The Count of Monte Cristo
A violent convulsion attacked the old man. Dantès raised his head and
saw Faria’s eyes injected with blood. It seemed as if a flow of blood
had ascended from the chest to the head.
“Adieu, adieu!” murmured the old man, clasping Edmond’s hand
convulsively—“adieu!”
“Oh, no,—no, not yet,” he cried; “do not forsake me! Oh, succor him!
Help—help—help!”
“Hush! hush!” murmured the dying man, “that they may not separate us if
you save me!”
“You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be assured I shall save you! Besides,
although you suffer much, you do not seem to be in such agony as you
were before.”
“Do not mistake! I suffer less because there is in me less strength to
endure. At your age we have faith in life; it is the privilege of youth
to believe and hope, but old men see death more clearly. Oh, ’tis
here—’tis here—’tis over—my sight is gone—my senses fail! Your hand,
Dantès! Adieu! adieu!”
And raising himself by a final effort, in which he summoned all his
faculties, he said,—“Monte Cristo, forget not Monte Cristo!” And he
fell back on the bed.
The crisis was terrible, and a rigid form with twisted limbs, swollen
eyelids, and lips flecked with bloody foam, lay on the bed of torture,
in place of the intellectual being who so lately rested there.
Dantès took the lamp, placed it on a projecting stone above the bed,
whence its tremulous light fell with strange and fantastic ray on the
distorted countenance and motionless, stiffened body. With steady gaze
he awaited confidently the moment for administering the restorative.
When he believed that the right moment had arrived, he took the knife,
pried open the teeth, which offered less resistance than before,
counted one after the other twelve drops, and watched; the phial
contained, perhaps, twice as much more. He waited ten minutes, a
quarter of an hour, half an hour,—no change took place. Trembling, his
hair erect, his brow bathed with perspiration, he counted the seconds
by the beating of his heart. Then he thought it was time to make the
last trial, and he put the phial to the purple lips of Faria, and
without having occasion to force open his jaws, which had remained
extended, he poured the whole of the liquid down his throat.
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The draught produced a galvanic effect, a violent trembling pervaded
the old man’s limbs, his eyes opened until it was fearful to gaze upon
them, he heaved a sigh which resembled a shriek, and then his convulsed
body returned gradually to its former immobility, the eyes remaining
open.
Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and during this
period of anguish, Edmond leaned over his friend, his hand applied to
his heart, and felt the body gradually grow cold, and the heart’s
pulsation become more and more deep and dull, until at length it
stopped; the last movement of the heart ceased, the face became livid,
the eyes remained open, but the eyeballs were glazed.
It was six o’clock in the morning, the dawn was just breaking, and its
feeble ray came into the dungeon, and paled the ineffectual light of
the lamp. Strange 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, Dantès 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 Dantès’ 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.
Dantès 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 Dantès’ 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 Château d’If are not
dear!”
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“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 everyone 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 Dantès indignant, for he felt
that all the world should have for the poor abbé 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 Dantès, 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 Dantès 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 Dantès 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.
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“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 abbé.
“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 in
consequence.”
“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 Dantès’ 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
château came to me yesterday to beg for leave of absence, in order to
take a trip to Hyères for a week. I told him I would attend to the
prisoners in his absence. If the poor abbé 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
Dantès.
Then he raised the flag-stone cautiously with his head, and looked
carefully around the chamber. It was empty, and Dantès emerged from the
tunnel.
Chapter 20. The Cemetery of the Château 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
Dantès 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 reverie.
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