ocean. The sea, smooth as crystal, was now and then disturbed by the
leaping of fish, which were pursued by some unseen enemy and sought for
safety in another element; while on the extreme verge of the horizon
might be seen the fishermen's boats, white and graceful as the sea-gull,
or the merchant vessels bound for Corsica or Spain.
But notwithstanding the serene sky, the gracefully formed boats, and
the golden light in which the whole scene was bathed, the Count of Monte
Cristo, wrapped in his cloak, could think only of this terrible voyage,
the details of which were one by one recalled to his memory. The
solitary light burning at the Catalans; that first sight of the Chateau
d'If, which told him whither they were leading him; the struggle with
the gendarmes when he wished to throw himself overboard; his despair
when he found himself vanquished, and the sensation when the muzzle of
the carbine touched his forehead--all these were brought before him
in vivid and frightful reality. Like the streams which the heat of the
summer has dried up, and which after the autumnal storms gradually begin
oozing drop by drop, so did the count feel his heart gradually fill with
the bitterness which formerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantes. Clear
sky, swift-flitting boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the
heavens were hung with black, and the gigantic structure of the Chateau
d'If seemed like the phantom of a mortal enemy. As they reached the
shore, the count instinctively shrunk to the extreme end of the boat,
and the owner was obliged to call out, in his sweetest tone of voice,
"Sir, we are at the landing."
Monte Cristo remembered that on that very spot, on the same rock, he had
been violently dragged by the guards, who forced him to ascend the slope
at the points of their bayonets. The journey had seemed very long to
Dantes, but Monte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the oar
seemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up with the flying
spray of the sea.
There had been no prisoners confined in the Chateau d'If since the
revolution of July; it was only inhabited by a guard, kept there for the
prevention of smuggling. A concierge waited at the door to exhibit to
visitors this monument of curiosity, once a scene of terror. The count
inquired whether any of the ancient jailers were still there; but they
had all been pensioned, or had passed on to some other employment. The
concierge who attended him had only been there since 1830. He visited
his own dungeon. He again beheld the dull light vainly endeavoring to
penetrate the narrow opening. His eyes rested upon the spot where had
stood his bed, since then removed, and behind the bed the new stones
indicated where the breach made by the Abbe Faria had been. Monte Cristo
felt his limbs tremble; he seated himself upon a log of wood.
"Are there any stories connected with this prison besides the one
relating to the poisoning of Mirabeau?" asked the count; "are there any
traditions respecting these dismal abodes,--in which it is difficult to
believe men can ever have imprisoned their fellow-creatures?"
"Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine told me one connected with this
very dungeon."
Monte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had been his jailer. He had almost
forgotten his name and face, but at the mention of the name he recalled
his person as he used to see it, the face encircled by a beard, wearing
the brown jacket, the bunch of keys, the jingling of which he still
seemed to hear. The count turned around, and fancied he saw him in the
corridor, rendered still darker by the torch carried by the concierge.
"Would you like to hear the story, sir?"
"Yes; relate it," said Monte Cristo, pressing his hand to his heart to
still its violent beatings; he felt afraid of hearing his own history.
"This dungeon," said the concierge, "was, it appears, some time ago
occupied by a very dangerous prisoner, the more so since he was full of
industry. Another person was confined in the Chateau at the same time,
but he was not wicked, he was only a poor mad priest."
"Ah, indeed?--mad!" repeated Monte Cristo; "and what was his mania?"
"He offered millions to any one who would set him at liberty."
Monte Cristo raised his eyes, but he could not see the heavens; there
was a stone veil between him and the firmament. He thought that there
had been no less thick a veil before the eyes of those to whom Faria
offered the treasures. "Could the prisoners see each other?" he asked.
"Oh, no, sir, it was expressly forbidden; but they eluded the vigilance
of the guards, and made a passage from one dungeon to the other."
"And which of them made this passage?"
"Oh, it must have been the young man, certainly, for he was strong and
industrious, while the abbe was aged and weak; besides, his mind was too
vacillating to allow him to carry out an idea."
"Blind fools!" murmured the count.
"However, be that as it may, the young man made a tunnel, how or by
what means no one knows; but he made it, and there is the evidence yet
remaining of his work. Do you see it?" and the man held the torch to the
wall.
"Ah, yes; I see," said the count, in a voice hoarse from emotion.
"The result was that the two men communicated with one another; how long
they did so, nobody knows. One day the old man fell ill and died. Now
guess what the young one did?"
"Tell me."
"He carried off the corpse, which he placed in his own bed with its face
to the wall; then he entered the empty dungeon, closed the entrance, and
slipped into the sack which had contained the dead body. Did you ever
hear of such an idea?" Monte Cristo closed his eyes, and seemed again
to experience all the sensations he had felt when the coarse canvas,
yet moist with the cold dews of death, had touched his face. The jailer
continued: "Now this was his project. He fancied that they buried the
dead at the Chateau d'If, and imagining they would not expend much labor
on the grave of a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with
his shoulders, but unfortunately their arrangements at the Chateau
frustrated his projects. They never buried the dead; they merely
attached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, and then threw them into the
sea. This is what was done. The young man was thrown from the top of the
rock; the corpse was found on the bed next day, and the whole truth was
guessed, for the men who performed the office then mentioned what they
had not dared to speak of before, that at the moment the corpse was
thrown into the deep, they heard a shriek, which was almost immediately
stifled by the water in which it disappeared." The count breathed with
difficulty; the cold drops ran down his forehead, and his heart was full
of anguish.
"No," he muttered, "the doubt I felt was but the commencement of
forgetfulness; but here the wound reopens, and the heart again thirsts
for vengeance. And the prisoner," he continued aloud, "was he ever heard
of afterwards?"
"Oh, no; of course not. You can understand that one of two things must
have happened; he must either have fallen flat, in which case the blow,
from a height of ninety feet, must have killed him instantly, or he must
have fallen upright, and then the weight would have dragged him to the
bottom, where he remained--poor fellow!"
"Then you pity him?" said the count.
"Ma foi, yes; though he was in his own element."
"What do you mean?"
"The report was that he had been a naval officer, who had been confined
for plotting with the Bonapartists."
"Great is truth," muttered the count, "fire cannot burn, nor water drown
it! Thus the poor sailor lives in the recollection of those who narrate
his history; his terrible story is recited in the chimney-corner, and a
shudder is felt at the description of his transit through the air to be
swallowed by the deep." Then, the count added aloud, "Was his name ever
known?"
"Oh, yes; but only as No. 34."
"Oh, Villefort, Villefort," murmured the count, "this scene must often
have haunted thy sleepless hours!"
"Do you wish to see anything more, sir?" said the concierge.
"Yes, especially if you will show me the poor abbe's room."
"Ah--No. 27."
"Yes; No. 27." repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the
abbe answering him in those very words through the wall when asked his
name.
"Come, sir."
"Wait," said Monte Cristo, "I wish to take one final glance around this
room."
"This is fortunate," said the guide; "I have forgotten the other key."
"Go and fetch it."
"I will leave you the torch, sir."
"No, take it away; I can see in the dark."
"Why, you are like No. 34. They said he was so accustomed to darkness
that he could see a pin in the darkest corner of his dungeon."
"He spent fourteen years to arrive at that," muttered the count.
The guide carried away the torch. The count had spoken correctly.
Scarcely had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw everything as distinctly
as by daylight. Then he looked around him, and really recognized his
dungeon.
"Yes," he said, "there is the stone upon which I used to sit; there is
the impression made by my shoulders on the wall; there is the mark of
my blood made when one day I dashed my head against the wall. Oh, those
figures, how well I remember them! I made them one day to calculate
the age of my father, that I might know whether I should find him still
living, and that of Mercedes, to know if I should find her still free.
After finishing that calculation, I had a minute's hope. I did not
reckon upon hunger and infidelity!" and a bitter laugh escaped the
count. He saw in fancy the burial of his father, and the marriage of
Mercedes. On the other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription,
the white letters of which were still visible on the green wall. "'O
God,'" he read, "'preserve my memory!' Oh, yes," he cried, "that was
my only prayer at last; I no longer begged for liberty, but memory;
I dreaded to become mad and forgetful. O God, thou hast preserved my
memory; I thank thee, I thank thee!" At this moment the light of the
torch was reflected on the wall; the guide was coming; Monte Cristo went
to meet him.
"Follow me, sir;" and without ascending the stairs the guide conducted
him by a subterraneous passage to another entrance. There, again, Monte
Cristo was assailed by a multitude of thoughts. The first thing that
met his eye was the meridian, drawn by the abbe on the wall, by which
he calculated the time; then he saw the remains of the bed on which
the poor prisoner had died. The sight of this, instead of exciting the
anguish experienced by the count in the dungeon, filled his heart with a
soft and grateful sentiment, and tears fell from his eyes.
"This is where the mad abbe was kept, sir, and that is where the young
man entered;" and the guide pointed to the opening, which had remained
unclosed. "From the appearance of the stone," he continued, "a learned
gentleman discovered that the prisoners might have communicated together
for ten years. Poor things! Those must have been ten weary years."
Dantes took some louis from his pocket, and gave them to the man who
had twice unconsciously pitied him. The guide took them, thinking them
merely a few pieces of little value; but the light of the torch revealed
their true worth. "Sir," he said, "you have made a mistake; you have
given me gold."
"I know it." The concierge looked upon the count with surprise. "Sir,"
he cried, scarcely able to believe his good fortune--"sir, I cannot
understand your generosity!"
"Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been a sailor, and your
story touched me more than it would others."
"Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I ought to offer you something."
"What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank
you!"
"No, sir, neither of those; something connected with this story."
"Really? What is it?"
"Listen," said the guide; "I said to myself, 'Something is always left
in a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen years,' so I began to
sound the wall."
"Ah," cried Monte Cristo, remembering the abbe's two hiding-places.
"After some search, I found that the floor gave a hollow sound near the
head of the bed, and at the hearth."
"Yes," said the count, "yes."
"I raised the stones, and found"--
"A rope-ladder and some tools?"
"How do you know that?" asked the guide in astonishment.
"I do not know--I only guess it, because that sort of thing is generally
found in prisoners' cells."
"Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools."
"And have you them yet?"
"No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great
curiosities; but I have still something left."
"What is it?" asked the count, impatiently.
"A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth."
"Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if it be what I hope, you will do
well."
"I will run for it, sir;" and the guide went out. Then the count knelt
down by the side of the bed, which death had converted into an altar.
"Oh, second father," he exclaimed, "thou who hast given me liberty,
knowledge, riches; thou who, like beings of a superior order to
ourselves, couldst understand the science of good and evil; if in the
depths of the tomb there still remain something within us which can
