# The Count of Monte-Cristo/Volume 1/Chapter 23

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CHAPTER XXIII
THE ISLE OF MONTE-CRISTO
HUS, at length, by one of those pieces of unlooked-for good fortune which sometimes occur to those on whom misfortune has for a long time pressed heavily, Dantès was about to arrive at his wished-for opportunity by simple and natural means, and land in the island without incurring any suspicion. One night only separated him from his departure so ardently wished for.
The night was one of the most feverish that Dantès had ever passed, and during its progress all the charms, good and evil, passed in turn through his brain. If he closed his eyes, he saw the letter of Cardinal Spada written on the wall in characters of flame; if he slept for a moment, the wildest dreams haunted his fancy. He descended into grottoes paved with emeralds, with panels of rubies, and the roof glowing with diamond stalactites. Pearls fell drop by drop, as subterranean waters filter in their caves. Edmond, amazed, wonderstruck, filled his pockets with the radiant gems and then returned to daylight, when he discovered that his prizes were all converted into common pebbles. He then endeavored to reënter these marvelous grottoes, but then beheld them only in the distance; and now the way wound in endless spirals, and then the entrance became invisible, and in vain did he tax his memory for the magic and mysterious word which opened the splendid caverns of Ali Baba to the Arabian fisherman. All was useless; the treasure disappeared, and had again reverted to the genii from whom for a moment he had hoped to carry it off.
The day came at length, and was almost as feverish as the night had been, but it brought reason to aid his imagination, and Dantès was then enabled to arrange a plan which had hitherto been vague and unsettled in his brain. Night came, and with it the preparation for departure, and these preparations served to conceal Dantès' agitation. He had by ​degrees assumed such authority over his companions that he was almost like a commander on board; and as his orders were always clear, distinct, and easy of execution, his comrades obeyed him with promptitude and pleasure.
The old captain did not interfere, for he too had recognized the superiority of Dantès over the crew and himself. He saw in the young man his natural successor, and regretted that he had not a daughter, that he might have bound Edmond to him by a distinguished alliance.
At seven o'clock in the evening all was ready, and at ten minutes past seven they doubled the lighthouse just as the beacon was kindled. The sea was calm, and, with a fresh breeze from the south-east, they sailed beneath a bright blue sky, in which God also lighted up in turn his beacon-lights, each of which is a world. Dantès told them that all hands might turn in, and he would take the helm. When the Maltese (for so they called Dantès) had said this, it was sufficient, and all went to their cots contentedly.
This frequently happened. Dantès, flung back from solitude into the world, frequently experienced a desire for solitude; and what solitude is at the same time more complete, more poetical, than that of a bark floating isolated on the sea during the obscurity of the night, in the silence of immensity, and under the eye of Heaven?
Now, on this occasion the solitude was peopled with his thoughts, the night lighted up by his illusions, and the silence animated by his anticipations. When the master awoke, the vessel was hurrying on with all her canvas set, and every sail full with the breeze. They were making nearly ten knots an hour. The isle of Monte-Cristo loomed large in the horizon. Edmond resigned the bark to the master's care, and went and lay down in his hammock; but, in spite of a sleepless night, he could not close his eyes for a moment.
Two hours afterward he came on deck, as the boat was about to double the isle of Elba. They were just abreast of Mareciana, and beyond the flat but verdant isle of La Pianosa. The peak of Monte-Cristo, reddened by the burning sun, was seen against the azure sky. Dantes desired the helmsman to put down his helm, in order to leave La Pianosa on the right hand, as he knew that he should thus decrease the distance by two or three knots. About five o'clock in the evening the island was quite distinct, and everything on it was plainly perceptible, owing to that clearness of the atmosphere which is peculiar to the light which the rays of the sun cast at its setting.
Edmond gazed most earnestly at the mass of rocks, which gave out all the variety of twilight colors, from the brightest rose to the deepest blue; and from time to time his cheeks flushed, his brow became purple, ​and a mist passed over his eyes. Never did gamester whose whole fortune is staked on one cast of the die experience the anguish which Edmond felt in his paroxysms of hope.
Night came, and at ten o'clock they anchored. La Jeune Amélie was the first at the rendezvous. In spite of his usual command over himself, Dantès could not restrain his impetuosity. He was the first who jumped on shore; and had he dared, he would, like Lucius Brutus, have "kissed his mother earth." It was dark; but at eleven o'clock the moon rose in the midst of the ocean, whose every wave she silvered, and then, "ascending high," played in floods of pale light on the rocky hills of this second Pelion.
The island was familiar to the crew of La Jeune Amélie,—it was one of her halting-places. As to Dantès, he had passed it on his voyages to and from the Levant, but never touched at it. He questioned Jacopo.
"Where shall we pass the night?" he inquired.
"Why, on board the tartan," replied the sailor.
"Should we not be better in the grottoes."
"What grottoes?"
"Why, the grottoes—caves of the island."
"I do not know of any grottoes," replied Jacopo.
A cold damp sprang to Dantès' brow.
"What! are there no grottoes at Monte-Cristo?" he asked.
"None."
For a moment Dantès was speechless; then he remembered that these caves might have been filled up by some accident, or even stopped up, for the sake of greater security, by Cardinal Spada. The point was, then, to discover the lost opening. It was useless to search at night, and Dantès therefore delayed all investigation until the morning. Besides, a signal made half a league out at sea, to which La Jeune Amélie replied by a similar signal, indicated that the moment had arrived for business.
The boat that now arrived, assured by the answering signal that all was right, soon came in sight, white and silent as a phantom, and cast anchor within a cable's length of shore.
Then the landing began. Dantès reflected as he worked on the shout of joy which, with a single word, he could produce from amongst all these men, if he gave utterance to the one unchanging thought that was whispering in his ear and in his heart; but, far from disclosing this precious secret, he almost feared that he had already said too much, and by his restlessness and continual questions, his minute observations and evident preoccupation, had aroused suspicions. Fortunately, as regarded this circumstance at least, with him the painful past reflected on his countenance an indelible sadness; and the glimmer​ings of gayety seen beneath this cloud were indeed but transitory flashes.
No one had the slightest suspicion; and when next day, taking a fowling-piece, powder, and shot, Dantès testified a desire to go and kill some of the wild goats that were seen springing from rock to rock, his excursion was construed into a love of sport or a desire for solitude. However, Jacopo insisted on following him; and Dantès did not oppose this, fearing if he did so that he might incur distrust. Scarcely, however, had he gone a quarter of a league than, having killed a kid, he begged Jacopo to take it to his comrades, and request them to cook it, and when ready to let him know by firing a gun. This and some dried fruits, and a flask of the wine of Monte Pulciano, was the bill of fare.
Dantès went forward, looking behind and round about him from time to time. Having reached the summit of a rock, he saw, a thousand feet beneath him, his companions, whom Jacopo had rejoined, and who were all busy preparing the repast which Edmond's skill as a marksman had augmented with a capital dish.
Edmond looked at them for a moment with the sad and soft smile of a man superior to his fellows.
"In two hours' time," said he, "these persons will depart richer by fifty piastres each, to go and risk their lives again by endeavoring to gain fifty more such pieces; then they will return with a fortune of six hundred francs, and waste this treasure in some city with the pride of sultans and the insolence of nabobs. At this moment Hope makes me despise their riches, which seem to me contemptible. Yet perchance to-morrow deception will so act on me, that I shall, on compulsion, consider such a contemptible possession as the utmost happiness. Oh, no!" exclaimed Edmond, "that will not be. The wise, unerring Faria could not be mistaken in this one thing. Besides, it were better to die than to continue to lead this low and wretched life."
Thus Dantès, who but three months before had no desire but liberty, had now not liberty enough, and panted for wealth. The cause was not in Dantès, but in Providence, who, whilst limiting the power of man, has filled him with boundless desires.
Meanwhile, by a way between two walls of rock, following a path worn by a torrent, and which, in all probability, human foot had never before trod, Dantès approached the spot where he supposed the grottoes must have existed. Keeping along the coast, and examining the smallest object with serious attention, he thought he could trace on certain rocks marks made by the hand of man.
Time, which incrusts all physical substances with its mossy mantle, as it invests all things moral with its mantle of forgetfulness, seemed to ​have respected these signs, traced with a certain regularity, and probably with the design of leaving traces. Occasionally these marks disappeared beneath tufts of myrtle, which spread into large bushes laden with blossoms, or beneath parasitical lichen. It was thus requisite that
Edmond should push the branches on one side or remove the mosses in order to retrace the indicating marks which were to be his guides in this labyrinth. These signs had renewed the best hopes in Edmond's mind. Why should it not have been the cardinal who had first traced ​them, in order that they might, in the event of a catastrophe, which he could not foresee would have been so complete, serve as a guide for his nephew? This solitary place was precisely suited for a man desirous of burying a treasure. Only, might not these betraying marks have attracted other eyes than those for whom they were made? and had the dark and wondrous isle indeed faithfully guarded its precious secret?
It seemed, however, to Edmond, who was hidden from his comrades by the inequalities of the ground, that at sixty paces from the harbor the marks ceased; nor did they terminate at any grotto. A large round rock, placed solidly on its base, was the only spot to which they seemed to lead. Edmond reflected that perhaps instead of having reached the end he might have only touched on the beginning, and he therefore turned round and retraced his steps.
During this time his comrades had prepared the repast, had got some water from a spring, spread out the fruit and bread, and cooked the kid. Just at the moment when they were taking it from the spit, they saw Edmond, who, light and daring as a chamois, was springing from rock to rock, and they fired a musket to give the signal agreed upon. The sportsman instantly changed his direction, and ran quickly toward them. But at the moment when they were all following with their eyes his agile bounds with a rashness which gave them alarm, Edmond's foot, as if to justify their fears, slipped, and they saw him stagger on the edge of a rock and disappear. They all rushed toward him, for all loved Edmond, in spite of his superiority; yet Jacopo reached him first.
He found Edmond stretched bleeding and almost senseless. He had rolled down a height of twelve or fifteen feet. They poured some drops of rum down his throat, and this remedy, which had before been so beneficial to him, produced the same effect as formerly. Edmond opened his eyes, complained of great pain in his knee, a feeling of heaviness in his head, and severe pains in his loins. They wished to carry him to the shore, but when they touched him, although under Jacopo's directions, he declared, with heavy groans, that he could not bear to be moved.
It may be supposed that Dantès did not now think of his dinner, but he insisted that his comrades, who had not his reasons for fasting, should have their meal. As for himself, he declared that he had only need of a little rest, and that when they returned he should be easier. The sailors did not require much urging. They were hungry, and the smell of the roasted kid was very savory, and your tars are not very ceremonious. An hour afterward they returned. All that Edmond had been able to do was to drag himself about a dozen paces forward to lean against a moss-grown rock.
​But, far from being easier, Dantès' pains had appeared to increase in violence. The old skipper, who was obliged to sail in the morning in order to land his cargo on the frontiers of Piedmont and France, between Nice and Fréjus, urged Dantès to try and rise. Edmond made great exertions in order to comply; but at each effort he fell back, moaning and turning pale.
"He has broken his ribs," said the commander, in a low voice. No matter; he is an excellent fellow, and we must not leave him. We will try and carry him on board the tartan."
Dantès declared, however, that he would rather die where he was than undergo the agony caused by the slightest movement he made.
"Well," said the master, "let what may happen, it shall never be said that we deserted a good comrade like you. We will not go till evening."
This very much astonished the sailors, although not one opposed it. The master was so strict that this was the first time they had ever seen him give up an enterprise, or even delay an arrangement. Dantès would not allow that any such infraction of regular and proper rules should be made in his favor.
"No, no," he said to the master, "I was awkward, and it is just that I pay the penalty of my clumsiness. Leave me a small supply of biscuit, a gun, powder, and balls to kill the kids or defend myself at need, and a pickaxe to build me something like a shed if you delay in coming back for me."
"But you'll die of hunger," said the sailor.
"I would rather do so," was Edmond's reply, "than suffer the inexpressible agonies which the slightest motion brings on."
The captain turned toward his vessel, which was undulating in the small harbor, and, with her sails partly set, was ready for sea when all her toilette should be completed.
"What are we to do, Maltese!" asked the captain. "We cannot leave you here so, and yet we cannot stay."
"Go, go!" exclaimed Dantès.
"We shall be absent at least a week," said the patron, "and then we must run out of our course to come here and take you up again."
"Why," said Dantès, "if in two or three days you hail any fishing-boat, desire them to come here to me. I will pay twenty-five piastres for my passage back to Leghorn. If you do not come across one, return for me." The captain shook his head.
"Listen, Captain Baldi; there's one way of settling this," said Jacopo.
"Do you go, and I will stay and take care of the wounded man."
"And give up your share of the venture," said Edmond, "to remain with me?"
"Yes," said Jacopo, "and without any hesitation."
​"You are a good fellow," replied Edmond, "and Heaven will recompense you for your generous intentions; but I do not wish any one to stay with me. A day or two's rest will set me up, and I hope I shall find amongst the rocks certain herbs most excellent for contusions."
A singular smile passed over Dantès' lips; he squeezed Jacopo's hand warmly; but nothing could shake his determination to remain — and remain alone.
The smugglers left with Edmond what he had requested and set sail; but not without turning about several times, and each time making signs of a cordial leave-taking, to which Edmond replied with his hand only, as if he could not move the rest of his body.
When they had disappeared, he said with a smile: "'Tis strange that it should be amongst such men that we find proofs of friendship and devotion." Then he dragged himself cautiously to the top of a rock, from which he had a full view of the sea, and thence he saw the tartan complete her preparations for sailing, weigh anchor, and, balancing her self as gracefully as a water-fowl ere it takes to the wing, set sail.
At the end of an hour she was completely out of sight; at least, it was impossible for the wounded man to see her any longer from the spot where he was. Then Dantès rose more agile and light than the kid amongst the myrtles and shrubs of these wild rocks, took his gun in one hand, his pickaxe in the other, and hastened toward the rock on which the marks he had noted terminated.
"And now," he exclaimed, remembering the tale of the Arabian fisherman, which Faria had related to him, "now, Open Sesame!"