The Count of Monte Cristo
thither. Well, Dantès, you do not thank me?”
“This treasure belongs to you, my dear friend,” replied Dantès, “and to
you only. I have no right to it. I am no relation of yours.”
“You are my son, Dantès,” exclaimed the old man. “You are the child of
my captivity. My profession condemns me to celibacy. God has sent you
to me to console, at one and the same time, the man who could not be a
father, and the prisoner who could not get free.”
And Faria extended the arm of which alone the use remained to him to
the young man, who threw himself upon his neck and wept.
Chapter 19. The Third Attack
Now that this treasure, which had so long been the object of the abbé’s
meditations, could insure the future happiness of him whom Faria really
loved as a son, it had doubled its value in his eyes, and every day he
expatiated on the amount, explaining to Dantès all the good which, with
thirteen or fourteen millions of francs, a man could do in these days
to his friends; and then Dantès’ countenance became gloomy, for the
oath of vengeance he had taken recurred to his memory, and he reflected
how much ill, in these times, a man with thirteen or fourteen millions
could do to his enemies.
The abbé did not know the Island of Monte Cristo; but Dantès knew it,
and had often passed it, situated twenty-five miles from Pianosa,
between Corsica and the Island of Elba, and had once touched there.
This island was, always had been, and still is, completely deserted. It
is a rock of almost conical form, which looks as though it had been
thrust up by volcanic force from the depth to the surface of the ocean.
Dantès drew a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave Dantès
advice as to the means he should employ to recover the treasure. But
Dantès was far from being as enthusiastic and confident as the old man.
It was past a question now that Faria was not a lunatic, and the way in
which he had achieved the discovery, which had given rise to the
suspicion of his madness, increased Edmond’s admiration of him; but at
the same time Dantès could not believe that the deposit, supposing it
had ever existed, still existed; and though he considered the treasure
as by no means chimerical, he yet believed it was no longer there.
However, as if fate resolved on depriving the prisoners of their last
chance, and making them understand that they were condemned to
perpetual imprisonment, a new misfortune befell them; the gallery on
the sea side, which had long been in ruins, was rebuilt. They had
repaired it completely, and stopped up with vast masses of stone the
hole Dantès had partly filled in. But for this precaution, which, it
will be remembered, the abbé had made to Edmond, the misfortune would
have been still greater, for their attempt to escape would have been
detected, and they would undoubtedly have been separated. Thus a new, a
stronger, and more inexorable barrier was interposed to cut off the
realization of their hopes.
“You see,” said the young man, with an air of sorrowful resignation, to
Faria, “that God deems it right to take from me any claim to merit for
what you call my devotion to you. I have promised to remain forever
with you, and now I could not break my promise if I would. The treasure
will be no more mine than yours, and neither of us will quit this
prison. But my real treasure is not that, my dear friend, which awaits
me beneath the sombre rocks of Monte Cristo, it is your presence, our
living together five or six hours a day, in spite of our jailers; it is
the rays of intelligence you have elicited from my brain, the languages
you have implanted in my memory, and which have taken root there with
all their philological ramifications. These different sciences that you
have made so easy to me by the depth of the knowledge you possess of
them, and the clearness of the principles to which you have reduced
them—this is my treasure, my beloved friend, and with this you have
made me rich and happy. Believe me, and take comfort, this is better
for me than tons of gold and cases of diamonds, even were they not as
problematical as the clouds we see in the morning floating over the
sea, which we take for _terra firma_, and which evaporate and vanish as
we draw near to them. To have you as long as possible near me, to hear
your eloquent speech,—which embellishes my mind, strengthens my soul,
and makes my whole frame capable of great and terrible things, if I
should ever be free,—so fills my whole existence, that the despair to
which I was just on the point of yielding when I knew you, has no
longer any hold over me; and this—this is my fortune—not chimerical,
but actual. I owe you my real good, my present happiness; and all the
sovereigns of the earth, even Cæsar Borgia himself, could not deprive
me of this.”
Thus, if not actually happy, yet the days these two unfortunates passed
together went quickly. Faria, who for so long a time had kept silence
as to the treasure, now perpetually talked of it. As he had prophesied
would be the case, he remained paralyzed in the right arm and the left
leg, and had given up all hope of ever enjoying it himself. But he was
continually thinking over some means of escape for his young companion,
and anticipating the pleasure he would enjoy. For fear the letter might
be some day lost or stolen, he compelled Dantès to learn it by heart;
and Dantès knew it from the first to the last word. Then he destroyed
the second portion, assured that if the first were seized, no one would
be able to discover its real meaning. Whole hours sometimes passed
while Faria was giving instructions to Dantès,—instructions which were
to serve him when he was at liberty. Then, once free, from the day and
hour and moment when he was so, he could have but one only thought,
which was, to gain Monte Cristo by some means, and remain there alone
under some pretext which would arouse no suspicions; and once there, to
endeavor to find the wonderful caverns, and search in the appointed
spot,—the appointed spot, be it remembered, being the farthest angle in
the second opening.
In the meanwhile the hours passed, if not rapidly, at least tolerably.
Faria, as we have said, without having recovered the use of his hand
and foot, had regained all the clearness of his understanding, and had
gradually, besides the moral instructions we have detailed, taught his
youthful companion the patient and sublime duty of a prisoner, who
learns to make something from nothing. They were thus perpetually
employed,—Faria, that he might not see himself grow old; Dantès, for
fear of recalling the almost extinct past which now only floated in his
memory like a distant light wandering in the night. So life went on for
them as it does for those who are not victims of misfortune and whose
activities glide along mechanically and tranquilly beneath the eye of
Providence.
But beneath this superficial calm there were in the heart of the young
man, and perhaps in that of the old man, many repressed desires, many
stifled sighs, which found vent when Faria was left alone, and when
Edmond returned to his cell.
One night Edmond awoke suddenly, believing that he heard someone
calling him. He opened his eyes upon utter darkness. His name, or
rather a plaintive voice which essayed to pronounce his name, reached
him. He sat up in bed and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow.
Undoubtedly the call came from Faria’s dungeon.
“Alas,” murmured Edmond; “can it be?”
He moved his bed, drew up the stone, rushed into the passage, and
reached the opposite extremity; the secret entrance was open. By the
light of the wretched and wavering lamp, of which we have spoken,
Dantès saw the old man, pale, but yet erect, clinging to the bedstead.
His features were writhing with those horrible symptoms which he
already knew, and which had so seriously alarmed him when he saw them
for the first time.
“Alas, my dear friend,” said Faria in a resigned tone, “you understand,
do you not, and I need not attempt to explain to you?”
Edmond uttered a cry of agony, and, quite out of his senses, rushed
towards the door, exclaiming, “Help, help!”
Faria had just sufficient strength to restrain him.
“Silence,” he said, “or you are lost. We must now only think of you, my
dear friend, and so act as to render your captivity supportable or your
flight possible. It would require years to do again what I have done
here, and the results would be instantly destroyed if our jailers knew
we had communicated with each other. Besides, be assured, my dear
Edmond, the dungeon I am about to leave will not long remain empty;
some other unfortunate being will soon take my place, and to him you
will appear like an angel of salvation. Perhaps he will be young,
strong, and enduring, like yourself, and will aid you in your escape,
while I have been but a hindrance. You will no longer have half a dead
body tied to you as a drag to all your movements. At length Providence
has done something for you; he restores to you more than he takes away,
and it was time I should die.”
Edmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim, “Oh, my friend, my
friend, speak not thus!” and then resuming all his presence of mind,
which had for a moment staggered under this blow, and his strength,
which had failed at the words of the old man, he said, “Oh, I have
saved you once, and I will save you a second time!” And raising the
foot of the bed, he drew out the phial, still a third filled with the
red liquor.
“See,” he exclaimed, “there remains still some of the magic draught.
Quick, quick! tell me what I must do this time; are there any fresh
instructions? Speak, my friend; I listen.”
“There is not a hope,” replied Faria, shaking his head, “but no matter;
God wills it that man whom he has created, and in whose heart he has so
profoundly rooted the love of life, should do all in his power to
preserve that existence, which, however painful it may be, is yet
always so dear.”
“Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed Dantès; “and I tell you that I will save you
yet.”
“Well, then, try. The cold gains upon me. I feel the blood flowing
towards my brain. These horrible chills, which make my teeth chatter
and seem to dislocate my bones, begin to pervade my whole frame; in
five minutes the malady will reach its height, and in a quarter of an
hour there will be nothing left of me but a corpse.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Dantès, his heart wrung with anguish.
“Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs of
life are now exhausted in me, and death,” he continued, looking at his
paralyzed arm and leg, “has but half its work to do. If, after having
made me swallow twelve drops instead of ten, you see that I do not
recover, then pour the rest down my throat. Now lift me on my bed, for
I can no longer support myself.”
Edmond took the old man in his arms, and laid him on the bed.
“And now, my dear friend,” said Faria, “sole consolation of my wretched
existence,—you whom Heaven gave me somewhat late, but still gave me, a
priceless gift, and for which I am most grateful,—at the moment of
separating from you forever, I wish you all the happiness and all the
prosperity you so well deserve. My son, I bless thee!”
The young man cast himself on his knees, leaning his head against the
old man’s bed.
“Listen, now, to what I say in this my dying moment. The treasure of
the Spadas exists. God grants me the boon of vision unrestricted by
time or space. I see it in the depths of the inner cavern. My eyes
pierce the inmost recesses of the earth, and are dazzled at the sight
of so much riches. If you do escape, remember that the poor abbé, whom
all the world called mad, was not so. Hasten to Monte Cristo—avail
yourself of the fortune—for you have indeed suffered long enough.”