The Count of Monte Cristo
great suffering. Dantès hastened to his dungeon, where he found him
standing in the middle of the room, pale as death, his forehead
streaming with perspiration, and his hands clenched tightly together.
“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Dantès, “what is the matter? what has
happened?”
“Quick! quick!” returned the abbé, “listen to what I have to say.”
Dantès looked in fear and wonder at the livid countenance of Faria,
whose eyes, already dull and sunken, were surrounded by purple circles,
while his lips were white as those of a corpse, and his very hair
seemed to stand on end.
“Tell me, I beseech you, what ails you?” cried Dantès, letting his
chisel fall to the floor.
“Alas,” faltered out the abbé, “all is over with me. I am seized with a
terrible, perhaps mortal illness; I can feel that the paroxysm is fast
approaching. I had a similar attack the year previous to my
imprisonment. This malady admits but of one remedy; I will tell you
what that is. Go into my cell as quickly as you can; draw out one of
the feet that support the bed; you will find it has been hollowed out
for the purpose of containing a small phial you will see there
half-filled with a red-looking fluid. Bring it to me—or rather—no,
no!—I may be found here, therefore help me back to my room while I have
the strength to drag myself along. Who knows what may happen, or how
long the attack may last?”
In spite of the magnitude of the misfortune which thus suddenly
frustrated his hopes, Dantès did not lose his presence of mind, but
descended into the passage, dragging his unfortunate companion with
him; then, half-carrying, half-supporting him, he managed to reach the
abbé’s chamber, when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed.
“Thanks,” said the poor abbé, shivering as though his veins were filled
with ice. “I am about to be seized with a fit of catalepsy; when it
comes to its height I shall probably lie still and motionless as though
dead, uttering neither sigh nor groan. On the other hand, the symptoms
may be much more violent, and cause me to fall into fearful
convulsions, foam at the mouth, and cry out loudly. Take care my cries
are not heard, for if they are it is more than probable I should be
removed to another part of the prison, and we be separated forever.
When I become quite motionless, cold, and rigid as a corpse, then, and
not before,—be careful about this,—force open my teeth with the knife,
pour from eight to ten drops of the liquor contained in the phial down
my throat, and I may perhaps revive.”
“Perhaps!” exclaimed Dantès in grief-stricken tones.
“Help! help!” cried the abbé, “I—I—die—I——”
0229m
So sudden and violent was the fit that the unfortunate prisoner was
unable to complete the sentence; a violent convulsion shook his whole
frame, his eyes started from their sockets, his mouth was drawn on one
side, his cheeks became purple, he struggled, foamed, dashed himself
about, and uttered the most dreadful cries, which, however, Dantès
prevented from being heard by covering his head with the blanket. The
fit lasted two hours; then, more helpless than an infant, and colder
and paler than marble, more crushed and broken than a reed trampled
under foot, he fell back, doubled up in one last convulsion, and became
as rigid as a corpse.
Edmond waited till life seemed extinct in the body of his friend, then,
taking up the knife, he with difficulty forced open the closely fixed
jaws, carefully administered the appointed number of drops, and
anxiously awaited the result. An hour passed away and the old man gave
no sign of returning animation. Dantès began to fear he had delayed too
long ere he administered the remedy, and, thrusting his hands into his
hair, continued gazing on the lifeless features of his friend. At
length a slight color tinged the livid cheeks, consciousness returned
to the dull, open eyeballs, a faint sigh issued from the lips, and the
sufferer made a feeble effort to move.
“He is saved! he is saved!” cried Dantès in a paroxysm of delight.
The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident
anxiety towards the door. Dantès listened, and plainly distinguished
the approaching steps of the jailer. It was therefore near seven
o’clock; but Edmond’s anxiety had put all thoughts of time out of his
head.
The young man sprang to the entrance, darted through it, carefully
drawing the stone over the opening, and hurried to his cell. He had
scarcely done so before the door opened, and the jailer saw the
prisoner seated as usual on the side of his bed. Almost before the key
had turned in the lock, and before the departing steps of the jailer
had died away in the long corridor he had to traverse, Dantès, whose
restless anxiety concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the
food brought him, hurried back to the abbé’s chamber, and raising the
stone by pressing his head against it, was soon beside the sick man’s
couch. Faria had now fully regained his consciousness, but he still lay
helpless and exhausted on his miserable bed.
“I did not expect to see you again,” said he feebly, to Dantès.
“And why not?” asked the young man. “Did you fancy yourself dying?”
“No, I had no such idea; but, knowing that all was ready for flight, I
thought you might have made your escape.”
The deep glow of indignation suffused the cheeks of Dantès.
“Without you? Did you really think me capable of that?”
“At least,” said the abbé, “I now see how wrong such an opinion would
have been. Alas, alas! I am fearfully exhausted and debilitated by this
attack.”
“Be of good cheer,” replied Dantès; “your strength will return.” And as
he spoke he seated himself near the bed beside Faria, and took his
hands. The abbé shook his head.
“The last attack I had,” said he, “lasted but half an hour, and after
it I was hungry, and got up without help; now I can move neither my
right arm nor leg, and my head seems uncomfortable, which shows that
there has been a suffusion of blood on the brain. The third attack will
either carry me off, or leave me paralyzed for life.”
“No, no,” cried Dantès; “you are mistaken—you will not die! And your
third attack (if, indeed, you should have another) will find you at
liberty. We shall save you another time, as we have done this, only
with a better chance of success, because we shall be able to command
every requisite assistance.”
“My good Edmond,” answered the abbé, “be not deceived. The attack which
has just passed away, condemns me forever to the walls of a prison.
None can fly from a dungeon who cannot walk.”
“Well, we will wait,—a week, a month, two months, if need be,—and
meanwhile your strength will return. Everything is in readiness for our
flight, and we can select any time we choose. As soon as you feel able
to swim we will go.”
“I shall never swim again,” replied Faria. “This arm is paralyzed; not
for a time, but forever. Lift it, and judge if I am mistaken.”
The young man raised the arm, which fell back by its own weight,
perfectly inanimate and helpless. A sigh escaped him.
“You are convinced now, Edmond, are you not?” asked the abbé. “Depend
upon it, I know what I say. Since the first attack I experienced of
this malady, I have continually reflected on it. Indeed, I expected it,
for it is a family inheritance; both my father and grandfather died of
it in a third attack. The physician who prepared for me the remedy I
have twice successfully taken, was no other than the celebrated
Cabanis, and he predicted a similar end for me.”
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“The physician may be mistaken!” exclaimed Dantès. “And as for your
poor arm, what difference will that make? I can take you on my
shoulders, and swim for both of us.”
“My son,” said the abbé, “you, who are a sailor and a swimmer, must
know as well as I do that a man so loaded would sink before he had done
fifty strokes. Cease, then, to allow yourself to be duped by vain
hopes, that even your own excellent heart refuses to believe in. Here I
shall remain till the hour of my deliverance arrives, and that, in all
human probability, will be the hour of my death. As for you, who are
young and active, delay not on my account, but fly—go—I give you back
your promise.”
“It is well,” said Dantès. “Then I shall also remain.” Then, rising and
extending his hand with an air of solemnity over the old man’s head, he
slowly added, “By the blood of Christ I swear never to leave you while
you live.”
Faria gazed fondly on his noble-minded, single-hearted, high-principled
young friend, and read in his countenance ample confirmation of the
sincerity of his devotion and the loyalty of his purpose.
“Thanks,” murmured the invalid, extending one hand. “I accept. You may
one of these days reap the reward of your disinterested devotion. But
as I cannot, and you will not, quit this place, it becomes necessary to
fill up the excavation beneath the soldier’s gallery; he might, by
chance, hear the hollow sound of his footsteps, and call the attention
of his officer to the circumstance. That would bring about a discovery
which would inevitably lead to our being separated. Go, then, and set
about this work, in which, unhappily, I can offer you no assistance;
keep at it all night, if necessary, and do not return here tomorrow
till after the jailer has visited me. I shall have something of the
greatest importance to communicate to you.”
Dantès took the hand of the abbé in his, and affectionately pressed it.
Faria smiled encouragingly on him, and the young man retired to his
task, in the spirit of obedience and respect which he had sworn to show
towards his aged friend.
Chapter 18. The Treasure
When Dantès returned next morning to the chamber of his companion in
captivity, he found Faria seated and looking composed. In the ray of
light which entered by the narrow window of his cell, he held open in
his left hand, of which alone, it will be recollected, he retained the
use, a sheet of paper, which, from being constantly rolled into a small
compass, had the form of a cylinder, and was not easily kept open. He
did not speak, but showed the paper to Dantès.
“What is that?” he inquired.
“Look at it,” said the abbé with a smile.
“I have looked at it with all possible attention,” said Dantès, “and I
only see a half-burnt paper, on which are traces of Gothic characters
inscribed with a peculiar kind of ink.”
“This paper, my friend,” said Faria, “I may now avow to you, since I
have the proof of your fidelity—this paper is my treasure, of which,
from this day forth, one-half belongs to you.”
The sweat started forth on Dantès’ brow. Until this day and for how
long a time!—he had refrained from talking of the treasure, which had
brought upon the abbé the accusation of madness. With his instinctive
delicacy Edmond had preferred avoiding any touch on this painful chord,
and Faria had been equally silent. He had taken the silence of the old
man for a return to reason; and now these few words uttered by Faria,
after so painful a crisis, seemed to indicate a serious relapse into
mental alienation.
“Your treasure?” stammered Dantès. Faria smiled.
“Yes,” said he. “You have, indeed, a noble nature, Edmond, and I see by
your paleness and agitation what is passing in your heart at this
moment. No, be assured, I am not mad. This treasure exists, Dantès, and
if I have not been allowed to possess it, you will. Yes—you. No one
would listen or believe me, because everyone thought me mad; but you,
who must know that I am not, listen to me, and believe me so afterwards
if you will.”
“Alas,” murmured Edmond to himself, “this is a terrible relapse! There
was only this blow wanting.” Then he said aloud, “My dear friend, your
attack has, perhaps, fatigued you; had you not better repose awhile?