terrific force of the powder; the lower one flew into
pieces; thousands of insects escaped from the aperture Dantes had
previously formed, and a huge snake, like the guardian demon of the
treasure, rolled himself along in darkening coils, and
disappeared.
Dantes approached the upper rock, which now, without any
support, leaned towards the sea. The intrepid treasure-seeker
walked round it, and, selecting the spot from whence it appeared
most susceptible to attack, placed his lever in one of the
crevices, and strained every nerve to move the mass. The rock,
already shaken by the explosion, tottered on its base. Dantes
redoubled his efforts; he seemed like one of the ancient Titans,
who uprooted the mountains to hurl against the father of the gods.
The rock yielded, rolled over, bounded from point to point, and
finally disappeared in the ocean.
On the spot it had occupied was a circular space, exposing an
iron ring let into a square flag-stone. Dantes uttered a cry of joy
and surprise; never had a first attempt been crowned with more
perfect success. He would fain have continued, but his knees
trembled, and his heart beat so violently, and his sight became so
dim, that he was forced to pause. This feeling lasted but for a
moment. Edmond inserted his lever in the ring and exerted all his
strength; the flag-stone yielded, and disclosed steps that


strength; the flag-stone yielded, and disclosed steps that
descended until they were lost in the obscurity of a subterraneous
grotto. Any one else would have rushed on with a cry of joy. Dantes
turned pale, hesitated, and reflected. "Come," said he to himself,
"be a man. I am accustomed to adversity. I must not be cast down by
the discovery that I have been deceived. What, then, would be the
use of all I have suffered? The heart breaks when, after having
been elated by flattering hopes, it sees all its illusions
destroyed. Faria has dreamed this; the Cardinal Spada buried no
treasure here; perhaps he never came here, or if he did, Caesar
Borgia, the intrepid adventurer, the stealthy and indefatigable
plunderer, has followed him, discovered his traces, pursued them as
I have done, raised the stone, and descending before me, has left
me nothing." He remained motionless and pensive, his eyes fixed on
the gloomy aperture that was open at his feet.
"Now that I expect nothing, now that I no longer entertain the
slightest hopes, the end of this adventure becomes simply a matter
of curiosity." And he remained again motionless and thoughtful.
"Yes, yes; this is an adventure worthy a place in the varied
career of that royal bandit. This fabulous event formed but a link
in a long chain of marvels. Yes, Borgia has been here, a torch in
one hand, a sword in the other, and within twenty paces, at the
foot of this rock, perhaps two guards kept watch on land and sea,
while their master descended, as I am about to descend, dispelling
the darkness before his awe-inspiring progress."
"But what was the fate of the guards who thus possessed his
secret?" asked Dantes of himself.
"The fate," replied he, smiling, "of those who buried
Alaric."
"Yet, had he come," thought Dantes, "he would have found the
treasure, and Borgia, he who compared Italy to an artichoke, which
he could devour leaf by leaf, knew too well the value of time to
waste it in replacing this rock. I will go down."waste it in replacing this rock. I will go down."
Then he descended, a smile on his lips, and murmuring that last
word of human philosophy, "Perhaps!" But instead of the darkness,
and the thick and mephitic atmosphere he had expected to find,
Dantes saw a dim and bluish light, which, as well as the air,
entered, not merely by the aperture he had just formed, but by the
interstices and crevices of the rock which were visible from
without, and through which he could distinguish the blue sky and
the waving branches of the evergreen oaks, and the tendrils of the
creepers that grew from the rocks. After having stood a few minutes
in the cavern, the atmosphere of which was rather warm than damp,
Dantes' eye, habituated as it was to darkness, could pierce even to
the remotest angles of the cavern, which was of granite that
sparkled like diamonds. "Alas," said Edmond, smiling, "these are
the treasures the cardinal has left; and the good abbe, seeing in a
dream these glittering walls, has indulged in fallacious
hopes."
But he called to mind the words of the will, which he knew by
heart. "In the farthest angle of the second opening," said the
cardinal's will. He had only found the first grotto; he had now to
seek the second. Dantes continued his search. He reflected that
this second grotto must penetrate deeper into the island; he
examined the stones, and sounded one part of the wall where he
fancied the opening existed, masked for precaution's sake. The
pickaxe struck for a moment with a dull sound that drew out of
Dantes' forehead large drops of perspiration. At last it seemed to
him that one part of the wall gave forth a more hollow and deeper
echo; he eagerly advanced, and with the quickness of perception
that no one but a prisoner possesses, saw that there, in all
probability, the opening must be.
However, he, like Caesar Borgia, knew the value of time; and, in
order to avoid fruitless toil, he sounded all the other walls with
his pickaxe, struck the earth with the butt of his gun, and findinghis pickaxe, struck the earth with the butt of his gun, and finding
nothing that appeared suspicious, returned to that part of the wall
whence issued the consoling sound he had before heard. He again
struck it, and with greater force. Then a singular thing occurred.
As he struck the wall, pieces of stucco similar to that used in the
ground work of arabesques broke off, and fell to the ground in
flakes, exposing a large white stone. The aperture of the rock had
been closed with stones, then this stucco had been applied, and
painted to imitate granite. Dantes struck with the sharp end of his
pickaxe, which entered someway between the interstices. It was
there he must dig. But by some strange play of emotion, in
proportion as the proofs that Faria, had not been deceived became
stronger, so did his heart give way, and a feeling of
discouragement stole over him. This last proof, instead of giving
him fresh strength, deprived him of it; the pickaxe descended, or
rather fell; he placed it on the ground, passed his hand over his
brow, and remounted the stairs, alleging to himself, as an excuse,
a desire to be assured that no one was watching him, but in reality
because he felt that he was about to faint. The island was
deserted, and the sun seemed to cover it with its fiery glance;
afar off, a few small fishing boats studded the bosom of the blue
ocean.
Dantes had tasted nothing, but he thought not of hunger at such
a moment; he hastily swallowed a few drops of rum, and again
entered the cavern. The pickaxe that had seemed so heavy, was now
like a feather in his grasp; he seized it, and attacked the wall.
After several blows he perceived that the stones were not cemented,
but had been merely placed one upon the other, and covered with
stucco; he inserted the point of his pickaxe, and using the handle
as a lever, with joy soon saw the stone turn as if on hinges, and
fall at his feet. He had nothing more to do now, but with the iron
tooth of the pickaxe to draw the stones towards him one by one. The


tooth of the pickaxe to draw the stones towards him one by one. The
aperture was already sufficiently large for him to enter, but by
waiting, he could still cling to hope, and retard the certainty of
deception. At last, after renewed hesitation, Dantes entered the
second grotto. The second grotto was lower and more gloomy than the
first; the air that could only enter by the newly formed opening
had the mephitic smell Dantes was surprised not to find in the
outer cavern. He waited in order to allow pure air to displace the
foul atmosphere, and then went on. At the left of the opening was a
dark and deep angle. But to Dantes' eye there was no darkness. He
glanced around this second grotto; it was, like the first,
empty.
The treasure, if it existed, was buried in this corner. The time
had at length arrived; two feet of earth removed, and Dantes' fate
would be decided. He advanced towards the angle, and summoning all
his resolution, attacked the ground with the pickaxe. At the fifth
or sixth blow the pickaxe struck against an iron substance. Never
did funeral knell, never did alarm-bell, produce a greater effect
on the hearer. Had Dantes found nothing he could not have become
more ghastly pale. He again struck his pickaxe into the earth, and
encountered the same resistance, but not the same sound. "It is a
casket of wood bound with iron," thought he. At this moment a
shadow passed rapidly before the opening; Dantes seized his gun,
sprang through the opening, and mounted the stair. A wild goat had
passed before the mouth of the cave, and was feeding at a little
distance. This would have been a favorable occasion to secure his
dinner; but Dantes feared lest the report of his gun should attract
attention.
He thought a moment, cut a branch of a resinous tree, lighted it
at the fire at which the smugglers had prepared their breakfast,
and descended with this torch. He wished to see everything. He
approached the hole he had dug, and now, with the aid of the torch,approached the hole he had dug, and now, with the aid of the torch,
saw that his pickaxe had in reality struck against iron and wood.
He planted his torch in the ground and resumed his labor. In an
instant a space three feet long by two feet broad was cleared, and
Dantes could see an oaken coffer, bound with cut steel; in the
middle of the lid he saw engraved on a silver plate, which was
still untarnished, the arms of the Spada family — viz., a sword,
pale, on an oval shield, like all the Italian armorial bearings,
and surmounted by a cardinal's hat; Dantes easily recognized them,
Faria had so often drawn them for him. There was no longer any
doubt: the treasure was there — no one would have been at such
pains to conceal an empty casket. In an instant he had cleared
every obstacle away, and he saw successively the lock, placed
between two padlocks, and the two handles at each end, all carved
as things were carved at that epoch, when art rendered the
commonest metals precious. Dantes seized the handles, and strove to
lift the coffer; it was impossible. He sought to open it; lock and
padlock were fastened; these faithful guardians seemed unwilling to
surrender their trust. Dantes inserted the sharp end of the pickaxe
between the coffer and the lid, and pressing with all his force on
the handle, burst open the fastenings. The hinges yielded in their
turn and fell, still holding in their grasp fragments of the wood,
and the chest was open.
Edmond was seized with vertigo; he cocked his gun and laid it
beside him. He then closed his eyes as children do in order that
they may see in the resplendent night of their own imagination more
stars than are visible in the firmament; then he re-opened them,
and stood motionless with amazement. Three compartments divided the
coffer. In the first, blazed piles of golden coin; in the second,
were ranged bars of unpolished gold, which possessed nothing
attractive save their value; in the third, Edmond grasped handfuls
of diamonds, pearls, and rubies, which, as they fell on oneof diamonds, pearls, and rubies, which, as they fell on one
another, sounded like hail against glass. After having touched,
felt, examined these treasures, Edmond rushed through the caverns
like a man seized with frenzy; he leaped on a rock, from whence he
could behold the sea. He was alone — alone with these countless,
these unheard-of treasures! was he awake, or was it but a
dream?
He would fain have gazed upon his gold, and yet he had not
strength enough; for an instant he leaned his head in his hands as
if to prevent his senses from leaving him, and then rushed madly
about the rocks of Monte Cristo, terrifying the wild goats and
scaring the sea-fowls with his wild cries and gestures; then he
returned, and, still unable to believe the evidence of his senses,
rushed into the grotto, and found himself before this mine of gold
and jewels. This time he fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands
convulsively, uttered a prayer intelligible to God alone. He soon
became calmer and more happy, for only now did he begin to realize
his felicity. He then set himself to work to count his fortune.
There were a thousand ingots of gold, each weighing from two to
three pounds; then he piled up twenty-five thousand crowns, each
worth about eighty francs of our money, and bearing the effigies of
Alexander VI. and his predecessors; and he saw that the complement
was not half empty. And he measured ten double handfuls of pearls,
diamonds, and other gems, many of which, mounted by the most famous
workmen, were valuable beyond their intrinsic worth. Dantes saw the
light gradually disappear, and fearing to be surprised in the
cavern, left it, his gun in his hand. A piece of biscuit and a
small quantity of rum formed his supper, and he snatched a few
hours' sleep, lying over the mouth of the cave.
It was a night of joy and terror, such as this man of stupendous
emotions had already experienced twice or thrice in his
lifetime.


Day, for which Dantes had so eagerly and impatiently waited with
open eyes, again dawned. With the first light Dantes resumed his
search. Again he climbed the rocky height he had ascended the
previous evening, and strained his view to catch every peculiarity
of the landscape; but it wore the same wild, barren aspect when
seen by the rays of the morning sun which it had done when surveyed
by the fading glimmer of eve. Descending into the grotto, he lifted
the stone, filled his pockets with gems, put the box together as
well and securely as he could, sprinkled fresh sand over the spot
from which it had been taken, and then carefully trod down the
earth to give it everywhere a uniform appearance; then, quitting
the grotto, he replaced the stone, heaping on it broken masses of
rocks and rough fragments of crumbling granite, filling the
interstices with earth, into which he deftly inserted rapidly
growing plants, such as the wild myrtle and flowering thorn, then
carefully watering these new plantations, he scrupulously effaced
every trace of footsteps, leaving the approach to the cavern as
savage-looking and untrodden as he had found it. This done, he
impatiently awaited the return of his companions. To wait at Monte
Cristo for the purpose of watching like a dragon over the almost
incalculable riches that had thus fallen into his possession
satisfied not the cravings of his heart, which yearned to return to
dwell among mankind, and to assume the rank, power, and influence
which are always accorded to wealth — that first and greatest of
all the forces within the grasp of man.
On the sixth day, the smugglers returned. From a distance Dantes
recognized the rig and handling of The Young Amelia, and dragging
himself with affected difficulty towards the landing-place, he met
his companions with an assurance that, although considerably better
than when they quitted him, he still suffered acutely from his late
accident. He then inquired how they had fared in their trip. Toaccident. He then inquired how they had fared in their trip. To
this question the smugglers replied that, although successful in
landing their cargo in safety, they had scarcely done so when they
received intelligence that a guard-ship had just quitted the port
of Toulon and was crowding all sail towards them. This obliged them
to make all the speed they could to evade the enemy, when they
could but lament the absence of Dantes, whose superior skill in the
management of a vessel would have availed them so materially. In
fact, the pursuing vessel had almost overtaken them when,
fortunately, night came on, and enabled them to double the Cape of
Corsica, and so elude all further pursuit. Upon the whole, however,
the trip had been sufficiently successful to satisfy all concerned;
while the crew, and particularly Jacopo, expressed great regrets
that Dantes had not been an equal sharer with themselves in the
profits, which amounted to no less a sum than fifty piastres
each.
Edmond preserved the most admirable self-command, not suffering
the faintest indication of a smile to escape him at the enumeration
of all the benefits he would have reaped had he been able to quit
the island; but as The Young Amelia had merely come to Monte Cristo
to fetch him away, he embarked that same evening, and proceeded
with the captain to Leghorn. Arrived at Leghorn, he repaired to the
house of a Jew, a dealer in precious stones, to whom he disposed of
four of his smallest diamonds for five thousand francs each. Dantes
half feared that such valuable jewels in the hands of a poor sailor
like himself might excite suspicion; but the cunning purchaser
asked no troublesome questions concerning a bargain by which he
gained a round profit of at least eighty per cent.
The following day Dantes presented Jacopo with an entirely new
vessel, accompanying the gift by a donation of one hundred
piastres, that he might provide himself with a suitable crew and
other requisites for his outfit, upon condition that he would go atother requisites for his outfit, upon condition that he would go at
once to Marseilles for the purpose of inquiring after an old man
named Louis Dantes, residing in the Allees de Meillan, and also a
young woman called Mercedes, an inhabitant of the Catalan village.
Jacopo could scarcely believe his senses at receiving this
magnificent present, which Dantes hastened to account for by saying
that he had merely been a sailor from whim and a desire to spite
his family, who did not allow him as much money as he liked to
spend; but that on his arrival at Leghorn he had come into
possession of a large fortune, left him by an uncle, whose sole
heir he was. The superior education of Dantes gave an air of such
extreme probability to this statement that it never once occurred
to Jacopo to doubt its accuracy. The term for which Edmond had
engaged to serve on board The Young Amelia having expired, Dantes
took leave of the captain, who at first tried all his powers of
persuasion to induce him to remain as one of the crew, but having
been told the history of the legacy, he ceased to importune him
further. The following morning Jacopo set sail for Marseilles, with
directions from Dantes to join him at the Island of Monte
Cristo.
Having seen Jacopo fairly out of the harbor, Dantes proceeded to
make his final adieus on board The Young Amelia, distributing so
liberal a gratuity among her crew as to secure for him the good
wishes of all, and expressions of cordial interest in all that
concerned him. To the captain he promised to write when he had made
up his mind as to his future plans. Then Dantes departed for Genoa.
At the moment of his arrival a small yacht was under trial in the
bay; this yacht had been built by order of an Englishman, who,
having heard that the Genoese excelled all other builders along the
shores of the Mediterranean in the construction of fast-sailing
vessels, was desirous of possessing a specimen of their skill; the
price agreed upon between the Englishman and the Genoese builderprice agreed upon between the Englishman and the Genoese builder
was forty thousand francs. Dantes, struck with the beauty and
capability of the little vessel, applied to its owner to transfer
it to him, offering sixty thousand francs, upon condition that he
should be allowed to take immediate possession. The proposal was
too advantageous to be refused, the more so as the person for whom
the yacht was intended had gone upon a tour through Switzerland,
and was not expected back in less than three weeks or a month, by
which time the builder reckoned upon being able to complete
another. A bargain was therefore struck. Dantes led the owner of
the yacht to the dwelling of a Jew; retired with the latter for a
few minutes to a small back parlor, and upon their return the Jew
counted out to the shipbuilder the sum of sixty thousand francs in
bright gold pieces.
The delighted builder then offered his services in providing a
suitable crew for the little vessel, but this Dantes declined with
many thanks, saying he was accustomed to cruise about quite alone,
and his principal pleasure consisted in managing his yacht himself;
the only thing the builder could oblige him in would be to contrive
a sort of secret closet in the cabin at his bed's head, the closet
to contain three divisions, so constructed as to be concealed from
all but himself. The builder cheerfully undertook the commission,
and promised to have these secret places completed by the next day,
Dantes furnishing the dimensions and plan in accordance with which
they were to be constructed.
The following day Dantes sailed with his yacht from Genoa, under
the inspection of an immense crowd drawn together by curiosity to
see the rich Spanish nobleman who preferred managing his own yacht.
But their wonder was soon changed to admiration at seeing the
perfect skill with which Dantes handled the helm. The boat, indeed,
seemed to be animated with almost human intelligence, so promptly
did it obey the slightest touch; and Dantes required but a short


did it obey the slightest touch; and Dantes required but a short
trial of his beautiful craft to acknowledge that the Genoese had
not without reason attained their high reputation in the art of
shipbuilding. The spectators followed the little vessel with their
eyes as long as it remained visible; they then turned their
conjectures upon her probable destination. Some insisted she was
making for Corsica, others the Island of Elba; bets were offered to
any amount that she was bound for Spain; while Africa was
positively reported by many persons as her intended course; but no
one thought of Monte Cristo. Yet thither it was that Dantes guided
his vessel, and at Monte Cristo he arrived at the close of the
second day; his boat had proved herself a first-class sailer, and
had come the distance from Genoa in thirty-five hours. Dantes had
carefully noted the general appearance of the shore, and, instead
of landing at the usual place, he dropped anchor in the little
creek. The island was utterly deserted, and bore no evidence of
having been visited since he went away; his treasure was just as he
had left it. Early on the following morning he commenced the
removal of his riches, and ere nightfall the whole of his immense
wealth was safely deposited in the compartments of the secret
locker.
A week passed by. Dantes employed it in manoeuvring his yacht
round the island, studying it as a skilful horseman would the
animal he destined for some important service, till at the end of
that time he was perfectly conversant with its good and bad
qualities. The former Dantes proposed to augment, the latter to
remedy.
Upon the eighth day he discerned a small vessel under full sail
approaching Monte Cristo. As it drew near, he recognized it as the
boat he had given to Jacopo. He immediately signalled it. His
signal was returned, and in two hours afterwards the newcomer lay
at anchor beside the yacht. A mournful answer awaited each of
Edmond's eager inquiries as to the information Jacopo had obtained.Edmond's eager inquiries as to the information Jacopo had obtained.
Old Dantes was dead, and Mercedes had disappeared. Dantes listened
to these melancholy tidings with outward calmness; but, leaping
lightly ashore, he signified his desire to be quite alone. In a
couple of hours he returned. Two of the men from Jacopo's boat came
on board the yacht to assist in navigating it, and he gave orders
that she should be steered direct to Marseilles. For his father's
death he was in some manner prepared; but he knew not how to
account for the mysterious disappearance of Mercedes.
Without divulging his secret, Dantes could not give sufficiently
clear instructions to an agent. There were, besides, other
particulars he was desirous of ascertaining, and those were of a
nature he alone could investigate in a manner satisfactory to
himself. His looking-glass had assured him, during his stay at
Leghorn, that he ran no risk of recognition; moreover, he had now
the means of adopting any disguise he thought proper. One fine
morning, then, his yacht, followed by the little fishing-boat,
boldly entered the port of Marseilles, and anchored exactly
opposite the spot from whence, on the never-to-be-forgotten night
of his departure for the Chateau d'If, he had been put on board the
boat destined to convey him thither. Still Dantes could not view
without a shudder the approach of a gendarme who accompanied the
officers deputed to demand his bill of health ere the yacht was
permitted to hold communication with the shore; but with that
perfect self-possession he had acquired during his acquaintance
with Faria, Dantes coolly presented an English passport he had
obtained from Leghorn, and as this gave him a standing which a
French passport would not have afforded, he was informed that there
existed no obstacle to his immediate debarkation.
The first person to attract the attention of Dantes, as he
landed on the Canebiere, was one of the crew belonging to the
Pharaon. Edmond welcomed the meeting with this fellow — who hadPharaon. Edmond welcomed the meeting with this fellow — who had
been one of his own sailors — as a sure means of testing the extent
of the change which time had worked in his own appearance. Going
straight towards him, he propounded a variety of questions on
different subjects, carefully watching the man's countenance as he
did so; but not a word or look implied that he had the slightest
idea of ever having seen before the person with whom he was then
conversing. Giving the sailor a piece of money in return for his
civility, Dantes proceeded onwards; but ere he had gone many steps
he heard the man loudly calling him to stop. Dantes instantly
turned to meet him. "I beg your pardon, sir," said the honest
fellow, in almost breathless haste, "but I believe you made a
mistake; you intended to give me a two-franc piece, and see, you
gave me a double Napoleon."
"Thank you, my good friend. I see that I have made a trifling
mistake, as you say; but by way of rewarding your honesty I give
you another double Napoleon, that you may drink to my health, and
be able to ask your messmates to join you."
So extreme was the surprise of the sailor, that he was unable
even to thank Edmond, whose receding figure he continued to gaze
after in speechless astonishment. "Some nabob from India," was his
comment.
Dantes, meanwhile, went on his way. Each step he trod oppressed
his heart with fresh emotion; his first and most indelible
recollections were there; not a tree, not a street, that he passed
but seemed filled with dear and cherished memories. And thus he
proceeded onwards till he arrived at the end of the Rue de
Noailles, from whence a full view of the Allees de Meillan was
obtained. At this spot, so pregnant with fond and filial
remembrances, his heart beat almost to bursting, his knees tottered
under him, a mist floated over his sight, and had he not clung for
support to one of the trees, he would inevitably have fallen to the
ground and been crushed beneath the many vehicles continually


ground and been crushed beneath the many vehicles continually
passing there. Recovering himself, however, he wiped the
perspiration from his brows, and stopped not again till he found
himself at the door of the house in which his father had lived.
The nasturtiums and other plants, which his father had delighted
to train before his window, had all disappeared from the upper part
of the house. Leaning against the tree, he gazed thoughtfully for a
time at the upper stories of the shabby little house. Then he
advanced to the door, and asked whether there were any rooms to be
let. Though answered in the negative, he begged so earnestly to be
permitted to visit those on the fifth floor, that, in despite of
the oft-repeated assurance of the concierge that they were
occupied, Dantes succeeded in inducing the man to go up to the
tenants, and ask permission for a gentleman to be allowed to look
at them.
The tenants of the humble lodging were a young couple who had
been scarcely married a week; and seeing them, Dantes sighed
heavily. Nothing in the two small chambers forming the apartments
remained as it had been in the time of the elder Dantes; the very
paper was different, while the articles of antiquated furniture
with which the rooms had been filled in Edmond's time had all
disappeared; the four walls alone remained as he had left them. The
bed belonging to the present occupants was placed as the former
owner of the chamber had been accustomed to have his; and, in spite
of his efforts to prevent it, the eyes of Edmond were suffused in
tears as he reflected that on that spot the old man had breathed
his last, vainly calling for his son. The young couple gazed with
astonishment at the sight of their visitor's emotion, and wondered
to see the large tears silently chasing each other down his
otherwise stern and immovable features; but they felt the
sacredness of his grief, and kindly refrained from questioning him
as to its cause, while, with instinctive delicacy, they left him toas to its cause, while, with instinctive delicacy, they left him to
indulge his sorrow alone. When he withdrew from the scene of his
painful recollections, they both accompanied him downstairs,
reiterating their hope that he would come again whenever he
pleased, and assuring him that their poor dwelling would ever be
open to him. As Edmond passed the door on the fourth floor, he
paused to inquire whether Caderousse the tailor still dwelt there;
but he received, for reply, that the person in question had got
into difficulties, and at the present time kept a small inn on the
route from Bellegarde to Beaucaire.
Having obtained the address of the person to whom the house in
the Allees de Meillan belonged, Dantes next proceeded thither, and,
under the name of Lord Wilmore (the name and title inscribed on his
passport), purchased the small dwelling for the sum of twenty-five
thousand francs, at least ten thousand more than it was worth; but
had its owner asked half a million, it would unhesitatingly have
been given. The very same day the occupants of the apartments on
the fifth floor of the house, now become the property of Dantes,
were duly informed by the notary who had arranged the necessary
transfer of deeds, etc., that the new landlord gave them their
choice of any of the rooms in the house, without the least
augmentation of rent, upon condition of their giving instant
possession of the two small chambers they at present inhabited.
This strange event aroused great wonder and curiosity in the
neighborhood of the Allees de Meillan, and a multitude of theories
were afloat, none of which was anywhere near the truth. But what
raised public astonishment to a climax, and set all conjecture at
defiance, was the knowledge that the same stranger who had in the
morning visited the Allees de Meillan had been seen in the evening
walking in the little village of the Catalans, and afterwards
observed to enter a poor fisherman's hut, and to pass more than an
hour in inquiring after persons who had either been dead or gonehour in inquiring after persons who had either been dead or gone
away for more than fifteen or sixteen years. But on the following
day the family from whom all these particulars had been asked
received a handsome present, consisting of an entirely new
fishing-boat, with two seines and a tender. The delighted
recipients of these munificent gifts would gladly have poured out
their thanks to their generous benefactor, but they had seen him,
upon quitting the hut, merely give some orders to a sailor, and
then springing lightly on horseback, leave Marseilles by the Porte
d'Aix."First, sir," said Caderousse, "you must make me a promise."
"What is that?" inquired the abbe.
"Why, if you ever make use of the details I am about to give
you, that you will never let any one know that it was I who
supplied them; for the persons of whom I am about to talk are rich
and powerful, and if they only laid the tips of their fingers on
me, I should break to pieces like glass."
"Make yourself easy, my friend," replied the abbe. "I am a
priest, and confessions die in my breast. Recollect, our only
desire is to carry out, in a fitting manner, the last wishes of our
friend. Speak, then, without reserve, as without hatred; tell the
truth, the whole truth; I do not know, never may know, the persons
of whom you are about to speak; besides, I am an Italian, and not a
Frenchman, and belong to God, and not to man, and I shall shortly
retire to my convent, which I have only quitted to fulfil the last
wishes of a dying man." This positive assurance seemed to give
Caderousse a little courage.
"Well, then, under these circumstances," said Caderousse, "I
will, I even believe I ought to undeceive you as to the friendship
which poor Edmond thought so sincere and unquestionable."
"Begin with his father, if you please." said the abbe; "Edmond
talked to me a great deal about the old man for whom he had the
deepest love."
"The history is a sad one, sir," said Caderousse, shaking his
head; "perhaps you know all the earlier part of it?"
"Yes." answered the abbe; "Edmond related to me everything until
the moment when he was arrested in a small cabaret close to
Marseilles."
"At La Reserve! Oh, yes; I can see it all before me this
moment."
"Was it not his betrothal feast?"
"It was and the feast that began so gayly had a very sorrowful
ending; a police commissary, followed by four soldiers, entered,
and Dantes was arrested."
"Yes, and up to this point I know all," said the priest. "Dantes
himself only knew that which personally concerned him, for he never
beheld again the five persons I have named to you, or heard mention


beheld again the five persons I have named to you, or heard mention
of any one of them."
"Well, when Dantes was arrested, Monsieur Morrel hastened to
obtain the particulars, and they were very sad. The old man
returned alone to his home, folded up his wedding suit with tears
in his eyes, and paced up and down his chamber the whole day, and
would not go to bed at all, for I was underneath him and heard him
walking the whole night; and for myself, I assure you I could not
sleep either, for the grief of the poor father gave me great
uneasiness, and every step he took went to my heart as really as if
his foot had pressed against my breast. The next day Mercedes came
to implore the protection of M. de Villefort; she did not obtain
it, however, and went to visit the old man; when she saw him so
miserable and heart-broken, having passed a sleepless night, and
not touched food since the previous day, she wished him to go with
her that she might take care of him; but the old man would not
consent. `No,' was the old man's reply, `I will not leave this
house, for my poor dear boy loves me better than anything in the
world; and if he gets out of prison he will come and see me the
first thing, and what would he think if I did not wait here for
him?' I heard all this from the window, for I was anxious that
Mercedes should persuade the old man to accompany her, for his
footsteps over my head night and day did not leave me a moment's
repose."
"But did you not go up-stairs and try to console the poor old
man?" asked the abbe.
"Ah, sir," replied Caderousse, "we cannot console those who will
not be consoled, and he was one of these; besides, I know not why,
but he seemed to dislike seeing me. One night, however, I heard his
sobs, and I could not resist my desire to go up to him, but when I
reached his door he was no longer weeping but praying. I cannot now
repeat to you, sir, all the eloquent words and imploring language
he made use of; it was more than piety, it was more than grief, andhe made use of; it was more than piety, it was more than grief, and
I, who am no canter, and hate the Jesuits, said then to myself, `It
is really well, and I am very glad that I have not any children;
for if I were a father and felt such excessive grief as the old man
does, and did not find in my memory or heart all he is now saying,
I should throw myself into the sea at once, for I could not bear
it.'"
"Poor father!" murmured the priest.
"From day to day he lived on alone, and more and more solitary.
M. Morrel and Mercedes came to see him, but his door was closed;
and, although I was certain he was at home, he would not make any
answer. One day, when, contrary to his custom, he had admitted
Mercedes, and the poor girl, in spite of her own grief and despair,
endeavored to console him, he said to her, — `Be assured, my dear
daughter, he is dead; and instead of expecting him, it is he who is
awaiting us; I am quite happy, for I am the oldest, and of course
shall see him first.' However well disposed a person may be, why
you see we leave off after a time seeing persons who are in sorrow,
they make one melancholy; and so at last old Dantes was left all to
himself, and I only saw from time to time strangers go up to him
and come down again with some bundle they tried to hide; but I
guessed what these bundles were, and that he sold by degrees what
he had to pay for his subsistence. At length the poor old fellow
reached the end of all he had; he owed three quarters' rent, and
they threatened to turn him out; he begged for another week, which
was granted to him. I know this, because the landlord came into my
apartment when he left his. For the first three days I heard him
walking about as usual, but, on the fourth I heard nothing. I then
resolved to go up to him at all risks. The door was closed, but I
looked through the keyhole, and saw him so pale and haggard, that
believing him very ill, I went and told M. Morrel and then ran on
to Mercedes. They both came immediately, M. Morrel bringing ato Mercedes. They both came immediately, M. Morrel bringing a
doctor, and the doctor said it was inflammation of the bowels, and
ordered him a limited diet. I was there, too, and I never shall
forget the old man's smile at this prescription. From that time he
received all who came; he had an excuse for not eating any more;
the doctor had put him on a diet." The abbe uttered a kind of
groan. "The story interests you, does it not, sir?" inquired
Caderousse.
"Yes," replied the abbe, "it is very affecting."
"Mercedes came again, and she found him so altered that she was
even more anxious than before to have him taken to her own home.
This was M. Morrel's wish also, who would fain have conveyed the
old man against his consent; but the old man resisted, and cried so
that they were actually frightened. Mercedes remained, therefore,
by his bedside, and M. Morrel went away, making a sign to the
Catalan that he had left his purse on the chimney-piece. But
availing himself of the doctor's order, the old man would not take
any sustenance; at length (after nine days of despair and fasting),
the old man died, cursing those who had caused his misery, and
saying to Mercedes, `If you ever see my Edmond again, tell him I
die blessing him.'" The abbe rose from his chair, made two turns
round the chamber, and pressed his trembling hand against his
parched throat. "And you believe he died" —
"Of hunger, sir, of hunger," said Caderousse. "I am as certain
of it as that we two are Christians."
The abbe, with a shaking hand, seized a glass of water that was
standing by him half-full, swallowed it at one gulp, and then
resumed his seat, with red eyes and pale cheeks. "This was, indeed,
a horrid event." said he in a hoarse voice.
"The more so, sir, as it was men's and not God's doing."
"Tell me of those men," said the abbe, "and remember too," he
added in an almost menacing tone, "you have promised to tell me
everything. Tell me, therefore, who are these men who killed the
son with despair, and the father with famine?"


son with despair, and the father with famine?"
"Two men jealous of him, sir; one from love, and the other from
ambition, — Fernand and Danglars."
"How was this jealousy manifested? Speak on."
"They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist agent."
"Which of the two denounced him? Which was the real
delinquent?"
"Both, sir; one with a letter, and the other put it in the
post."
"And where was this letter written?"
"At La Reserve, the day before the betrothal feast."
"'Twas so, then — 'twas so, then," murmured the abbe. "Oh,
Faria, Faria, how well did you judge men and things!"
"What did you please to say, sir?" asked Caderousse.
"Nothing, nothing," replied the priest; "go on."
"It was Danglars who wrote the denunciation with his left hand,
that his writing might not be recognized, and Fernand who put it in
the post."
"But," exclaimed the abbe suddenly, "you were there
yourself."
"I!" said Caderousse, astonished; "who told you I was
there?"
The abbe saw he had overshot the mark, and he added quickly, —
"No one; but in order to have known everything so well, you must
have been an eye-witness."
"True, true!" said Caderousse in a choking voice, "I was
there."
"And did you not remonstrate against such infamy?" asked the
abbe; "if not, you were an accomplice."
"Sir," replied Caderousse, "they had made me drink to such an
excess that I nearly lost all perception. I had only an indistinct
understanding of what was passing around me. I said all that a man
in such a state could say; but they both assured me that it was a
jest they were carrying on, and perfectly harmless."
"Next day — next day, sir, you must have seen plain enough what
they had been doing, yet you said nothing, though you were present
when Dantes was arrested."
"Yes, sir, I was there, and very anxious to speak; but Danglars
restrained me. `If he should really be guilty,' said he, `and did
really put in to the Island of Elba; if he is really charged with a
letter for the Bonapartist committee at Paris, and if they findletter for the Bonapartist committee at Paris, and if they find
this letter upon him, those who have supported him will pass for
his accomplices.' I confess I had my fears, in the state in which
politics then were, and I held my tongue. It was cowardly, I
confess, but it was not criminal."
"I understand — you allowed matters to take their course, that
was all."
"Yes, sir," answered Caderousse; "and remorse preys on me night
and day. I often ask pardon of God, I swear to you, because this
action, the only one with which I have seriously to reproach myself
in all my life, is no doubt the cause of my abject condition. I am
expiating a moment of selfishness, and so I always say to La
Carconte, when she complains, `Hold your tongue, woman; it is the
will of God.'" And Caderousse bowed his head with every sign of
real repentance.
"Well, sir," said the abbe, "you have spoken unreservedly; and
thus to accuse yourself is to deserve pardon."
"Unfortunately, Edmond is dead, and has not pardoned me."
"He did not know," said the abbe.
"But he knows it all now," interrupted Caderousse; "they say the
dead know everything." There was a brief silence; the abbe rose and
paced up and down pensively, and then resumed his seat. "You have
two or three times mentioned a M. Morrel," he said; "who was
he?"
"The owner of the Pharaon and patron of Dantes."
"And what part did he play in this sad drama?" inquired the
abbe.
"The part of an honest man, full of courage and real regard.
Twenty times he interceded for Edmond. When the emperor returned,
he wrote, implored, threatened, and so energetically, that on the
second restoration he was persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times,
as I told you, he came to see Dantes' father, and offered to
receive him in his own house; and the night or two before his
death, as I have already said, he left his purse on the
mantelpiece, with which they paid the old man's debts, and buried
him decently; and so Edmond's father died, as he had lived, withouthim decently; and so Edmond's father died, as he had lived, without
doing harm to any one. I have the purse still by me — a large one,
made of red silk."
"And," asked the abbe, "is M. Morrel still alive?"
"Yes," replied Caderousse.
"In that case," replied the abbe, "he should be rich,
happy."
Caderousse smiled bitterly. "Yes, happy as myself," said he.
"What! M. Morrel unhappy?" exclaimed the abbe.
"He is reduced almost to the last extremity — nay, he is almost
at the point of dishonor."
"How?"
"Yes," continued Caderousse, "so it is; after five and twenty
years of labor, after having acquired a most honorable name in the
trade of Marseilles, M. Morrel is utterly ruined; he has lost five
ships in two years, has suffered by the bankruptcy of three large
houses, and his only hope now is in that very Pharaon which poor
Dantes commanded, and which is expected from the Indies with a
cargo of cochineal and indigo. If this ship founders, like the
others, he is a ruined man."
"And has the unfortunate man wife or children?" inquired the
abbe.
"Yes, he has a wife, who through everything has behaved like an
angel; he has a daughter, who was about to marry the man she loved,
but whose family now will not allow him to wed the daughter of a
ruined man; he has, besides, a son, a lieutenant in the army; and,
as you may suppose, all this, instead of lessening, only augments
his sorrows. If he were alone in the world he would blow out his
brains, and there would be an end."
"Horrible!" ejaculated the priest.
"And it is thus heaven recompenses virtue, sir," added
Caderousse. "You see, I, who never did a bad action but that I have
told you of — am in destitution, with my poor wife dying of fever
before my very eyes, and I unable to do anything in the world for
her; I shall die of hunger, as old Dantes did, while Fernand and
Danglars are rolling in wealth."
"How is that?"
"Because their deeds have brought them good fortune, while
honest men have been reduced to misery."
"What has become of Danglars, the instigator, and therefore the