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 knew 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 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,
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 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 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.
Chapter 20. The Cemetery of the Chateau D'If.
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 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
were 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 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. From time to time
