get under weigh next night, and, wind and weather permitting, to make
the neutral island by the following day.
Chapter 23. The Island of Monte Cristo.
Thus, at length, by one of the unexpected strokes of fortune which
sometimes befall those who have for a long time been the victims of an
evil destiny, Dantes was about to secure the opportunity he wished for,
by simple and natural means, and land on the island without incurring
any suspicion. One night more and he would be on his way.
The night was one of feverish distraction, and in its progress visions
good and evil passed through Dantes' mind. If he closed his eyes, he saw
Cardinal Spada's letter written on the wall in characters of flame--if
he slept for a moment the wildest dreams haunted his brain. He ascended
into grottos 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 had all changed into common pebbles.
He then endeavored to re-enter the marvellous grottos, but they had
suddenly receded, and now the path became a labyrinth, and then the
entrance vanished, 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 the aid of imagination, and Dantes
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 Dantes' 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 celerity
and pleasure.
The old patron did not interfere, for he too had recognized the
superiority of Dantes 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 more secure 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. Dantes told them that all hands might turn in,
and he would take the helm. When the Maltese (for so they called
Dantes) had said this, it was sufficient, and all went to their bunks
contentedly. This frequently happened. Dantes, cast from solitude into
the world, frequently experienced an imperious desire for solitude; and
what solitude is more complete, or more poetical, than that of a ship
floating in isolation on the sea during the obscurity of the night, in
the silence of immensity, and under the eye of heaven?
Now this solitude was peopled with his thoughts, the night lighted up by
his illusions, and the silence animated by his anticipations. When the
patron awoke, the vessel was hurrying on with every sail set, and every
sail full with the breeze. They were making nearly ten knots an hour.
The Island of Monte Cristo loomed large in the horizon. Edmond resigned
the lugger 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 afterwards he came on deck, as the boat was about
to double the Island of Elba. They were just abreast of Mareciana, and
beyond the flat but verdant Island of La Pianosa. The peak of Monte
Cristo reddened by the burning sun, was seen against the azure sky.
Dantes ordered the helmsman to put down his helm, in order to leave La
Pianosa to starboard, as he knew that he should shorten his course by
two or three knots. About five o'clock in the evening the island was
distinct, and everything on it was plainly perceptible, owing to that
clearness of the atmosphere peculiar to the light which the rays of the
sun cast at its setting.
Edmond gazed very earnestly at the mass of rocks which gave out all the
variety of twilight colors, from the brightest pink to the deepest blue;
and from time to time his cheeks flushed, his brow darkened, and a mist
passed over his eyes. Never did a 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. The
Young Amelia was first at the rendezvous. In spite of his usual command
over himself, Dantes could not restrain his impetuosity. He was the
first to jump 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 The Young Amelia,--it was one of
her regular haunts. As to Dantes, he had passed it on his voyage 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 do better in the grottos?"
"What grottos?"
"Why, the grottos--caves of the island."
"I do not know of any grottos," replied Jacopo. The cold sweat sprang
forth on Dantes' brow.
"What, are there no grottos at Monte Cristo?" he asked.
"None."
For a moment Dantes 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 hidden entrance. It was useless to search at night, and
Dantes therefore delayed all investigation until the morning. Besides,
a signal made half a league out at sea, and to which The Young Amelia
replied by a similar signal, indicated that the moment for business had
come. The boat that now arrived, assured by the answering signal that
all was well, soon came in sight, white and silent as a phantom, and
cast anchor within a cable's length of shore.
Then the landing began. Dantes reflected, as he worked, on the shout of
joy which, with a single word, he could evoke from all these men, if he
gave utterance to the one unchanging thought that pervaded 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 pre-occupation, aroused
suspicions. Fortunately, as regarded this circumstance at least, his
painful past gave to his countenance an indelible sadness, and
the glimmerings of gayety seen beneath this cloud were indeed but
transitory.
No one had the slightest suspicion; and when next day, taking a
fowling-piece, powder, and shot, Dantes declared his intention to go and
kill some of the wild goats that were seen springing from rock to rock,
his wish was construed into a love of sport, or a desire for solitude.
However, Jacopo insisted on following him, and Dantes did not oppose
this, fearing if he did so that he might incur distrust. Scarcely,
however, had they gone a quarter of a league when, 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 Monte Pulciano, was the bill of fare. Dantes
went on, looking from time to time behind and around about him. 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 gentle 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; 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 Dantes, who but three months before had no desire but
liberty had now not liberty enough, and panted for wealth. The cause was
not in Dantes, but in providence, who, while limiting the power of man,
has filled him with boundless desires.
Meanwhile, by a cleft between two walls of rock, following a path worn
by a torrent, and which, in all human probability, human foot had never
before trod, Dantes approached the spot where he supposed the grottos
must have existed. Keeping along the shore, 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 encrusts all physical substances with its mossy mantle, as
it invests all things of the mind with forgetfulness, seemed to have
respected these signs, which apparently had been made with some degree
of regularity, and probably with a definite purpose. Occasionally the
marks were hidden under tufts of myrtle, which spread into large bushes
laden with blossoms, or beneath parasitical lichen. So Edmond had
to separate the branches or brush away the moss to know where the
guide-marks were. The sight of marks renewed Edmond fondest hopes. Might
it not have been the cardinal himself who had first traced them, in
order that they might serve as a guide for his nephew in the event of
a catastrophe, which he could not foresee would have been so complete.
This solitary place was precisely suited to the requirements of a man
desirous of burying treasure. Only, might not these betraying marks have
attracted other eyes than those for whom they were made? and had the
dark and wondrous island 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 concluded that perhaps instead of having reached the end
of the route he had only explored its beginning, and he therefore turned
round and retraced his steps.
Meanwhile 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 the dainty animal from the spit, they
saw Edmond springing with the boldness of a chamois from rock to rock,
and they fired the signal agreed upon. The sportsman instantly changed
his direction, and ran quickly towards them. But even while they watched
his daring progress, Edmond's foot slipped, and they saw him stagger on
the edge of a rock and disappear. They all rushed towards him, for all
loved Edmond in spite of his superiority; yet Jacopo reached him first.
He found Edmond lying prone, bleeding, and almost senseless. He had
rolled down a declivity of twelve or fifteen feet. They poured a little
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 Dantes 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 afterwards 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, instead of growing easier, Dantes' pains appeared to increase in
violence. The old patron, who was obliged to sail in the morning in
order to land his cargo on the frontiers of Piedmont and France,
between Nice and Frejus, urged Dantes 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." Dantes declared, however,
that he would rather die where he was than undergo the agony which the
slightest movement cost him. "Well," said the patron, "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 patron was so strict that this was the
first time they had ever seen him give up an enterprise, or even delay
