Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Alexandre Dumas

  “Two million Roman crowns and about thirteen millions of money in French coin.”

  Edmond thought he was dreaming: he wavered between incredulity and joy.

  “I have kept this a secret from you for so long,” Faria continued, “simply because I wanted to give you proofs, and also because I thought to give you a surprise. Had we escaped before my attack, I should have taken you to Monte Cristo, but now,” he added with a sigh, “it will be you who will take me. Well, Dantès, are you not going to thank me?”

  “This treasure belongs to you alone, my friend, and I have no right to it,” Dantès replied. “I am not even related to you.”

  “You are my son, Dantès,” exclaimed the old man. “You are the child of my captivity. My profession condemned me to celibacy, but God has sent you to console the man who could not be a father, and the prisoner who could not be a free man.”

  Faria held out his one remaining arm to the young man, who threw himself round his neck and burst into tears.

  Chapter XV

  THE THIRD ATTACK

  Now that this treasure, which had been the object of the abbé’s meditations for so long, could give future happiness to him whom he truly loved as a son, it had redoubled its value in his eyes; daily would he expatiate on the amount, holding forth to Dantès on the good a man could do to his friends in modern times with a fortune of thirteen or fourteen millions. Dantès’ face would darken, for the oath of vengeance he had taken would come into his mind, and he was occupied with the thought of how much harm a man could do to his enemies in modern times with a fortune of thirteen or fourteen millions.

  The abbé did not know the Isle of Monte Cristo, which was situated twenty-five miles from Pianosa between Corsica and Elba, but Dantès had often passed it and had once landed there. He drew a plan of the island and Faria advised him as to the best means to adopt to recover the treasure. He had kept silent about it for all these many long years, but now it became a daily topic of conversation between the two. Fearing that the will might one day be mislaid or lost, he made Dantès learn it by heart until he knew it word for word. Then he destroyed the second part in the firm conviction that, even if the first part were discovered and seized, nobody could understand its meaning. Sometimes Faria would spend whole hours giving Dantès instructions what to do against the time he should be a free man. Once free he was not to lose an hour, not even a minute, before setting out for Monte Cristo; he was to remain alone on the island under some pretext or other, and as soon as he was alone endeavour to discover the marvellous caves and search the spot designated in the will.

  In the meantime the hours passed, if not rapidly, at least not unendurably. One night Edmond woke suddenly and thought he heard someone calling him. He opened his eyes and tried to penetrate the darkness. He heard his name, or rather a plaintive voice trying to articulate his name. He raised himself in his bed and listened, his anxiety bringing great beads of perspiration to his forehead. There could be no doubt, the voice came from his companion’s cell.

  “Great God!” he murmured. “Could it be?”

  He moved his bed, drew the stone away, and rushed to his friend’s cell. There by the flickering light of the lamp he beheld the old man clinging to the bedside. His features were drawn with the horrible symptoms which Edmond already knew, and which had filled him with such terror the first time he saw them.

  “Ah! my friend,” Faria said resignedly, “you understand, don’t you? There is no need to explain anything. Think only of yourself now, think only how to make your captivity supportable and your escape possible. It would take you years to achieve unaided what I have done here. In any case, you need have no fear that my cell will remain empty for any length of time; another unfortunate wretch will soon take my place and you will be to him an angel of salvation. He may be young, strong, and patient like yourself, and may even help you to escape, whereas I have only been an obstacle. You will no longer have a half-dead body fettered to you to paralyse your every movement. God is decidedly doing you a good turn at last. He is giving you more than He is taking away, and it is quite time for me to die.”

  Edmond could only wring his hands and exclaim: “Oh, my friend, my dearest friend, don’t talk like that any more! I saved you once and I will save you a second time.” And raising the foot of the bed, he took the phial, which was still one-third full of the red liquid.

  “See,” he said, “there is still some of this saving draught. Tell me quickly what I am to do this time. Have you any fresh instructions? Speak, my friend, I am all attention.”

  “There is no hope,” Faria replied, shaking his head.

  “Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed Dantès, “I tell you, I shall save you!”

  “Try then if you like! Do as you did the first time, but do not wait so long. If I do not revive after you have administered twelve drops, pour the remaining contents of the phial down my throat. Now, carry me to my bed. I can no longer stand.”

  Edmond took the old man in his arms and placed him on his bed.

  “And now, my dear boy,” said Faria, “sole consolation of my miserable life, whom Heaven sent to me somewhat late in life, yet sent me an invaluable gift for which I am most thankful, at this moment when I must leave you, I wish you all the happiness and prosperity you desire. My son, I give you my blessing.”

  A violent shock checked the old man’s speech. Dantès raised his head; he saw his friend’s eyes all flecked with crimson as though a flow of blood had surged up from his chest to his forehead.

  “Farewell! farewell!” the old man murmured, clasping the young man’s hand convulsively. “Farewell! Forget not Monte Cristo!”

  And with these words he fell back on to his bed.

  The attack was terrible: convulsed limbs, swollen eyelids, foam mingled with blood, a rigid body, was all that remained on this bed of agony in place of the intelligent being that had been there but an instant before.

  Dantès took the lamp, placed it on a ledge formed by a stone at the head of the bed, whence its flickering light cast a strange and weird reflection on the contorted features and inert, stiff body. With staring eyes, he anxiously awaited the propitious moment for administering the saving draught. When he thought the moment had come, he took the knife, forced apart the teeth, which offered less resistance than on the previous occasion, counted ten drops one after the other and waited: the phial still contained double that quantity.

  He waited ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, half an hour, and still there was no sign of movement. Trembling in every limb, his hair on end, his forehead bathed in perspiration, he counted the seconds by the beatings of his heart. Then he thought it was time to make the last desperate attempt. He placed the phial to Faria’s purple lips—his jaws had remained wide apart—and poured the rest of the liquid down his throat. A violent trembling seized the old man’s limbs, his eyes opened and were frightful to behold, he heaved a sigh that sounded like a scream, and then his trembling body gradually reverted to its former rigidity. The face assumed a livid hue, and the light faded out of the wide-open eyes.

  It was six o’clock in the morning; day began to dawn and its yet feeble gleam invaded the cell, putting to shame the dying light of the lamp. Weird reflections were cast over the face of the corpse, giving it from time to time a lifelike appearance. As long as this struggle between night and day lasted, Dantès still doubted, but as soon as the day held its own, he knew that he was alone with a corpse.

  Then an overmastering terror seized him; he dared press no more the hand that hung down from the bed: he dared look no more on those vacant and staring eyes which he endeavoured in vain to close several times, for they opened again each time. He extinguished the lamp, hid it carefully and fled from the cell, replacing the stone behind him as carefully as he could.

  It was time he went, too, for the gaoler was coming. Dantès was seized with an indescribable impatience to know what would happen in his unfortunate friend’s cell; he, therefore, went into the subterranean
passage where he arrived in time to hear the turnkey calling for assistance.

  Other turnkeys soon arrived; then was heard the tread of soldiers, heavy and measured even when off duty; behind them came the governor.

  Edmond heard the bed creaking; he heard too the voice of the governor, who ordered water to be thrown on the face of the dead man, and then, as this did not revive him, sent to summon the doctor.

  The governor left the cell, and some words of compassion, mingled with coarse jokes and laughter, reached Dantès’ ears.

  “Perhaps,” said one, “as he is a man of the church, they will go to some expense on his account.”

  “Then he will have the honour of the sack,” said another.

  Edmond listened and did not lose a word of the conversation, though he could not comprehend very much of it. Soon the voices ceased and it seemed to him they had all left the cell. Still he dared not yet go back; it was possible they had left some turnkeys to watch by the dead man.

  At the end of an hour or so he heard a faint noise which gradually increased. It was the governor coming back with the doctor and several officials.

  The doctor declared the prisoner dead and diagnosed the cause of death. There was more coming and going, and, a few seconds later, a sound like the rubbing together of sacking reached Dantès’ ears. The bed creaked, a heavy step like that of a man lifting a weight resounded on the floor, then the bed creaked again under the weight placed on it.

  “To-night, then,” Dantès heard the governor say.

  “Will there be a Mass?” asked one of the officials.

  “That is impossible,” replied the governor, “the chaplain asked me yesterday for leave to go to Hyères for a week. The poor abbé should not have been in such a hurry, and then he would have had his requiem.”

  In the meantime the body was being laid out.

  “At what o’clock to-night?” asked one of the turnkeys.

  “Between ten and eleven.”

  “Shall we watch by the corpse?”

  “Whatever for? Lock the door as though he were alive; nothing more is needed.”

  The footsteps died away, the voices became gradually less distinct, the grating noise of the lock and the creaking of the bolts were heard, and then a silence more penetrating than solitude, the silence of death, prevailed, striking its icy chill through the young man’s whole frame.

  Then he slowly raised the stone with his head and cast a swift glance round the room. It was empty. Dantès entered.

  Chapter XVI

  THE CEMETERY OF THE CHTEAU D’IF

  On the bed, at full length, faintly lighted by a dim ray that entered through the window, Dantès saw a sack of coarse cloth, under the ample folds of which he could distinctly discern a long, stiff form: it was Faria’s shroud. All was over then. Dantès was separated from his old friend. Faria, the helpful, kind companion, to whom he had become so attached, to whom he owed so much, existed now but in his memory. He sat on the edge of the bed and became a prey to deep and bitter melancholy.

  Alone! He was quite alone once more! Alone! No longer to see, to hear the voice of, the only human being that attached him to life! Would it not be better to seek his Maker, as Faria had done, to learn the mystery of life even at the risk of passing through the dismal gates of suffering?

  The idea of suicide which had been dispelled by his friend and which he himself had forgotten in his presence, rose again before him like a phantom beside Faria’s corpse.

  “If I could only die,” he said, “I should go where he has gone. But how am I to die? It is quite simple,” said he with a smile. “I will stay here, throw myself on the first one who enters, strangle him and then I shall be guillotined.”

  Dantès, however, recoiled from such an infamous death, and swiftly passed from despair to an ardent desire for life and liberty. “Die? Oh, no!” he cried out, “it would hardly have been worth while to live, to suffer so much and then to die now. No, I desire to live, to fight to the end. I wish to reconquer the happiness that has been taken from me. Before I die, I have my executioners to punish, and possibly also some friends to recompense. Yet they will forget me here and I shall only leave this dungeon in the same way that Faria has done.”

  As he uttered these words, Edmond stood stock-still, with eyes fixed like a man struck by a sudden and terrifying idea.

  “Oh, who has given me this thought?” he murmured. “My God, comes this from Thee? Since it is only the dead who go free from here, I must take the place of the dead!”

  Without giving himself time to reconsider his decision, and as though he would not give reflection time to destroy his desperate resolution, he leaned over the hideous sack, slit it open with the knife Faria had made, took the dead body out, carried it to his own cell, and placed it on his bed, put round the head the piece of rag he always wore, covered it with the bed-clothes, kissed for the last time the ice-cold forehead, endeavoured to shut the rebellious eyes, which were still open, and stared so horribly, and turned the head to the wall so that, when the gaoler brought his evening meal, he would think he had gone to bed as he often did. Then he returned to the other cell, took the needle and thread from the cupboard, flung off his rags that the men might feel naked flesh under the sacking, slipped into the sack, placed himself in the same position as the corpse, and sewed the sack up again from the inside. If, by any chance, the gaolers had entered then, they would have heard the beating of his heart.

  Now this is what Dantès intended doing. If the grave-diggers discovered that they were carrying a live body instead of a dead one, he would give them no time for thought. He would slit the sack open with his knife from top to bottom, jump out, and taking advantage of their terror, escape; if they tried to stop him, he would use his knife. If they took him to the cemetery and placed him in a grave, he would allow himself to be covered with earth; then, as it was night, as soon as the grave-diggers had turned their backs, he would cut his way through the soft earth and escape; he hoped the weight would not be too heavy for him to raise.

  He had eaten nothing since the previous evening, but he had not thought of his hunger in the morning, neither did he think of it now. His position was much too precarious to allow him time for any thought but that of flight.

  At last, toward the time appointed by the governor, he heard footsteps on the staircase. He realized that the moment had come, he summoned all his courage and held his breath.

  The door was opened, a subdued light reached his eyes. Through the sacking that covered him he saw two shadows approach the bed. There was a third one at the door holding a lantern in his hand. Each of the two men who had approached the bed took the sack by one of its two extremities.

  “He is very heavy for such a thin old man,” said one of them as he raised the head.

  “They say that each year adds half a pound to the weight of one’s bones,” said the other, taking the feet.

  They carried away the sham corpse on the bier. Edmond made himself rigid. The procession, lighted by the man with the lantern, descended the stairs. All at once Dantès felt the cold, fresh night air and the sharp northwest wind, and the sensation filled him at once with joy and with anguish.

  The men went about twenty yards, then stopped and dropped the bier on to the ground. One of them went away, and Dantès heard his footsteps on the stones.

  “Where am I?” he asked himself.

  “He is by no means a light load, you know,” said the man who had remained behind, seating himself on the edge of the bier.

  Dantès’ impulse was to make his escape, but, fortunately, he did not attempt it. He heard one of the men draw near and drop a heavy object on the ground; at the same moment a cord was tied round his feet, cutting into his flesh.

  “Well, have you made the knot?” one of the men asked.

  “Yes, and it is well made. I can answer for that.”

  “Let’s on, then.”

  The bier was lifted once more, and the procession proceeded. The noise of
the waves breaking against the rocks on which the Château is built sounded more distinctly to Dantès with each step they took.

  “Wretched weather!” said one of the men, “the sea will not be very inviting to-night.”

  “Yes, the abbé runs a great risk of getting wet,” said the other, and they burst out laughing.

  Dantès could not understand the jest, nevertheless his hair began to stand on end.

  “Here we are at last!”

  “No, farther on, farther on! You know the last one was dashed on the rocks and the next day the governor called us a couple of lazy rascals.”

  They went another five yards, and then Dantès felt them take him by the head and feet and swing him to and fro.

  “One! Two! Three!”

  With the last word, Dantès felt himself flung into space. He passed through the air like a wounded bird falling, falling, ever falling with a rapidity which turned his heart to ice. At last—though it seemed to him like an eternity of time—there came a terrific splash; and as he dropped like an arrow into the icy cold water he uttered a scream which was immediately choked by his immersion.

  Dantès had been flung into the sea, into whose depths he was being dragged down by a cannon-ball tied to his feet.

  The sea is the cemetery of the Château d’If.

  Chapter XVII

  THE ISLE OF TIBOULEN

  Though stunned and almost suffocated, Dantès had yet the presence of mind to hold his breath and, as he grasped the open knife in his right hand ready for any emergency, he rapidly ripped open the sack, extricated his arm and then his head; but in spite of his efforts to raise the cannon-ball, he still felt himself being dragged down and down. He bent his back into an arch in his endeavour to reach the cord that bound his legs, and, after a desperate struggle, he severed it at the very moment when he felt that suffocation was getting the upper hand of him. He kicked out vigorously and rose unhampered to the surface, while the cannon-ball dragged to the unknown depths the sacking which had so nearly become his shroud.