The Count of Monte Cristo
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 abbé’s room.”
“Ah! No. 27.”
“Yes; No. 27.” repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the
abbé 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 Mercédès, 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 Mercédès.
On the other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, the white
letters of which were still visible on the green wall:
“‘_Oh, 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.
Oh, 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 abbé 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 abbé 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.”
Dantès 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.”
50227m
“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 abbé’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
respond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if after death the
soul ever revisit the places where we have lived and suffered,—then,
noble heart, sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the paternal love
thou didst bear me, by the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me
some sign, some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which,
if it change not to conviction, must become remorse!” The count bowed
his head, and clasped his hands together.
“Here, sir,” said a voice behind him.
Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The concierge held out the strips of
cloth upon which the Abbé Faria had spread the riches of his mind. The
manuscript was the great work by the Abbé Faria upon the kingdoms of
Italy. The count seized it hastily, his eyes immediately fell upon the
epigraph, and he read:
“Thou shalt tear out the dragons’ teeth, and shall trample the lions
under foot, saith the Lord.”
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “here is my answer. Thanks, father, thanks.” And
feeling in his pocket, he took thence a small pocket-book, which
contained ten bank-notes, each of 1,000 francs.
“Here,” he said, “take this pocket-book.”
“Do you give it to me?”
“Yes; but only on condition that you will not open it till I am gone;”
and placing in his breast the treasure he had just found, which was
more valuable to him than the richest jewel, he rushed out of the
corridor, and reaching his boat, cried, “To Marseilles!”
Then, as he departed, he fixed his eyes upon the gloomy prison.
“Woe,” he cried, “to those who confined me in that wretched prison; and
woe to those who forgot that I was there!”
50229m
As he repassed the Catalans, the count turned around and burying his
head in his cloak murmured the name of a woman. The victory was
complete; twice he had overcome his doubts. The name he pronounced, in
a voice of tenderness, amounting almost to love, was that of Haydée.
On landing, the count turned towards the cemetery, where he felt sure
of finding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, had piously sought out a
tomb, and sought it vainly. He, who returned to France with millions,
had been unable to find the grave of his father, who had perished from
hunger. Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it had
fallen down and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all the old
wood in the churchyard.
The worthy merchant had been more fortunate. Dying in the arms of his
children, he had been by them laid by the side of his wife, who had
preceded him in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of marble, on
which were inscribed their names, were placed on either side of a
little enclosure, railed in, and shaded by four cypress-trees. Morrel
was leaning against one of these, mechanically fixing his eyes on the
graves. His grief was so profound that he was nearly unconscious.
50231m
“Maximilian,” said the count, “you should not look on the graves, but
there;” and he pointed upwards.
“The dead are everywhere,” said Morrel; “did you not yourself tell me
so as we left Paris?”
“Maximilian,” said the count, “you asked me during the journey to allow
you to remain some days at Marseilles. Do you still wish to do so?”
“I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the time less
painfully here than anywhere else.”
“So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your word with
me, do I not?”
“Ah, count, I shall forget it.”
“No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor, Morrel,
because you have taken an oath, and are about to do so again.”
“Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so unhappy.”
“I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel.”
“Impossible!”
“Alas,” said Monte Cristo, “it is the infirmity of our nature always to
believe ourselves much more unhappy than those who groan by our sides!”
“What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all he loved and
desired in the world?”
“Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to tell you. I
knew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes of happiness upon a
woman. He was young, he had an old father whom he loved, a betrothed
bride whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when one of the
caprices of fate,—which would almost make us doubt the goodness of
Providence, if that Providence did not afterwards reveal itself by
proving that all is but a means of conducting to an end,—one of those
caprices deprived him of his mistress, of the future of which he had
dreamed (for in his blindness he forgot he could only read the
present), and cast him into a dungeon.”
“Ah,” said Morrel, “one quits a dungeon in a week, a month, or a year.”