for us that naught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my
jailers; but I conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to
you, for I have got to the end of my strength, that I will dash my
brains out against the wall, and you will have my death to reproach
yourself with."
"How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man."
"I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have
been here. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was
arrested, the 28th of February, 1815."
"Not quite twenty-six!" murmured the voice; "at that age he
cannot be a traitor."
"Oh, no, no," cried Dantes. "I swear to you again, rather than
betray you, I would allow myself to be hacked in pieces!"
"You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance,
for I was about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age
reassures me. I will not forget you. Wait."
"How long?"
"I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal."
"But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let
me come to you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape we will
talk; you of those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You
must love somebody?"
"No, I am alone in the world."
"Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your
comrade; if you are old, I will be your son. I have a father who is
seventy if he yet lives; I only love him and a young girl called
Mercedes. My father has not yet forgotten me, I am sure, but God
alone knows if she loves me still; I shall love you as I loved my
father."
"It is well," returned the voice; "to-morrow."
These few words were uttered with an accent that left no doubt
of his sincerity; Dantes rose, dispersed the fragments with the
same precaution as before, and pushed his bed back against the
wall. He then gave himself up to his happiness. He would no longer
be alone. He was, perhaps, about to regain his liberty; at the
worst, he would have a companion, and captivity that is shared is
but half captivity. Plaints made in common are almost prayers, andbut half captivity. Plaints made in common are almost prayers, and
prayers where two or three are gathered together invoke the mercy
of heaven.
All day Dantes walked up and down his cell. He sat down
occasionally on his bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At the
slightest noise he bounded towards the door. Once or twice the
thought crossed his mind that he might be separated from this
unknown, whom he loved already; and then his mind was made up —
when the jailer moved his bed and stooped to examine the opening,
he would kill him with his water jug. He would be condemned to die,
but he was about to die of grief and despair when this miraculous
noise recalled him to life.
The jailer came in the evening. Dantes was on his bed. It seemed
to him that thus he better guarded the unfinished opening.
Doubtless there was a strange expression in his eyes, for the
jailer said, "Come, are you going mad again?"
Dantes did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his voice
would betray him. The jailer went away shaking his head. Night
came; Dantes hoped that his neighbor would profit by the silence to
address him, but he was mistaken. The next morning, however, just
as he removed his bed from the wall, he heard three knocks; he
threw himself on his knees.
"Is it you?" said he; "I am here."
"Is your jailer gone?"
"Yes," said Dantes; "he will not return until the evening; so
that we have twelve hours before us."
"I can work, then?" said the voice.
"Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat you."
In a moment that part of the floor on which Dantes was resting
his two hands, as he knelt with his head in the opening, suddenly
gave way; he drew back smartly, while a mass of stones and earth
disappeared in a hole that opened beneath the aperture he himself
had formed. Then from the bottom of this passage, the depth of
which it was impossible to measure, he saw appear, first the head,
then the shoulders, and lastly the body of a man, who sprang
lightly into his cell.Seizing in his arms the friend so long and ardently desired,
Dantes almost carried him towards the window, in order to obtain a
better view of his features by the aid of the imperfect light that
struggled through the grating.
He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by
suffering and sorrow than by age. He had a deep-set, penetrating
eye, almost buried beneath the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and
still black) beard reaching down to his breast. His thin face,
deeply furrowed by care, and the bold outline of his strongly
marked features, betokened a man more accustomed to exercise his
mental faculties than his physical strength. Large drops of
perspiration were now standing on his brow, while the garments that
hung about him were so ragged that one could only guess at the
pattern upon which they had originally been fashioned.
The stranger might have numbered sixty or sixty-five years; but
a certain briskness and appearance of vigor in his movements made
it probable that he was aged more from captivity than the course of
time. He received the enthusiastic greeting of his young
acquaintance with evident pleasure, as though his chilled
affections were rekindled and invigorated by his contact with one
so warm and ardent. He thanked him with grateful cordiality for his
kindly welcome, although he must at that moment have been suffering
bitterly to find another dungeon where he had fondly reckoned on
discovering a means of regaining his liberty.
"Let us first see," said he, "whether it is possible to remove
the traces of my entrance here — our future tranquillity depends
upon our jailers being entirely ignorant of it." Advancing to the
opening, he stooped and raised the stone easily in spite of its
weight; then, fitting it into its place, he said, —
"You removed this stone very carelessly; but I suppose you had
no tools to aid you."
"Why," exclaimed Dantes, with astonishment, "do you possess
any?"
"I made myself some; and with the exception of a file, I have


any?"
"I made myself some; and with the exception of a file, I have
all that are necessary, — a chisel, pincers, and lever."
"Oh, how I should like to see these products of your industry
and patience."
"Well, in the first place, here is my chisel." So saying, he
displayed a sharp strong blade, with a handle made of
beechwood.
"And with what did you contrive to make that?" inquired
Dantes.
"With one of the clamps of my bedstead; and this very tool has
sufficed me to hollow out the road by which I came hither, a
distance of about fifty feet."
"Fifty feet!" responded Dantes, almost terrified.
"Do not speak so loud, young man — don't speak so loud. It
frequently occurs in a state prison like this, that persons are
stationed outside the doors of the cells purposely to overhear the
conversation of the prisoners."
"But they believe I am shut up alone here."
"That makes no difference."
"And you say that you dug your way a distance of fifty feet to
get here?"
"I do; that is about the distance that separates your chamber
from mine; only, unfortunately, I did not curve aright; for want of
the necessary geometrical instruments to calculate my scale of
proportion, instead of taking an ellipsis of forty feet, I made it
fifty. I expected, as I told you, to reach the outer wall, pierce
through it, and throw myself into the sea; I have, however, kept
along the corridor on which your chamber opens, instead of going
beneath it. My labor is all in vain, for I find that the corridor
looks into a courtyard filled with soldiers."
"That's true," said Dantes; "but the corridor you speak of only
bounds one side of my cell; there are three others — do you know
anything of their situation?"
"This one is built against the solid rock, and it would take ten
experienced miners, duly furnished with the requisite tools, as
many years to perforate it. This adjoins the lower part of the
governor's apartments, and were we to work our way through, we
should only get into some lock-up cellars, where we mustshould only get into some lock-up cellars, where we must
necessarily be recaptured. The fourth and last side of your cell
faces on — faces on — stop a minute, now where does it face?"
The wall of which he spoke was the one in which was fixed the
loophole by which light was admitted to the chamber. This loophole,
which gradually diminished in size as it approached the outside, to
an opening through which a child could not have passed, was, for
better security, furnished with three iron bars, so as to quiet all
apprehensions even in the mind of the most suspicious jailer as to
the possibility of a prisoner's escape. As the stranger asked the
question, he dragged the table beneath the window.
"Climb up," said he to Dantes. The young man obeyed, mounted on
the table, and, divining the wishes of his companion, placed his
back securely against the wall and held out both hands. The
stranger, whom as yet Dantes knew only by the number of his cell,
sprang up with an agility by no means to be expected in a person of
his years, and, light and steady on his feet as a cat or a lizard,
climbed from the table to the outstretched hands of Dantes, and
from them to his shoulders; then, bending double, for the ceiling
of the dungeon prevented him from holding himself erect, he managed
to slip his head between the upper bars of the window, so as to be
able to command a perfect view from top to bottom.
An instant afterwards he hastily drew back his head, saying, "I
thought so!" and sliding from the shoulders of Dantes as dextrously
as he had ascended, he nimbly leaped from the table to the
ground.
"What was it that you thought?" asked the young man anxiously,
in his turn descending from the table.
The elder prisoner pondered the matter. "Yes," said he at
length, "it is so. This side of your chamber looks out upon a kind
of open gallery, where patrols are continually passing, and
sentries keep watch day and night."
"Are you quite sure of that?"
"Certain. I saw the soldier's shape and the top of his musket;"Are you quite sure of that?"
"Certain. I saw the soldier's shape and the top of his musket;
that made me draw in my head so quickly, for I was fearful he might
also see me."
"Well?" inquired Dantes.
"You perceive then the utter impossibility of escaping through
your dungeon?"
"Then," pursued the young man eagerly —
"Then," answered the elder prisoner, "the will of God be done!"
and as the old man slowly pronounced those words, an air of
profound resignation spread itself over his careworn countenance.
Dantes gazed on the man who could thus philosophically resign hopes
so long and ardently nourished with an astonishment mingled with
admiration.
"Tell me, I entreat of you, who and what you are?" said he at
length; "never have I met with so remarkable a person as
yourself."
"Willingly," answered the stranger; "if, indeed, you feel any
curiosity respecting one, now, alas, powerless to aid you in any
way."
"Say not so; you can console and support me by the strength of
your own powerful mind. Pray let me know who you really are?"
The stranger smiled a melancholy smile. "Then listen," said he.
"I am the Abbe Faria, and have been imprisoned as you know in this
Chateau d'If since the year 1811; previously to which I had been
confined for three years in the fortress of Fenestrelle. In the
year 1811 I was transferred to Piedmont in France. It was at this
period I learned that the destiny which seemed subservient to every
wish formed by Napoleon, had bestowed on him a son, named king of
Rome even in his cradle. I was very far then from expecting the
change you have just informed me of; namely, that four years
afterwards, this colossus of power would be overthrown. Then who
reigns in France at this moment — Napoleon II.?"
"No, Louis XVIII."
"The brother of Louis XVII.! How inscrutable are the ways of
providence — for what great and mysterious purpose has it pleased
heaven to abase the man once so elevated, and raise up him who was
so abased?"
Dantes' whole attention was riveted on a man who could thus


so abased?"
Dantes' whole attention was riveted on a man who could thus
forget his own misfortunes while occupying himself with the
destinies of others.
"Yes, yes," continued he, "'Twill be the same as it was in
England. After Charles I., Cromwell; after Cromwell, Charles II.,
and then James II., and then some son-in-law or relation, some
Prince of Orange, a stadtholder who becomes a king. Then new
concessions to the people, then a constitution, then liberty. Ah,
my friend!" said the abbe, turning towards Dantes, and surveying
him with the kindling gaze of a prophet, "you are young, you will
see all this come to pass."
"Probably, if ever I get out of prison!"
"True," replied Faria, "we are prisoners; but I forget this
sometimes, and there are even moments when my mental vision
transports me beyond these walls, and I fancy myself at
liberty."
"But wherefore are you here?"
"Because in 1807 I dreamed of the very plan Napoleon tried to
realize in 1811; because, like Machiavelli, I desired to alter the
political face of Italy, and instead of allowing it to be split up
into a quantity of petty principalities, each held by some weak or
tyrannical ruler, I sought to form one large, compact, and powerful
empire; and, lastly, because I fancied I had found my Caesar Borgia
in a crowned simpleton, who feigned to enter into my views only to
betray me. It was the plan of Alexander VI. and Clement VII., but
it will never succeed now, for they attempted it fruitlessly, and
Napoleon was unable to complete his work. Italy seems fated to
misfortune." And the old man bowed his head.
Dantes could not understand a man risking his life for such
matters. Napoleon certainly he knew something of, inasmuch as he
had seen and spoken with him; but of Clement VII. and Alexander VI.
he knew nothing.
"Are you not," he asked, "the priest who here in the Chateau
d'If is generally thought to be — ill?"
"Mad, you mean, don't you?"
"I did not like to say so," answered Dantes, smiling.
"Well, then," resumed Faria with a bitter smile, "let me answer"Well, then," resumed Faria with a bitter smile, "let me answer
your question in full, by acknowledging that I am the poor mad
prisoner of the Chateau d'If, for many years permitted to amuse the
different visitors with what is said to be my insanity; and, in all
probability, I should be promoted to the honor of making sport for
the children, if such innocent beings could be found in an abode
devoted like this to suffering and despair."
Dantes remained for a short time mute and motionless; at length
he said, — "Then you abandon all hope of escape?"
"I perceive its utter impossibility; and I consider it impious
to attempt that which the Almighty evidently does not approve."
"Nay, be not discouraged. Would it not be expecting too much to
hope to succeed at your first attempt? Why not try to find an
opening in another direction from that which has so unfortunately
failed?"
"Alas, it shows how little notion you can have of all it has
cost me to effect a purpose so unexpectedly frustrated, that you
talk of beginning over again. In the first place, I was four years
making the tools I possess, and have been two years scraping and
digging out earth, hard as granite itself; then what toil and
fatigue has it not been to remove huge stones I should once have
deemed impossible to loosen. Whole days have I passed in these
Titanic efforts, considering my labor well repaid if, by night-time
I had contrived to carry away a square inch of this hard-bound
cement, changed by ages into a substance unyielding as the stones
themselves; then to conceal the mass of earth and rubbish I dug up,
I was compelled to break through a staircase, and throw the fruits
of my labor into the hollow part of it; but the well is now so
completely choked up, that I scarcely think it would be possible to
add another handful of dust without leading to discovery. Consider
also that I fully believed I had accomplished the end and aim of my
undertaking, for which I had so exactly husbanded my strength as toundertaking, for which I had so exactly husbanded my strength as to
make it just hold out to the termination of my enterprise; and now,
at the moment when I reckoned upon success, my hopes are forever
dashed from me. No, I repeat again, that nothing shall induce me to
renew attempts evidently at variance with the Almighty's
pleasure."
Dantes held down his head, that the other might not see how joy
at the thought of having a companion outweighed the sympathy he
felt for the failure of the abbe's plans.
The abbe sank upon Edmond's bed, while Edmond himself remained
standing. Escape had never once occurred to him. There are, indeed,
some things which appear so impossible that the mind does not dwell
on them for an instant. To undermine the ground for fifty feet — to
devote three years to a labor which, if successful, would conduct
you to a precipice overhanging the sea — to plunge into the waves
from the height of fifty, sixty, perhaps a hundred feet, at the
risk of being dashed to pieces against the rocks, should you have
been fortunate enough to have escaped the fire of the sentinels;
and even, supposing all these perils past, then to have to swim for
your life a distance of at least three miles ere you could reach
the shore — were difficulties so startling and formidable that
Dantes had never even dreamed of such a scheme, resigning himself
rather to death. But the sight of an old man clinging to life with
so desperate a courage, gave a fresh turn to his ideas, and
inspired him with new courage. Another, older and less strong than
he, had attempted what he had not had sufficient resolution to
undertake, and had failed only because of an error in calculation.
This same person, with almost incredible patience and perseverance,
had contrived to provide himself with tools requisite for so
unparalleled an attempt. Another had done all this; why, then, was
it impossible to Dantes? Faria had dug his way through fifty feet,
Dantes would dig a hundred; Faria, at the age of fifty, had devoted


Dantes would dig a hundred; Faria, at the age of fifty, had devoted
three years to the task; he, who was but half as old, would
sacrifice six; Faria, a priest and savant, had not shrunk from the
idea of risking his life by trying to swim a distance of three
miles to one of the islands — Daume, Rattonneau, or Lemaire; should
a hardy sailer, an experienced diver, like himself, shrink from a
similar task; should he, who had so often for mere amusement's sake
plunged to the bottom of the sea to fetch up the bright coral
branch, hesitate to entertain the same project? He could do it in
an hour, and how many times had he, for pure pastime, continued in
the water for more than twice as long! At once Dantes resolved to
follow the brave example of his energetic companion, and to
remember that what has once been done may be done again.
After continuing some time in profound meditation, the young man
suddenly exclaimed, "I have found what you were in search of!"
Faria started: "Have you, indeed?" cried he, raising his head
with quick anxiety; "pray, let me know what it is you have
discovered?"
"The corridor through which you have bored your way from the
cell you occupy here, extends in the same direction as the outer
gallery, does it not?"
"It does."
"And is not above fifteen feet from it?"
"About that."
"Well, then, I will tell you what we must do. We must pierce
through the corridor by forming a side opening about the middle, as
it were the top part of a cross. This time you will lay your plans
more accurately; we shall get out into the gallery you have
described; kill the sentinel who guards it, and make our escape.
All we require to insure success is courage, and that you possess,
and strength, which I am not deficient in; as for patience, you
have abundantly proved yours — you shall now see me prove
mine."
"One instant, my dear friend," replied the abbe; "it is clear
you do not understand the nature of the courage with which I am
endowed, and what use I intend making of my strength. As forendowed, and what use I intend making of my strength. As for
patience, I consider that I have abundantly exercised that in
beginning every morning the task of the night before, and every
night renewing the task of the day. But then, young man (and I pray
of you to give me your full attention), then I thought I could not
be doing anything displeasing to the Almighty in trying to set an
innocent being at liberty — one who had committed no offence, and
merited not condemnation."
"And have your notions changed?" asked Dantes with much
surprise; "do you think yourself more guilty in making the attempt
since you have encountered me?"
"No; neither do I wish to incur guilt. Hitherto I have fancied
myself merely waging war against circumstances, not men. I have
thought it no sin to bore through a wall, or destroy a staircase;
but I cannot so easily persuade myself to pierce a heart or take
away a life." A slight movement of surprise escaped Dantes.
"Is it possible," said he, "that where your liberty is at stake
you can allow any such scruple to deter you from obtaining it?"
"Tell me," replied Faria, "what has hindered you from knocking
down your jailer with a piece of wood torn from your bedstead,
dressing yourself in his clothes, and endeavoring to escape?"
"Simply the fact that the idea never occurred to me," answered
Dantes.
"Because," said the old man, "the natural repugnance to the
commission of such a crime prevented you from thinking of it; and
so it ever is because in simple and allowable things our natural
instincts keep us from deviating from the strict line of duty. The
tiger, whose nature teaches him to delight in shedding blood, needs
but the sense of smell to show him when his prey is within his
reach, and by following this instinct he is enabled to measure the
leap necessary to permit him to spring on his victim; but man, on
the contrary, loathes the idea of blood — it is not alone that the
laws of social life inspire him with a shrinking dread of takinglaws of social life inspire him with a shrinking dread of taking
life; his natural construction and physiological formation" —
Dantes was confused and silent at this explanation of the
thoughts which had unconsciously been working in his mind, or
rather soul; for there are two distinct sorts of ideas, those that
proceed from the head and those that emanate from the heart.
"Since my imprisonment," said Faria, "I have thought over all
the most celebrated cases of escape on record. They have rarely
been successful. Those that have been crowned with full success
have been long meditated upon, and carefully arranged; such, for
instance, as the escape of the Duc de Beaufort from the Chateau de
Vincennes, that of the Abbe Dubuquoi from For l'Eveque; of Latude
from the Bastille. Then there are those for which chance sometimes
affords opportunity, and those are the best of all. Let us,
therefore, wait patiently for some favorable moment, and when it
presents itself, profit by it."
"Ah," said Dantes, "you might well endure the tedious delay; you
were constantly employed in the task you set yourself, and when
weary with toil, you had your hopes to refresh and encourage
you."
"I assure you," replied the old man, "I did not turn to that
source for recreation or support."
"What did you do then?"
"I wrote or studied."
"Were you then permitted the use of pens, ink, and paper?"
"Oh, no," answered the abbe; "I had none but what I made for
myself."
"You made paper, pens and ink?"
"Yes."
Dantes gazed with admiration, but he had some difficulty in
believing. Faria saw this.
"When you pay me a visit in my cell, my young friend," said he,
"I will show you an entire work, the fruits of the thoughts and
reflections of my whole life; many of them meditated over in the
shades of the Coloseum at Rome, at the foot of St. Mark's column at
Venice, and on the borders of the Arno at Florence, little
imagining at the time that they would be arranged in order within
the walls of the Chateau d'If. The work I speak of is called `A


the walls of the Chateau d'If. The work I speak of is called `A
Treatise on the Possibility of a General Monarchy in Italy,' and
will make one large quarto volume."
"And on what have you written all this?"
"On two of my shirts. I invented a preparation that makes linen
as smooth and as easy to write on as parchment."
"You are, then, a chemist?"
"Somewhat; I know Lavoisier, and was the intimate friend of
Cabanis."
"But for such a work you must have needed books — had you
any?"
"I had nearly five thousand volumes in my library at Rome; but
after reading them over many times, I found out that with one
hundred and fifty well-chosen books a man possesses, if not a
complete summary of all human knowledge, at least all that a man
need really know. I devoted three years of my life to reading and
studying these one hundred and fifty volumes, till I knew them
nearly by heart; so that since I have been in prison, a very slight
effort of memory has enabled me to recall their contents as readily
as though the pages were open before me. I could recite you the
whole of Thucydides, Xenophon, Plutarch, Titus Livius, Tacitus,
Strada, Jornandes, Dante, Montaigne, Shaksepeare, Spinoza,
Machiavelli, and Bossuet. I name only the most important."
"You are, doubtless, acquainted with a variety of languages, so
as to have been able to read all these?"
"Yes, I speak five of the modern tongues — that is to say,
German, French, Italian, English, and Spanish; by the aid of
ancient Greek I learned modern Greek — I don't speak it so well as
I could wish, but I am still trying to improve myself."
"Improve yourself!" repeated Dantes; "why, how can you manage to
do so?"
"Why, I made a vocabulary of the words I knew; turned, returned,
and arranged them, so as to enable me to express my thoughts
through their medium. I know nearly one thousand words, which is
all that is absolutely necessary, although I believe there are
nearly one hundred thousand in the dictionaries. I cannot hope to
be very fluent, but I certainly should have no difficulty inbe very fluent, but I certainly should have no difficulty in
explaining my wants and wishes; and that would be quite as much as
I should ever require."
Stronger grew the wonder of Dantes, who almost fancied he had to
do with one gifted with supernatural powers; still hoping to find
some imperfection which might bring him down to a level with human
beings, he added, "Then if you were not furnished with pens, how
did you manage to write the work you speak of?"
"I made myself some excellent ones, which would be universally
preferred to all others if once known. You are aware what huge
whitings are served to us on maigre days. Well, I selected the
cartilages of the heads of these fishes, and you can scarcely
imagine the delight with which I welcomed the arrival of each
Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, as affording me the means of
increasing my stock of pens; for I will freely confess that my
historical labors have been my greatest solace and relief. While
retracing the past, I forget the present; and traversing at will
the path of history I cease to remember that I am myself a
prisoner."
"But the ink," said Dantes; "of what did you make your ink?"
"There was formerly a fireplace in my dungeon," replied Faria,
"but it was closed up long ere I became an occupant of this prison.
Still, it must have been many years in use, for it was thickly
covered with a coating of soot; this soot I dissolved in a portion
of the wine brought to me every Sunday, and I assure you a better
ink cannot be desired. For very important notes, for which closer
attention is required, I pricked one of my fingers, and wrote with
my own blood."
"And when," asked Dantes, "may I see all this?"
"Whenever you please," replied the abbe.
"Oh, then let it be directly!" exclaimed the young man.
"Follow me, then," said the abbe, as he re-entered the
subterranean passage, in which he soon disappeared, followed by
Dantes.When Dantes returned next morning to the chamber of his
companion in captivity, he found Faria seated and looking composed.
In the ray of light which entered by the narrow window of his cell,
he held open in his left hand, of which alone, it will be
recollected, he retained the use, a sheet of paper, which, from
being constantly rolled into a small compass, had the form of a
cylinder, and was not easily kept open. He did not speak, but
showed the paper to Dantes.
"What is that?" he inquired.
"Look at it," said the abbe with a smile.
"I have looked at it with all possible attention," said Dantes,
"and I only see a half-burnt paper, on which are traces of Gothic
characters inscribed with a peculiar kind of ink."
"This paper, my friend," said Faria, "I may now avow to you,
since I have the proof of your fidelity — this paper is my
treasure, of which, from this day forth, one-half belongs to
you."
The sweat started forth on Dantes brow. Until this day and for
how long a time! — he had refrained from talking of the treasure,
which had brought upon the abbe the accusation of madness. With his
instinctive delicacy Edmond had preferred avoiding any touch on
this painful chord, and Faria had been equally silent. He had taken
the silence of the old man for a return to reason; and now these
few words uttered by Faria, after so painful a crisis, seemed to
indicate a serious relapse into mental alienation.
"Your treasure?" stammered Dantes. Faria smiled.
"Yes," said he. "You have, indeed, a noble nature, Edmond, and I
see by your paleness and agitation what is passing in your heart at
this moment. No, be assured, I am not mad. This treasure exists,
Dantes, and if I have not been allowed to possess it, you will. Yes
— you. No one would listen or believe me, because everyone thought
me mad; but you, who must know that I am not, listen to me, and
believe me so afterwards if you will."
"Alas," murmured Edmond to himself, "this is a terrible relapse!
There was only this blow wanting." Then he said aloud, "My dear


There was only this blow wanting." Then he said aloud, "My dear
friend, your attack has, perhaps, fatigued you; had you not better
repose awhile? To-morrow, if you will, I will hear your narrative;
but to-day I wish to nurse you carefully. Besides," he said, "a
treasure is not a thing we need hurry about."
"On the contrary, it is a matter of the utmost importance,
Edmond!" replied the old man. "Who knows if to-morrow, or the next
day after, the third attack may not come on? and then must not all
be over? Yes, indeed, I have often thought with a bitter joy that
these riches, which would make the wealth of a dozen families, will
be forever lost to those men who persecute me. This idea was one of
vengeance to me, and I tasted it slowly in the night of my dungeon
and the despair of my captivity. But now I have forgiven the world
for the love of you; now that I see you, young and with a promising
future, — now that I think of all that may result to you in the
good fortune of such a disclosure, I shudder at any delay, and
tremble lest I should not assure to one as worthy as yourself the
possession of so vast an amount of hidden wealth." Edmond turned
away his head with a sigh.
"You persist in your incredulity, Edmond," continued Faria. "My
words have not convinced you. I see you require proofs. Well, then,
read this paper, which I have never shown to any one."
"To-morrow, my dear friend," said Edmond, desirous of not
yielding to the old man's madness. "I thought it was understood
that we should not talk of that until to-morrow."
"Then we will not talk of it until to-morrow; but read this
paper to-day."
"I will not irritate him," thought Edmond, and taking the paper,
of which half was wanting, — having been burnt, no doubt, by some
accident, — he read: —
"This treasure, which may amount to two… of Roman crowns in the
most distant a… of the second opening wh… declare to belong to him
alo… heir. "25th April, l49"
"Well!" said Faria, when the young man had finished reading
it.alo… heir. "25th April, l49"
"Well!" said Faria, when the young man had finished reading
it.
"Why," replied Dantes, "I see nothing but broken lines and
unconnected words, which are rendered illegible by fire."
"Yes, to you, my friend, who read them for the first time; but
not for me, who have grown pale over them by many nights' study,
and have reconstructed every phrase, completed every thought."
"And do you believe you have discovered the hidden meaning?"
"I am sure I have, and you shall judge for yourself; but first
listen to the history of this paper."
"Silence!" exclaimed Dantes. "Steps approach — I go —
adieu."
And Dantes, happy to escape the history and explanation which
would be sure to confirm his belief in his friend's mental
instability, glided like a snake along the narrow passage; while
Faria, restored by his alarm to a certain amount of activity,
pushed the stone into place with his foot, and covered it with a
mat in order the more effectually to avoid discovery.
It was the governor, who, hearing of Faria's illness from the
jailer, had come in person to see him.
Faria sat up to receive him, avoiding all gestures in order that
he might conceal from the governor the paralysis that had already
half stricken him with death. His fear was lest the governor,
touched with pity, might order him to be removed to better
quarters, and thus separate him from his young companion. But
fortunately this was not the case, and the governor left him,
convinced that the poor madman, for whom in his heart he felt a
kind of affection, was only troubled with a slight
indisposition.
During this time, Edmond, seated on his bed with his head in his
hands, tried to collect his scattered thoughts. Faria, since their
first acquaintance, had been on all points so rational and logical,
so wonderfully sagacious, in fact, that he could not understand how
so much wisdom on all points could be allied with madness. Was
Faria deceived as to his treasure, or was all the world deceived as
to Faria?Faria deceived as to his treasure, or was all the world deceived as
to Faria?
Dantes remained in his cell all day, not daring to return to his
friend, thinking thus to defer the moment when he should be
convinced, once for all, that the abbe was mad — such a conviction
would be so terrible!
But, towards the evening after the hour for the customary visit
had gone by, Faria, not seeing the young man appear, tried to move
and get over the distance which separated them. Edmond shuddered
when he heard the painful efforts which the old man made to drag
himself along; his leg was inert, and he could no longer make use
of one arm. Edmond was obliged to assist him, for otherwise he
would not have been able to enter by the small aperture which led
to Dantes' chamber.
"Here I am, pursuing you remorselessly," he said with a
benignant smile. "You thought to escape my munificence, but it is
in vain. Listen to me."
Edmond saw there was no escape, and placing the old man on his
bed, he seated himself on the stool beside him.
"You know," said the abbe, "that I was the secretary and
intimate friend of Cardinal Spada, the last of the princes of that
name. I owe to this worthy lord all the happiness I ever knew. He
was not rich, although the wealth of his family had passed into a
proverb, and I heard the phrase very often, `As rich as a Spada.'
But he, like public rumor, lived on this reputation for wealth; his
palace was my paradise. I was tutor to his nephews, who are dead;
and when he was alone in the world, I tried by absolute devotion to
his will, to make up to him all he had done for me during ten years
of unremitting kindness. The cardinal's house had no secrets for
me. I had often seen my noble patron annotating ancient volumes,
and eagerly searching amongst dusty family manuscripts. One day
when I was reproaching him for his unavailing searches, and
deploring the prostration of mind that followed them, he looked at
me, and, smiling bitterly, opened a volume relating to the History


me, and, smiling bitterly, opened a volume relating to the History
of the City of Rome. There, in the twentieth chapter of the Life of
Pope Alexander VI., were the following lines, which I can never
forget: —
"`The great wars of Romagna had ended; Caesar Borgia, who had
completed his conquest, had need of money to purchase all Italy.
The pope had also need of money to bring matters to an end with
Louis XII. King of France, who was formidable still in spite of his
recent reverses; and it was necessary, therefore, to have recourse
to some profitable scheme, which was a matter of great difficulty
in the impoverished condition of exhausted Italy. His holiness had
an idea. He determined to make two cardinals.'
"By choosing two of the greatest personages of Rome, especially
rich men — this was the return the holy father looked for. In the
first place, he could sell the great appointments and splendid
offices which the cardinals already held; and then he had the two
hats to sell besides. There was a third point in view, which will
appear hereafter. The pope and Caesar Borgia first found the two
future cardinals; they were Giovanni Rospigliosi, who held four of
the highest dignities of the Holy See, and Caesar Spada, one of the
noblest and richest of the Roman nobility; both felt the high honor
of such a favor from the pope. They were ambitious, and Caesar
Borgia soon found purchasers for their appointments. The result
was, that Rospigliosi and Spada paid for being cardinals, and eight
other persons paid for the offices the cardinals held before their
elevation, and thus eight hundred thousand crowns entered into the
coffers of the speculators.
"It is time now to proceed to the last part of the speculation.
The pope heaped attentions upon Rospigliosi and Spada, conferred
upon them the insignia of the cardinalate, and induced them to
arrange their affairs and take up their residence at Rome. Then the
pope and Caesar Borgia invited the two cardinals to dinner. Thispope and Caesar Borgia invited the two cardinals to dinner. This
was a matter of dispute between the holy father and his son. Caesar
thought they could make use of one of the means which he always had
ready for his friends, that is to say, in the first place, the
famous key which was given to certain persons with the request that
they go and open a designated cupboard. This key was furnished with
a small iron point, — a negligence on the part of the locksmith.
When this was pressed to effect the opening of the cupboard, of
which the lock was difficult, the person was pricked by this small
point, and died next day. Then there was the ring with the lion's
head, which Caesar wore when he wanted to greet his friends with a
clasp of the hand. The lion bit the hand thus favored, and at the
end of twenty-four hours, the bite was mortal. Caesar proposed to
his father, that they should either ask the cardinals to open the
cupboard, or shake hands with them; but Alexander VI., replied:
`Now as to the worthy cardinals, Spada and Rospigliosi, let us ask
both of them to dinner, something tells me that we shall get that
money back. Besides, you forget, Caesar, an indigestion declares
itself immediately, while a prick or a bite occasions a delay of a
day or two.' Caesar gave way before such cogent reasoning, and the
cardinals were consequently invited to dinner.
"The table was laid in a vineyard belonging to the pope, near
San Pierdarena, a charming retreat which the cardinals knew very
well by report. Rospigliosi, quite set up with his new dignities,
went with a good appetite and his most ingratiating manner. Spada,
a prudent man, and greatly attached to his only nephew, a young
captain of the highest promise, took paper and pen, and made his
will. He then sent word to his nephew to wait for him near the
vineyard; but it appeared the servant did not find him.
"Spada knew what these invitations meant; since Christianity, so
eminently civilizing, had made progress in Rome, it was no longer aeminently civilizing, had made progress in Rome, it was no longer a
centurion who came from the tyrant with a message, `Caesar wills
that you die.' but it was a legate a latere, who came with a smile
on his lips to say from the pope, `His holiness requests you to
dine with him.'
"Spada set out about two o'clock to San Pierdarena. The pope
awaited him. The first sight that attracted the eyes of Spada was
that of his nephew, in full costume, and Caesar Borgia paying him
most marked attentions. Spada turned pale, as Caesar looked at him
with an ironical air, which proved that he had anticipated all, and
that the snare was well spread. They began dinner and Spada was
only able to inquire of his nephew if he had received his message.
The nephew replied no; perfectly comprehending the meaning of the
question. It was too late, for he had already drunk a glass of
excellent wine, placed for him expressly by the pope's butler.
Spada at the same moment saw another bottle approach him, which he
was pressed to taste. An hour afterwards a physician declared they
were both poisoned through eating mushrooms. Spada died on the
threshold of the vineyard; the nephew expired at his own door,
making signs which his wife could not comprehend.
"Then Caesar and the pope hastened to lay hands on the heritage,
under presence of seeking for the papers of the dead man. But the
inheritance consisted in this only, a scrap of paper on which Spada
had written: — `I bequeath to my beloved nephew my coffers, my
books, and, amongst others, my breviary with the gold corners,
which I beg he will preserve in remembrance of his affectionate
uncle.'
"The heirs sought everywhere, admired the breviary, laid hands
on the furniture, and were greatly astonished that Spada, the rich
man, was really the most miserable of uncles — no treasures —
unless they were those of science, contained in the library and
laboratories. That was all. Caesar and his father searched,
examined, scrutinized, but found nothing, or at least very little;


examined, scrutinized, but found nothing, or at least very little;
not exceeding a few thousand crowns in plate, and about the same in
ready money; but the nephew had time to say to his wife before he
expired: `Look well among my uncle's papers; there is a will.'
"They sought even more thoroughly than the august heirs had
done, but it was fruitless. There were two palaces and a vineyard
behind the Palatine Hill; but in these days landed property had not
much value, and the two palaces and the vineyard remained to the
family since they were beneath the rapacity of the pope and his
son. Months and years rolled on. Alexander VI. died, poisoned, —
you know by what mistake. Caesar, poisoned at the same time,
escaped by shedding his skin like a snake; but the new skin was
spotted by the poison till it looked like a tiger's. Then,
compelled to quit Rome, he went and got himself obscurely killed in
a night skirmish, scarcely noticed in history. After the pope's
death and his son's exile, it was supposed that the Spada family
would resume the splendid position they had held before the
cardinal's time; but this was not the case. The Spadas remained in
doubtful ease, a mystery hung over this dark affair, and the public
rumor was, that Caesar, a better politician than his father, had
carried off from the pope the fortune of the two cardinals. I say
the two, because Cardinal Rospigliosi, who had not taken any
precaution, was completely despoiled.
"Up to this point," said Faria, interrupting the thread of his
narrative, "this seems to you very meaningless, no doubt, eh?"
"Oh, my friend," cried Dantes, "on the contrary, it seems as if
I were reading a most interesting narrative; go on, I beg of
you."
"I will."
"The family began to get accustomed to their obscurity. Years
rolled on, and amongst the descendants some were soldiers, others
diplomatists; some churchmen, some bankers; some grew rich, and
some were ruined. I come now to the last of the family, whose
secretary I was — the Count of Spada. I had often heard himsecretary I was — the Count of Spada. I had often heard him
complain of the disproportion of his rank with his fortune; and I
advised him to invest all he had in an annuity. He did so, and thus
doubled his income. The celebrated breviary remained in the family,
and was in the count's possession. It had been handed down from
father to son; for the singular clause of the only will that had
been found, had caused it to be regarded as a genuine relic,
preserved in the family with superstitious veneration. It was an
illuminated book, with beautiful Gothic characters, and so weighty
with gold, that a servant always carried it before the cardinal on
days of great solemnity.
"At the sight of papers of all sorts, — titles, contracts,
parchments, which were kept in the archives of the family, all
descending from the poisoned cardinal, I in my turn examined the
immense bundles of documents, like twenty servitors, stewards,
secretaries before me; but in spite of the most exhaustive
researches, I found — nothing. Yet I had read, I had even written a
precise history of the Borgia family, for the sole purpose of
assuring myself whether any increase of fortune had occurred to
them on the death of the Cardinal Caesar Spada; but could only
trace the acquisition of the property of the Cardinal Rospigliosi,
his companion in misfortune.
"I was then almost assured that the inheritance had neither
profited the Borgias nor the family, but had remained unpossessed
like the treasures of the Arabian Nights, which slept in the bosom
of the earth under the eyes of the genie. I searched, ransacked,
counted, calculated a thousand and a thousand times the income and
expenditure of the family for three hundred years. It was useless.
I remained in my ignorance, and the Count of Spada in his poverty.
My patron died. He had reserved from his annuity his family papers,
his library, composed of five thousand volumes, and his famous
breviary. All these he bequeathed to me, with a thousand Romanbreviary. All these he bequeathed to me, with a thousand Roman
crowns, which he had in ready money, on condition that I would have
anniversary masses said for the repose of his soul, and that I
would draw up a genealogical tree and history of his house. All
this I did scrupulously. Be easy, my dear Edmond, we are near the
conclusion.
"In 1807, a month before I was arrested, and a fortnight after
the death of the Count of Spada, on the 25th of December (you will
see presently how the date became fixed in my memory), I was
reading, for the thousandth time, the papers I was arranging, for
the palace was sold to a stranger, and I was going to leave Rome
and settle at Florence, intending to take with me twelve thousand
francs I possessed, my library, and the famous breviary, when,
tired with my constant labor at the same thing, and overcome by a
heavy dinner I had eaten, my head dropped on my hands, and I fell
asleep about three o'clock in the afternoon. I awoke as the clock
was striking six. I raised my head; I was in utter darkness. I rang
for a light, but as no one came, I determined to find one for
myself. It was indeed but anticipating the simple manners which I
should soon be under the necessity of adopting. I took a wax-candle
in one hand, and with the other groped about for a piece of paper
(my match-box being empty), with which I proposed to get a light
from the small flame still playing on the embers. Fearing, however,
to make use of any valuable piece of paper, I hesitated for a
moment, then recollected that I had seen in the famous breviary,
which was on the table beside me, an old paper quite yellow with
age, and which had served as a marker for centuries, kept there by
the request of the heirs. I felt for it, found it, twisted it up
together, and putting it into the expiring flame, set light to
it.
"But beneath my fingers, as if by magic, in proportion as the
fire ascended, I saw yellowish characters appear on the paper. I
grasped it in my hand, put out the flame as quickly as I could,


grasped it in my hand, put out the flame as quickly as I could,
lighted my taper in the fire itself, and opened the crumpled paper
with inexpressible emotion, recognizing, when I had done so, that
these characters had been traced in mysterious and sympathetic ink,
only appearing when exposed to the fire; nearly one-third of the
paper had been consumed by the flame. It was that paper you read
this morning; read it again, Dantes, and then I will complete for
you the incomplete words and unconnected sense."
Faria, with an air of triumph, offered the paper to Dantes, who
this time read the following words, traced with an ink of a reddish
color resembling rust: —
"This 25th day of April, 1498, be… Alexander VI., and fearing
that not… he may desire to become my heir, and re… and Bentivoglio,
who were poisoned,… my sole heir, that I have bu… and has visited
with me, that is, in… Island of Monte Cristo, all I poss… jewels,
diamonds, gems; that I alone… may amount to nearly two mil… will
find on raising the twentieth ro… creek to the east in a right
line. Two open… in these caves; the treasure is in the furthest a…
which treasure I bequeath and leave en… as my sole heir. "25th
April, 1498. "Caes…
"And now," said the abbe, "read this other paper;" and he
presented to Dantes a second leaf with fragments of lines written
on it, which Edmond read as follows: —
"… ing invited to dine by his Holiness … content with
making me pay for my hat, … serves for me the fate of
Cardinals Caprara … I declare to my nephew, Guido Spada …
ried in a place he knows … the caves of the small … essed
of ingots, gold, money, … know of the existence of this
treasure, which … lions of Roman crowns, and which he …
ck from the small … ings have been made … ngle in the
second; … tire to him … ar Spada."
Faria followed him with an excited look. "and now," he said,
when he saw that Dantes had read the last line, "put the two
fragments together, and judge for yourself." Dantes obeyed, and the
conjointed pieces gave the following: —conjointed pieces gave the following: —
"This 25th day of April, 1498, be… ing invited to dine by his
Holiness Alexander VI., and fearing that not… content with making
me pay for my hat, he may desire to become my heir, and re… serves
for me the fate of Cardinals Caprara and Bentivoglio, who were
poisoned… I declare to my nephew, Guido Spada, my sole heir, that I
have bu… ried in a place he knows and has visited with me, that is,
in… the caves of the small Island of Monte Cristo all I poss… ssed
of ingots, gold, money, jewels, diamonds, gems; that I alone… know
of the existence of this treasure, which may amount to nearly two
mil… lions of Roman crowns, and which he will find on raising the
twentieth ro… ck from the small creek to the east in a right line.
Two open… ings have been made in these caves; the treasure is in
the furthest a… ngle in the second; which treasure I bequeath and
leave en… tire to him as my sole heir. "25th April, 1498. "Caes… ar
Spada."
"Well, do you comprehend now?" inquired Faria.
"It is the declaration of Cardinal Spada, and the will so long
sought for," replied Edmond, still incredulous.
"Yes; a thousand times, yes!"
"And who completed it as it now is?"
"I did. Aided by the remaining fragment, I guessed the rest;
measuring the length of the lines by those of the paper, and
divining the hidden meaning by means of what was in part revealed,
as we are guided in a cavern by the small ray of light above
us."
"And what did you do when you arrived at this conclusion?"
"I resolved to set out, and did set out at that very instant,
carrying with me the beginning of my great work, the unity of the
Italian kingdom; but for some time the imperial police (who at this
period, quite contrary to what Napoleon desired so soon as he had a
son born to him, wished for a partition of provinces) had their
eyes on me; and my hasty departure, the cause of which they were
unable to guess, having aroused their suspicions, I was arrested at
the very moment I was leaving Piombino.the very moment I was leaving Piombino.
"Now," continued Faria, addressing Dantes with an almost
paternal expression, "now, my dear fellow, you know as much as I do
myself. If we ever escape together, half this treasure is yours; if
I die here, and you escape alone, the whole belongs to you."
"But," inquired Dantes hesitating, "has this treasure no more
legitimate possessor in the world than ourselves?"
"No, no, be easy on that score; the family is extinct. The last
Count of Spada, moreover, made me his heir, bequeathing to me this
symbolic breviary, he bequeathed to me all it contained; no, no,
make your mind satisfied on that point. If we lay hands on this
fortune, we may enjoy it without remorse."
"And you say this treasure amounts to" —
"Two millions of Roman crowns; nearly thirteen millions of our
money."*
(* $2,600,000 in 1894.)
"Impossible!" said Dantes, staggered at the enormous amount.
"Impossible? and why?" asked the old man. "The Spada family was
one of the oldest and most powerful families of the fifteenth
century; and in those times, when other opportunities for
investment were wanting, such accumulations of gold and jewels were
by no means rare; there are at this day Roman families perishing of
hunger, though possessed of nearly a million in diamonds and
jewels, handed down by entail, and which they cannot touch." Edmond
thought he was in a dream — he wavered between incredulity and
joy.
"I have only kept this secret so long from you," continued
Faria, "that I might test your character, and then surprise you.
Had we escaped before my attack of catalepsy, I should have
conducted you to Monte Cristo; now," he added, with a sigh, "it is
you who will conduct me thither. Well, Dantes, you do not thank
me?"
"This treasure belongs to you, my dear friend," replied Dantes,
"and to you only. I have no right to it. I am no relation of
yours."
"You are my son, Dantes," exclaimed the old man. "You are the
child of my captivity. My profession condemns me to celibacy. Godchild of my captivity. My profession condemns me to celibacy. God
has sent you to me to console, at one and the same time, the man
who could not be a father, and the prisoner who could not get
free." And Faria extended the arm of which alone the use remained
to him to the young man who threw himself upon his neck and
wept.


Now that this treasure, which had so long been the object of the
abbe's meditations, could insure the future happiness of him whom
Faria really loved as a son, it had doubled its value in his eyes,
and every day he expatiated on the amount, explaining to Dantes all
the good which, with thirteen or fourteen millions of francs, a man
could do in these days to his friends; and then Dantes' countenance
became gloomy, for the oath of vengeance he had taken recurred to
his memory, and he reflected how much ill, in these times, a man
with thirteen or fourteen millions could do to his enemies.
The abbe did not know the Island of Monte Cristo; but Dantes
knew it, and had often passed it, situated twenty-five miles from
Pianosa, between Corsica and the Island of Elba, and had once
touched there. This island was, always had been, and still is,
completely deserted. It is a rock of almost conical form, which
looks as though it had been thrust up by volcanic force from the
depth to the surface of the ocean. Dantes drew a plan of the island
for Faria, and Faria gave Dantes advice as to the means he should
employ to recover the treasure. But Dantes was far from being as
enthusiastic and confident as the old man. It was past a question
now that Faria was not a lunatic, and the way in which he had
achieved the discovery, which had given rise to the suspicion of
his madness, increased Edmond's admiration of him; but at the same
time Dantes could not believe that the deposit, supposing it had
ever existed, still existed; and though he considered the treasure
as by no means chimerical, he yet believed it was no longer
there.
However, as if fate resolved on depriving the prisoners of their
last chance, and making them understand that they were condemned to
perpetual imprisonment, a new misfortune befell them; the gallery
on the sea side, which had long been in ruins, was rebuilt. They
had repaired it completely, and stopped up with vast masses of
stone the hole Dantes had partly filled in. But for thisstone the hole Dantes had partly filled in. But for this
precaution, which, it will be remembered, the abbe had made to
Edmond, the misfortune would have been still greater, for their
attempt to escape would have been detected, and they would
undoubtedly have been separated. Thus a new, a stronger, and more
inexorable barrier was interposed to cut off the realization of
their hopes.
"You see," said the young man, with an air of sorrowful
resignation, to Faria, "that God deems it right to take from me any
claim to merit for what you call my devotion to you. I have
promised to remain forever with you, and now I could not break my
promise if I would. The treasure will be no more mine than yours,
and neither of us will quit this prison. But my real treasure is
not that, my dear friend, which awaits me beneath the sombre rocks
of Monte Cristo, it is your presence, our living together five or
six hours a day, in spite of our jailers; it is the rays of
intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages you
have implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with
all their philological ramifications. These different sciences that
you have made so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you
possess of them, and the clearness of the principles to which you
have reduced them — this is my treasure, my beloved friend, and
with this you have made me rich and happy. Believe me, and take
comfort, this is better for me than tons of gold and cases of
diamonds, even were they not as problematical as the clouds we see
in the morning floating over the sea, which we take for terra
firma, and which evaporate and vanish as we draw near to them. To
have you as long as possible near me, to hear your eloquent speech,
— which embellishes my mind, strengthens my soul, and makes my
whole frame capable of great and terrible things, if I should ever
be free, — so fills my whole existence, that the despair to which I
was just on the point of yielding when I knew you, has no longerwas just on the point of yielding when I knew you, has no longer
any hold over me; and this — this is my fortune — not chimerical,
but actual. I owe you my real good, my present happiness; and all
the sovereigns of the earth, even Caesar Borgia himself, could not
deprive me of this."
Thus, if not actually happy, yet the days these two unfortunates
passed together went quickly. Faria, who for so long a time had
kept silence as to the treasure, now perpetually talked of it. As
he had prophesied would be the case, he remained paralyzed in the
right arm and the left leg, and had given up all hope of ever
enjoying it himself. But he was continually thinking over some
means of escape for his young companion, and anticipating the
pleasure he would enjoy. For fear the letter might be some day lost
or stolen, he compelled Dantes to learn it by heart; and Dantes
knew it from the first to the last word. Then he destroyed the
second portion, assured that if the first were seized, no one would
be able to discover its real meaning. Whole hours sometimes passed
while Faria was giving instructions to Dantes, — instructions which
were to serve him when he was at liberty. Then, once free, from the
day and hour and moment when he was so, he could have but one only
thought, which was, to gain Monte Cristo by some means, and remain
there alone under some pretext which would arouse no suspicions;
and once there, to endeavor to find the wonderful caverns, and
search in the appointed spot, — the appointed spot, be it
remembered, being the farthest angle in the second opening.
In the meanwhile the hours passed, if not rapidly, at least
tolerably. Faria, as we have said, without having recovered the use
of his hand and foot, had regained all the clearness of his
understanding, and had gradually, besides the moral instructions we
have detailed, taught his youthful companion the patient and
sublime duty of a prisoner, who learns to make something from
nothing. They were thus perpetually employed, — Faria, that he


nothing. They were thus perpetually employed, — Faria, that he
might not see himself grow old; Dantes, for fear of recalling the
almost extinct past which now only floated in his memory like a
distant light wandering in the night. So life went on for them as
it does for those who are not victims of misfortune and whose
activities glide along mechanically and tranquilly beneath the eye
of providence.
But beneath this superficial calm there were in the heart of the
young man, and perhaps in that of the old man, many repressed
desires, many stifled sighs, which found vent when Faria was left
alone, and when Edmond returned to his cell. One night Edmond awoke
suddenly, believing that he heard some one calling him. He opened
his eyes upon utter darkness. His name, or rather a plaintive voice
which essayed to pronounce his name, reached him. He sat up in bed
and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow. Undoubtedly the call came
from Faria's dungeon. "Alas," murmured Edmond; "can it be?"
He moved his bed, drew up the stone, rushed into the passage,
and reached the opposite extremity; the secret entrance was open.
By the light of the wretched and wavering lamp, of which we have
spoken, Dantes saw the old man, pale, but yet erect, clinging to
the bedstead. His features were writhing with those horrible
symptoms which he already knew, and which had so seriously alarmed
him when he saw them for the first time.
"Alas, my dear friend," said Faria in a resigned tone, "you
understand, do you not, and I need not attempt to explain to
you?"
Edmond uttered a cry of agony, and, quite out of his senses,
rushed towards the door, exclaiming, "Help, help!" Faria had just
sufficient strength to restrain him.
"Silence," he said, "or you are lost. We must now only think of
you, my dear friend, and so act as to render your captivity
supportable or your flight possible. It would require years to do
again what I have done here, and the results would be instantly
destroyed if our jailers knew we had communicated with each other.destroyed if our jailers knew we had communicated with each other.
Besides, be assured, my dear Edmond, the dungeon I am about to
leave will not long remain empty; some other unfortunate being will
soon take my place, and to him you will appear like an angel of
salvation. Perhaps he will be young, strong, and enduring, like
yourself, and will aid you in your escape, while I have been but a
hindrance. You will no longer have half a dead body tied to you as
a drag to all your movements. At length providence has done
something for you; he restores to you more than he takes away, and
it was time I should die."
Edmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim, "Oh, my friend,
my friend, speak not thus!" and then resuming all his presence of
mind, which had for a moment staggered under this blow, and his
strength, which had failed at the words of the old man, he said,
"Oh, I have saved you once, and I will save you a second time!" And
raising the foot of the bed, he drew out the phial, still a third
filled with the red liquor.
"See," he exclaimed, "there remains still some of the magic
draught. Quick, quick! tell me what I must do this time; are there
any fresh instructions? Speak, my friend; I listen."
"There is not a hope," replied Faria, shaking his head, "but no
matter; God wills it that man whom he has created, and in whose
heart he has so profoundly rooted the love of life, should do all
in his power to preserve that existence, which, however painful it
may be, is yet always so dear."
"Oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed Dantes; "and I tell you that I will
save you yet."
"Well, then, try. The cold gains upon me. I feel the blood
flowing towards my brain. These horrible chills, which make my
teeth chatter and seem to dislocate my bones, begin to pervade my
whole frame; in five minutes the malady will reach its height, and
in a quarter of an hour there will be nothing left of me but a
corpse."
"Oh!" exclaimed Dantes, his heart wrung with anguish.
"Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs"Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs
of life are now exhausted in me, and death," he continued, looking
at his paralyzed arm and leg, "has but half its work to do. If,
after having made me swallow twelve drops instead of ten, you see
that I do not recover, then pour the rest down my throat. Now lift
me on my bed, for I can no longer support myself."
Edmond took the old man in his arms, and laid him on the
bed.
"And now, my dear friend," said Faria, "sole consolation of my
wretched existence, — you whom heaven gave me somewhat late, but
still gave me, a priceless gift, and for which I am most grateful,
— at the moment of separating from you forever, I wish you all the
happiness and all the prosperity you so well deserve. My son, I
bless thee!" The young man cast himself on his knees, leaning his
head against the old man's bed.
"Listen, now, to what I say in this my dying moment. The
treasure of the Spadas exists. God grants me the boon of vision
unrestricted by time or space. I see it in the depths of the inner
cavern. My eyes pierce the inmost recesses of the earth, and are
dazzled at the sight of so much riches. If you do escape, remember
that the poor abbe, whom all the world called mad, was not so.
Hasten to Monte Cristo — avail yourself of the fortune — for you
have indeed suffered long enough." A violent convulsion attacked
the old man. Dantes raised his head and saw Faria's eyes injected
with blood. It seemed as if a flow of blood had ascended from the
chest to the head.
"Adieu, adieu!" murmured the old man, clasping Edmond's hand
convulsively — "adieu!"
"Oh, no, — no, not yet," he cried; "do not forsake me! Oh,
succor him! Help — help — help!"
"Hush — hush!" murmured the dying man, "that they may not
separate us if you save me!"
"You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be assured I shall save you!
Besides, although you suffer much, you do not seem to be in such
agony as you were before."
"Do not mistake. I suffer less because there is in me less


agony as you were before."
"Do not mistake. I suffer less because there is in me less
strength to endure. At your age we have faith in life; it is the
privilege of youth to believe and hope, but old men see death more
clearly. Oh, 'tis here — 'tis here — 'tis over — my sight is gone —
my senses fail! Your hand, Dantes! Adieu — adieu!" And raising
himself by a final effort, in which he summoned all his faculties,
he said, — "Monte Cristo, forget not Monte Cristo!" And he fell
back on the bed. The crisis was terrible, and a rigid form with
twisted limbs, swollen eyelids, and lips flecked with bloody foam,
lay on the bed of torture, in place of the intellectual being who
so lately rested there.
Dantes took the lamp, placed it on a projecting stone above the
bed, whence its tremulous light fell with strange and fantastic ray
on the distorted countenance and motionless, stiffened body. With
steady gaze he awaited confidently the moment for administering the
restorative.
When he believed that the right moment had arrived, he took the
knife, pried open the teeth, which offered less resistance than
before, counted one after the other twelve drops, and watched; the
phial contained, perhaps, twice as much more. He waited ten
minutes, a quarter of an hour, half an hour, — no change took
place. Trembling, his hair erect, his brow bathed with
perspiration, he counted the seconds by the beating of his heart.
Then he thought it was time to make the last trial, and he put the
phial to the purple lips of Faria, and without having occasion to
force open his jaws, which had remained extended, he poured the
whole of the liquid down his throat.
The draught produced a galvanic effect, a violent trembling
pervaded the old man's limbs, his eyes opened until it was fearful
to gaze upon them, he heaved a sigh which resembled a shriek, and
then his convulsed body returned gradually to its former
immobility, the eyes remaining open.
Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and duringimmobility, the eyes remaining open.
Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and during
this period of anguish, Edmond leaned over his friend, his hand
applied to his heart, and felt the body gradually grow cold, and
the heart's pulsation become more and more deep and dull, until at
length it stopped; the last movement of the heart ceased, the face
became livid, the eyes remained open, but the eyeballs were glazed.
It was six o'clock in the morning, the dawn was just breaking, and
its feeble ray came into the dungeon, and paled the ineffectual
light of the lamp. Strange shadows passed over the countenance of
the dead man, and at times gave it the appearance of life. While
the struggle between day and night lasted, Dantes still doubted;
but as soon as the daylight gained the pre-eminence, he saw that he
was alone with a corpse. Then an invincible and extreme terror
seized upon him, and he dared not again press the hand that hung
out of bed, he dared no longer to gaze on those fixed and vacant
eyes, which he tried many times to close, but in vain — they opened
again as soon as shut. He extinguished the lamp, carefully
concealed it, and then went away, closing as well as he could the
entrance to the secret passage by the large stone as he
descended.
It was time, for the jailer was coming. On this occasion he
began his rounds at Dantes' cell, and on leaving him he went on to
Faria's dungeon, taking thither breakfast and some linen. Nothing
betokened that the man know anything of what had occurred. He went
on his way.
Dantes was then seized with an indescribable desire to know what
was going on in the dungeon of his unfortunate friend. He therefore
returned by the subterraneous gallery, and arrived in time to hear
the exclamations of the turnkey, who called out for help. Other
turnkeys came, and then was heard the regular tramp of soldiers.
Last of all came the governor.
Edmond heard the creaking of the bed as they moved the corpse,
heard the voice of the governor, who asked them to throw water onheard the voice of the governor, who asked them to throw water on
the dead man's face; and seeing that, in spite of this application,
the prisoner did not recover, they sent for the doctor. The
governor then went out, and words of pity fell on Dantes' listening
ears, mingled with brutal laughter.
"Well, well," said one, "the madman has gone to look after his
treasure. Good journey to him!"
"With all his millions, he will not have enough to pay for his
shroud!" said another.
"Oh," added a third voice, "the shrouds of the Chateau d'If are
not dear!"
"Perhaps," said one of the previous speakers, "as he was a
churchman, they may go to some expense in his behalf."
"They may give him the honors of the sack."
Edmond did not lose a word, but comprehended very little of what
was said. The voices soon ceased, and it seemed to him as if every
one had left the cell. Still he dared not to enter, as they might
have left some turnkey to watch the dead. He remained, therefore,
mute and motionless, hardly venturing to breathe. At the end of an
hour, he heard a faint noise, which increased. It was the governor
who returned, followed by the doctor and other attendants. There
was a moment's silence, — it was evident that the doctor was
examining the dead body. The inquiries soon commenced.
The doctor analyzed the symptoms of the malady to which the
prisoner had succumbed, and declared that he was dead. Questions
and answers followed in a nonchalant manner that made Dantes
indignant, for he felt that all the world should have for the poor
abbe a love and respect equal to his own.
"I am very sorry for what you tell me," said the governor,
replying to the assurance of the doctor, "that the old man is
really dead; for he was a quiet, inoffensive prisoner, happy in his
folly, and required no watching."
"Ah," added the turnkey, "there was no occasion for watching
him: he would have stayed here fifty years, I'll answer for it,
without any attempt to escape."
"Still," said the governor, "I believe it will be requisite,


without any attempt to escape."
"Still," said the governor, "I believe it will be requisite,
notwithstanding your certainty, and not that I doubt your science,
but in discharge of my official duty, that we should be perfectly
assured that the prisoner is dead." There was a moment of complete
silence, during which Dantes, still listening, knew that the doctor
was examining the corpse a second time.
"You may make your mind easy," said the doctor; "he is dead. I
will answer for that."
"You know, sir," said the governor, persisting, "that we are not
content in such cases as this with such a simple examination. In
spite of all appearances, be so kind, therefore, as to finish your
duty by fulfilling the formalities described by law."
"Let the irons be heated," said the doctor; "but really it is a
useless precaution." This order to heat the irons made Dantes
shudder. He heard hasty steps, the creaking of a door, people going
and coming, and some minutes afterwards a turnkey entered, saying,
—
"Here is the brazier, lighted." There was a moment's silence,
and then was heard the crackling of burning flesh, of which the
peculiar and nauseous smell penetrated even behind the wall where
Dantes was listening in horror. The perspiration poured forth upon
the young man's brow, and he felt as if he should faint.
"You see, sir, he is really dead," said the doctor; "this burn
in the heel is decisive. The poor fool is cured of his folly, and
delivered from his captivity."
"Wasn't his name Faria?" inquired one of the officers who
accompanied the governor.
"Yes, sir; and, as he said, it was an ancient name. He was, too,
very learned, and rational enough on all points which did not
relate to his treasure; but on that, indeed, he was
intractable."
"It is the sort of malady which we call monomania," said the
doctor.
"You had never anything to complain of?" said the governor to
the jailer who had charge of the abbe.
"Never, sir," replied the jailer, "never; on the contrary, he"Never, sir," replied the jailer, "never; on the contrary, he
sometimes amused me very much by telling me stories. One day, too,
when my wife was ill, he gave me a prescription which cured
her."
"Ah, ah!" said the doctor, "I did not know that I had a rival;
but I hope, governor, that you will show him all proper
respect."
"Yes, yes, make your mind easy, he shall be decently interred in
the newest sack we can find. Will that satisfy you?"
"Must this last formality take place in your presence, sir?"
inquired a turnkey.
"Certainly. But make haste — I cannot stay here all day." Other
footsteps, going and coming, were now heard, and a moment
afterwards the noise of rustling canvas reached Dantes' ears, the
bed creaked, and the heavy footfall of a man who lifts a weight
sounded on the floor; then the bed again creaked under the weight
deposited upon it.
"This evening," said the governor.
"Will there be any mass?" asked one of the attendants.
"That is impossible," replied the governor. "The chaplain of the
chateau came to me yesterday to beg for leave of absence, in order
to take a trip to Hyeres for a week. I told him I would attend to
the prisoners in his absence. If the poor abbe had not been in such
a hurry, he might have had his requiem."
"Pooh, pooh;" said the doctor, with the impiety usual in persons
of his profession; "he is a churchman. God will respect his
profession, and not give the devil the wicked delight of sending
him a priest." A shout of laughter followed this brutal jest.
Meanwhile the operation of putting the body in the sack was going
on.
"This evening," said the governor, when the task was ended.
"At what hour?" inquired a turnkey.
"Why, about ten or eleven o'clock."
"Shall we watch by the corpse?"
"Of what use would it be? Shut the dungeon as if he were alive —
that is all." Then the steps retreated, and the voices died away in
the distance; the noise of the door, with its creaking hinges and
bolts ceased, and a silence more sombre than that of solitudebolts ceased, and a silence more sombre than that of solitude
ensued, — the silence of death, which was all-pervasive, and struck
its icy chill to the very soul of Dantes. Then he raised the
flag-stone cautiously with his head, and looked carefully around
the chamber. It was empty, and Dantes emerged from the tunnel.On the bed, at full length, and faintly illuminated by the pale
light that came from the window, lay a sack of canvas, and under
its rude folds was stretched a long and stiffened form; it was
Faria's last winding-sheet, — a winding-sheet which, as the turnkey
said, cost so little. Everything was in readiness. A barrier had
been placed between Dantes and his old friend. No longer could
Edmond look into those wide-open eyes which had seemed to be
penetrating the mysteries of death; no longer could he clasp the
hand which had done so much to make his existence blessed. Faria,
the beneficent and cheerful companion, with whom he was accustomed
to live so intimately, no longer breathed. He seated himself on the
edge of that terrible bed, and fell into melancholy and gloomy
revery.
Alone — he was alone again — again condemned to silence — again
face to face with nothingness! Alone! — never again to see the
face, never again to hear the voice of the only human being who
united him to earth! Was not Faria's fate the better, after all —
to solve the problem of life at its source, even at the risk of
horrible suffering? The idea of suicide, which his friend had
driven away and kept away by his cheerful presence, now hovered
like a phantom over the abbe's dead body.
"If I could die," he said, "I should go where he goes, and
should assuredly find him again. But how to die? It is very easy,"
he went on with a smile; "I will remain here, rush on the first
person that opens the door, strangle him, and then they will
guillotine me." But excessive grief is like a storm at sea, where
the frail bark is tossed from the depths to the top of the wave.
Dantes recoiled from the idea of so infamous a death, and passed
suddenly from despair to an ardent desire for life and liberty.
"Die? oh, no," he exclaimed — "not die now, after having lived
and suffered so long and so much! Die? yes, had I died years ago;
but now to die would be, indeed, to give way to the sarcasm of
destiny. No, I want to live; I shall struggle to the very last; I


destiny. No, I want to live; I shall struggle to the very last; I
will yet win back the happiness of which I have been deprived.
Before I die I must not forget that I have my executioners to
punish, and perhaps, too, who knows, some friends to reward. Yet
they will forget me here, and I shall die in my dungeon like
Faria." As he said this, he became silent and gazed straight before
him like one overwhelmed with a strange and amazing thought.
Suddenly he arose, lifted his hand to his brow as if his brain wore
giddy, paced twice or thrice round the dungeon, and then paused
abruptly by the bed.
"Just God!" he muttered, "whence comes this thought? Is it from
thee? Since none but the dead pass freely from this dungeon, let me
take the place of the dead!" Without giving himself time to
reconsider his decision, and, indeed, that he might not allow his
thoughts to be distracted from his desperate resolution, he bent
over the appalling shroud, opened it with the knife which Faria had
made, drew the corpse from the sack, and bore it along the tunnel
to his own chamber, laid it on his couch, tied around its head the
rag he wore at night around his own, covered it with his
counterpane, once again kissed the ice-cold brow, and tried vainly
to close the resisting eyes, which glared horribly, turned the head
towards the wall, so that the jailer might, when he brought the
evening meal, believe that he was asleep, as was his frequent
custom; entered the tunnel again, drew the bed against the wall,
returned to the other cell, took from the hiding-place the needle
and thread, flung off his rags, that they might feel only naked
flesh beneath the coarse canvas, and getting inside the sack,
placed himself in the posture in which the dead body had been laid,
and sewed up the mouth of the sack from the inside.
He would have been discovered by the beating of his heart, if by
any mischance the jailers had entered at that moment. Dantes might
have waited until the evening visit was over, but he was afraidhave waited until the evening visit was over, but he was afraid
that the governor would change his mind, and order the dead body to
be removed earlier. In that case his last hope would have been
destroyed. Now his plans were fully made, and this is what he
intended to do. If while he was being carried out the grave-diggers
should discover that they were bearing a live instead of a dead
body, Dantes did not intend to give them time to recognize him, but
with a sudden cut of the knife, he meant to open the sack from top
to bottom, and, profiting by their alarm, escape; if they tried to
catch him, he would use his knife to better purpose.
If they took him to the cemetery and laid him in a grave, he
would allow himself to be covered with earth, and then, as it was
night, the grave-diggers could scarcely have turned their backs
before he would have worked his way through the yielding soil and
escaped. He hoped that the weight of earth would not be so great
that he could not overcome it. If he was detected in this and the
earth proved too heavy, he would be stifled, and then — so much the
better, all would be over. Dantes had not eaten since the preceding
evening, but he had not thought of hunger, nor did he think of it
now. His situation was too precarious to allow him even time to
reflect on any thought but one.
The first risk that Dantes ran was, that the jailer, when he
brought him his supper at seven o'clock, might perceive the change
that had been made; fortunately, twenty times at least, from
misanthropy or fatigue, Dantes had received his jailer in bed, and
then the man placed his bread and soup on the table, and went away
without saying a word. This time the jailer might not be as silent
as usual, but speak to Dantes, and seeing that he received no
reply, go to the bed, and thus discover all.
When seven o'clock came, Dantes' agony really began. His hand
placed upon his heart was unable to redress its throbbings, while,
with the other he wiped the perspiration from his temples. Fromwith the other he wiped the perspiration from his temples. From
time to time chills ran through his whole body, and clutched his
heart in a grasp of ice. Then he thought he was going to die. Yet
the hours passed on without any unusual disturbance, and Dantes
knew that he had escaped the first peril. It was a good augury. At
length, about the hour the governor had appointed, footsteps were
heard on the stairs. Edmond felt that the moment had arrived,
summoned up all his courage, held his breath, and would have been
happy if at the same time he could have repressed the throbbing of
his veins. The footsteps — they were double — paused at the door —
and Dantes guessed that the two grave-diggers had come to seek him
— this idea was soon converted into certainty, when he heard the
noise they made in putting down the hand-bier. The door opened, and
a dim light reached Dantes' eyes through the coarse sack that
covered him; he saw two shadows approach his bed, a third remaining
at the door with a torch in its hand. The two men, approaching the
ends of the bed, took the sack by its extremities.
"He's heavy though for an old and thin man," said one, as he
raised the head.
"They say every year adds half a pound to the weight of the
bones," said another, lifting the feet.
"Have you tied the knot?" inquired the first speaker.
"What would be the use of carrying so much more weight?" was the
reply, "I can do that when we get there."
"Yes, you're right," replied the companion.
"What's the knot for?" thought Dantes.
They deposited the supposed corpse on the bier. Edmond stiffened
himself in order to play the part of a dead man, and then the
party, lighted by the man with the torch, who went first, ascended
the stairs. Suddenly he felt the fresh and sharp night air, and
Dantes knew that the mistral was blowing. It was a sensation in
which pleasure and pain were strangely mingled. The bearers went on
for twenty paces, then stopped, putting the bier down on the
ground. One of them went away, and Dantes heard his shoes striking


ground. One of them went away, and Dantes heard his shoes striking
on the pavement.
"Where am I?" he asked himself.
"Really, he is by no means a light load!" said the other bearer,
sitting on the edge of the hand-barrow. Dantes' first impulse was
to escape, but fortunately he did not attempt it.
"Give us a light," said the other bearer, "or I shall never find
what I am looking for." The man with the torch complied, although
not asked in the most polite terms.
"What can he be looking for?" thought Edmond. "The spade,
perhaps." An exclamation of satisfaction indicated that the
grave-digger had found the object of his search. "Here it is at
last," he said, "not without some trouble though."
"Yes," was the answer, "but it has lost nothing by waiting."
As he said this, the man came towards Edmond, who heard a heavy
metallic substance laid down beside him, and at the same moment a
cord was fastened round his feet with sudden and painful
violence.
"Well, have you tied the knot?" inquired the grave-digger, who
was looking on.
"Yes, and pretty tight too, I can tell you," was the answer.
"Move on, then." And the bier was lifted once more, and they
proceeded.
They advanced fifty paces farther, and then stopped to open a
door, then went forward again. The noise of the waves dashing
against the rocks on which the chateau is built, reached Dantes'
ear distinctly as they went forward.
"Bad weather!" observed one of the bearers; "not a pleasant
night for a dip in the sea."
"Why, yes, the abbe runs a chance of being wet," said the other;
and then there was a burst of brutal laughter. Dantes did not
comprehend the jest, but his hair stood erect on his head.
"Well, here we are at last," said one of them. "A little farther
— a little farther," said the other. "You know very well that the
last was stopped on his way, dashed on the rocks, and the governor
told us next day that we were careless fellows."
They ascended five or six more steps, and then Dantes felt that
they took him, one by the head and the other by the heels, andthey took him, one by the head and the other by the heels, and
swung him to and fro. "One!" said the grave-diggers, "two! three!"
And at the same instant Dantes felt himself flung into the air like
a wounded bird, falling, falling, with a rapidity that made his
blood curdle. Although drawn downwards by the heavy weight which
hastened his rapid descent, it seemed to him as if the fall lasted
for a century.
At last, with a horrible splash, he darted like an arrow into
the ice-cold water, and as he did so he uttered a shrill cry,
stifled in a moment by his immersion beneath the waves.
Dantes had been flung into the sea, and was dragged into its
depths by a thirty-six pound shot tied to his feet. The sea is the
cemetery of the Chateau d'If.Dantes, although stunned and almost suffocated, had sufficient
presence of mind to hold his breath, and as his right hand
(prepared as he was for every chance) held his knife open, he
rapidly ripped up the sack, extricated his arm, and then his body;
but in spite of all his efforts to free himself from the shot, he
felt it dragging him down still lower. He then bent his body, and
by a desperate effort severed the cord that bound his legs, at the
moment when it seemed as if he were actually strangled. With a
mighty leap he rose to the surface of the sea, while the shot
dragged down to the depths the sack that had so nearly become his
shroud.
Dantes waited only to get breath, and then dived, in order to
avoid being seen. When he arose a second time, he was fifty paces
from where he had first sunk. He saw overhead a black and
tempestuous sky, across which the wind was driving clouds that
occasionally suffered a twinkling star to appear; before him was
the vast expanse of waters, sombre and terrible, whose waves foamed
and roared as if before the approach of a storm. Behind him,
blacker than the sea, blacker than the sky, rose phantom-like the
vast stone structure, whose projecting crags seemed like arms
extended to seize their prey, and on the highest rock was a torch
lighting two figures. He fancied that these two forms were looking
at the sea; doubtless these strange grave-diggers had heard his
cry. Dantes dived again, and remained a long time beneath the
water. This was an easy feat to him, for he usually attracted a
crowd of spectators in the bay before the lighthouse at Marseilles
when he swam there, and was unanimously declared to be the best
swimmer in the port. When he came up again the light had
disappeared.
He must now get his bearings. Ratonneau and Pomegue are the
nearest islands of all those that surround the Chateau d'If, but
Ratonneau and Pomegue are inhabited, as is also the islet of Daume.
Tiboulen and Lemaire were therefore the safest for Dantes' venture.Tiboulen and Lemaire were therefore the safest for Dantes' venture.
The islands of Tiboulen and Lemaire are a league from the Chateau
d'If; Dantes, nevertheless, determined to make for them. But how
could he find his way in the darkness of the night? At this moment
he saw the light of Planier, gleaming in front of him like a star.
By leaving this light on the right, he kept the Island of Tiboulen
a little on the left; by turning to the left, therefore, he would
find it. But, as we have said, it was at least a league from the
Chateau d'If to this island. Often in prison Faria had said to him,
when he saw him idle and inactive, "Dantes, you must not give way
to this listlessness; you will be drowned if you seek to escape,
and your strength has not been properly exercised and prepared for
exertion." These words rang in Dantes' ears, even beneath the
waves; he hastened to cleave his way through them to see if he had
not lost his strength. He found with pleasure that his captivity
had taken away nothing of his power, and that he was still master
of that element on whose bosom he had so often sported as a
boy.
Fear, that relentless pursuer, clogged Dantes' efforts. He
listened for any sound that might be audible, and every time that
he rose to the top of a wave he scanned the horizon, and strove to
penetrate the darkness. He fancied that every wave behind him was a
pursuing boat, and he redoubled his exertions, increasing rapidly
his distance from the chateau, but exhausting his strength. He swam
on still, and already the terrible chateau had disappeared in the
darkness. He could not see it, but he felt its presence. An hour
passed, during which Dantes, excited by the feeling of freedom,
continued to cleave the waves. "Let us see," said he, "I have swum
above an hour, but as the wind is against me, that has retarded my
speed; however, if I am not mistaken, I must be close to Tiboulen.
But what if I were mistaken?" A shudder passed over him. He sought
to tread water, in order to rest himself; but the sea was too


to tread water, in order to rest himself; but the sea was too
violent, and he felt that he could not make use of this means of
recuperation.
"Well," said he, "I will swim on until I am worn out, or the
cramp seizes me, and then I shall sink;" and he struck out with the
energy of despair.
Suddenly the sky seemed to him to become still darker and more
dense, and heavy clouds seemed to sweep down towards him; at the
same time he felt a sharp pain in his knee. He fancied for a moment
that he had been shot, and listened for the report; but he heard
nothing. Then he put out his hand, and encountered an obstacle and
with another stroke knew that he had gained the shore.
Before him rose a grotesque mass of rocks, that resembled
nothing so much as a vast fire petrified at the moment of its most
fervent combustion. It was the Island of Tiboulen. Dantes rose,
advanced a few steps, and, with a fervent prayer of gratitude,
stretched himself on the granite, which seemed to him softer than
down. Then, in spite of the wind and rain, he fell into the deep,
sweet sleep of utter exhaustion. At the expiration of an hour
Edmond was awakened by the roar of thunder. The tempest was let
loose and beating the atmosphere with its mighty wings; from time
to time a flash of lightning stretched across the heavens like a
fiery serpent, lighting up the clouds that rolled on in vast
chaotic waves.
Dantes had not been deceived — he had reached the first of the
two islands, which was, in fact, Tiboulen. He knew that it was
barren and without shelter; but when the sea became more calm, he
resolved to plunge into its waves again, and swim to Lemaire,
equally arid, but larger, and consequently better adapted for
concealment.
An overhanging rock offered him a temporary shelter, and
scarcely had he availed himself of it when the tempest burst forth
in all its fury. Edmond felt the trembling of the rock beneath
which he lay; the waves, dashing themselves against it, wetted him
with their spray. He was safely sheltered, and yet he felt dizzy inwith their spray. He was safely sheltered, and yet he felt dizzy in
the midst of the warring of the elements and the dazzling
brightness of the lightning. It seemed to him that the island
trembled to its base, and that it would, like a vessel at anchor,
break moorings, and bear him off into the centre of the storm. He
then recollected that he had not eaten or drunk for four-and-twenty
hours. He extended his hands, and drank greedily of the rainwater
that had lodged in a hollow of the rock.
As he rose, a flash of lightning, that seemed to rive the
remotest heights of heaven, illumined the darkness. By its light,
between the Island of Lemaire and Cape Croiselle, a quarter of a
league distant, Dantes saw a fishing-boat driven rapidly like a
spectre before the power of winds and waves. A second after, he saw
it again, approaching with frightful rapidity. Dantes cried at the
top of his voice to warn them of their danger, but they saw it
themselves. Another flash showed him four men clinging to the
shattered mast and the rigging, while a fifth clung to the broken
rudder.
The men he beheld saw him undoubtedly, for their cries were
carried to his ears by the wind. Above the splintered mast a sail
rent to tatters was waving; suddenly the ropes that still held it
gave way, and it disappeared in the darkness of the night like a
vast sea-bird. At the same moment a violent crash was heard, and
cries of distress. Dantes from his rocky perch saw the shattered
vessel, and among the fragments the floating forms of the hapless
sailors. Then all was dark again.
Dantes ran down the rocks at the risk of being himself dashed to
pieces; he listened, he groped about, but he heard and saw nothing
— the cries had ceased, and the tempest continued to rage. By
degrees the wind abated, vast gray clouds rolled towards the west,
and the blue firmament appeared studded with bright stars. Soon a
red streak became visible in the horizon, the waves whitened, a
light played over them, and gilded their foaming crests with gold.
It was day.light played over them, and gilded their foaming crests with gold.
It was day.
Dantes stood mute and motionless before this majestic spectacle,
as if he now beheld it for the first time; and indeed since his
captivity in the Chateau d'If he had forgotten that such scenes
were ever to be witnessed. He turned towards the fortress, and
looked at both sea and land. The gloomy building rose from the
bosom of the ocean with imposing majesty and seemed to dominate the
scene. It was about five o'clock. The sea continued to get
calmer.
"In two or three hours," thought Dantes, "the turnkey will enter
my chamber, find the body of my poor friend, recognize it, seek for
me in vain, and give the alarm. Then the tunnel will be discovered;
the men who cast me into the sea and who must have heard the cry I
uttered, will be questioned. Then boats filled with armed soldiers
will pursue the wretched fugitive. The cannon will warn every one
to refuse shelter to a man wandering about naked and famished. The
police of Marseilles will be on the alert by land, whilst the
governor pursues me by sea. I am cold, I am hungry. I have lost
even the knife that saved me. O my God, I have suffered enough
surely! Have pity on me, and do for me what I am unable to do for
myself."
As Dantes (his eyes turned in the direction of the Chateau d'If)
uttered this prayer, he saw off the farther point of the Island of
Pomegue a small vessel with lateen sail skimming the sea like a
gull in search of prey; and with his sailor's eye he knew it to be
a Genoese tartan. She was coming out of Marseilles harbor, and was
standing out to sea rapidly, her sharp prow cleaving through the
waves. "Oh," cried Edmond, "to think that in half an hour I could
join her, did I not fear being questioned, detected, and conveyed
back to Marseilles! What can I do? What story can I invent? under
pretext of trading along the coast, these men, who are in reality
smugglers, will prefer selling me to doing a good action. I must