The Count of Monte Cristo
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, Dantès’ 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 Fréjus, urged Dantès 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.”
Dantès 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 in its execution. Dantès
would not allow that any such infraction of regular and proper rules
should be made in his favor.
“No, no,” he said to the patron, “I was awkward, and it is just that I
pay the penalty of my clumsiness. Leave me a small supply of biscuit, a
gun, powder, and balls, to kill the kids or defend myself at need, and
a pickaxe, that I may build a shelter if you delay in coming back for
me.”
“But you’ll die of hunger,” said the patron.
“I would rather do so,” was Edmond’s reply, “than suffer the
inexpressible agonies which the slightest movement causes me.”
The patron turned towards his vessel, which was rolling on the swell in
the little harbor, and, with sails partly set, would be ready for sea
when her toilet should be completed.
“What are we to do, Maltese?” asked the captain. “We cannot leave you
here so, and yet we cannot stay.”
“Go, go!” exclaimed Dantès.
“We shall be absent at least a week,” said the patron, “and then we
must run out of our course to come here and take you up again.”
“Why,” said Dantès, “if in two or three days you hail any fishing-boat,
desire them to come here to me. I will pay twenty-five piastres for my
passage back to Leghorn. If you do not come across one, return for me.”
The patron shook his head.
“Listen, Captain Baldi; there’s one way of settling this,” said Jacopo.
“Do you go, and I will stay and take care of the wounded man.”
“And give up your share of the venture,” said Edmond, “to remain with
me?”
“Yes,” said Jacopo, “and without any hesitation.”
“You are a good fellow and a kind-hearted messmate,” replied Edmond,
“and heaven will recompense you for your generous intentions; but I do
not wish anyone to stay with me. A day or two of rest will set me up,
and I hope I shall find among the rocks certain herbs most excellent
for bruises.”
A peculiar smile passed over Dantès’ lips; he squeezed Jacopo’s hand
warmly, but nothing could shake his determination to remain—and remain
alone.
The smugglers left with Edmond what he had requested and set sail, but
not without turning about several times, and each time making signs of
a cordial farewell, to which Edmond replied with his hand only, as if
he could not move the rest of his body.
Then, when they had disappeared, he said with a smile,—“’Tis strange
that it should be among such men that we find proofs of friendship and
devotion.” Then he dragged himself cautiously to the top of a rock,
from which he had a full view of the sea, and thence he saw the tartan
complete her preparations for sailing, weigh anchor, and, balancing
herself as gracefully as a water-fowl ere it takes to the wing, set
sail.
At the end of an hour she was completely out of sight; at least, it was
impossible for the wounded man to see her any longer from the spot
where he was. Then Dantès rose more agile and light than the kid among
the myrtles and shrubs of these wild rocks, took his gun in one hand,
his pickaxe in the other, and hastened towards the rock on which the
marks he had noted terminated.
“And now,” he exclaimed, remembering the tale of the Arabian fisherman,
which Faria had related to him, “now, Open Sesame!”
Chapter 24. The Secret Cave
The sun had nearly reached the meridian, and his scorching rays fell
full on the rocks, which seemed themselves sensible of the heat.
Thousands of grasshoppers, hidden in the bushes, chirped with a
monotonous and dull note; the leaves of the myrtle and olive trees
waved and rustled in the wind. At every step that Edmond took he
disturbed the lizards glittering with the hues of the emerald; afar off
he saw the wild goats bounding from crag to crag. In a word, the island
was inhabited, yet Edmond felt himself alone, guided by the hand of
God.
He felt an indescribable sensation somewhat akin to dread—that dread of
the daylight which even in the desert makes us fear we are watched and
observed. This feeling was so strong that at the moment when Edmond was
about to begin his labor, he stopped, laid down his pickaxe, seized his
gun, mounted to the summit of the highest rock, and from thence gazed
round in every direction.
But it was not upon Corsica, the very houses of which he could
distinguish; or on Sardinia; or on the Island of Elba, with its
historical associations; or upon the almost imperceptible line that to
the experienced eye of a sailor alone revealed the coast of Genoa the
proud, and Leghorn the commercial, that he gazed. It was at the
brigantine that had left in the morning, and the tartan that had just
set sail, that Edmond fixed his eyes.
The first was just disappearing in the straits of Bonifacio; the other,
following an opposite direction, was about to round the Island of
Corsica.
This sight reassured him. He then looked at the objects near him. He
saw that he was on the highest point of the island,—a statue on this
vast pedestal of granite, nothing human appearing in sight, while the
blue ocean beat against the base of the island, and covered it with a
fringe of foam. Then he descended with cautious and slow step, for he
dreaded lest an accident similar to that he had so adroitly feigned
should happen in reality.
Dantès, as we have said, had traced the marks along the rocks, and he
had noticed that they led to a small creek, which was hidden like the
bath of some ancient nymph. This creek was sufficiently wide at its
mouth, and deep in the centre, to admit of the entrance of a small
vessel of the lugger class, which would be perfectly concealed from
observation.
Then following the clew that, in the hands of the Abbé Faria, had been
so skilfully used to guide him through the Dædalian labyrinth of
probabilities, he thought that the Cardinal Spada, anxious not to be
watched, had entered the creek, concealed his little barque, followed
the line marked by the notches in the rock, and at the end of it had
buried his treasure. It was this idea that had brought Dantès back to
the circular rock. One thing only perplexed Edmond, and destroyed his
theory. How could this rock, which weighed several tons, have been
lifted to this spot, without the aid of many men?
Suddenly an idea flashed across his mind. Instead of raising it,
thought he, they have lowered it. And he sprang from the rock in order
to inspect the base on which it had formerly stood.
He soon perceived that a slope had been formed, and the rock had slid
along this until it stopped at the spot it now occupied. A large stone
had served as a wedge; flints and pebbles had been inserted around it,
so as to conceal the orifice; this species of masonry had been covered
with earth, and grass and weeds had grown there, moss had clung to the
stones, myrtle-bushes had taken root, and the old rock seemed fixed to
the earth.
0301m
Dantès dug away the earth carefully, and detected, or fancied he
detected, the ingenious artifice. He attacked this wall, cemented by
the hand of time, with his pickaxe. After ten minutes’ labor the wall
gave way, and a hole large enough to insert the arm was opened.
Dantès went and cut the strongest olive-tree he could find, stripped
off its branches, inserted it in the hole, and used it as a lever. But
the rock was too heavy, and too firmly wedged, to be moved by anyone
man, were he Hercules himself. Dantès saw that he must attack the
wedge. But how?
He cast his eyes around, and saw the horn full of powder which his
friend Jacopo had left him. He smiled; the infernal invention would
serve him for this purpose.
With the aid of his pickaxe, Dantès, after the manner of a labor-saving
pioneer, dug a mine between the upper rock and the one that supported
it, filled it with powder, then made a match by rolling his
handkerchief in saltpetre. He lighted it and retired.
The explosion soon followed; the upper rock was lifted from its base by
the terrific force of the powder; the lower one flew into pieces;
thousands of insects escaped from the aperture Dantès had previously
formed, and a huge snake, like the guardian demon of the treasure,
rolled himself along in darkening coils, and disappeared.
Dantès approached the upper rock, which now, without any support,
leaned towards the sea. The intrepid treasure-seeker walked round it,
and, selecting the spot from whence it appeared most susceptible to
attack, placed his lever in one of the crevices, and strained every
nerve to move the mass.
The rock, already shaken by the explosion, tottered on its base. Dantès
redoubled his efforts; he seemed like one of the ancient Titans, who
uprooted the mountains to hurl against the father of the gods. The rock
yielded, rolled over, bounded from point to point, and finally
disappeared in the ocean.
On the spot it had occupied was a circular space, exposing an iron ring
let into a square flag-stone.
Dantès uttered a cry of joy and surprise; never had a first attempt
been crowned with more perfect success. He would fain have continued,
but his knees trembled, and his heart beat so violently, and his sight
became so dim, that he was forced to pause.
This feeling lasted but for a moment. Edmond inserted his lever in the
ring and exerted all his strength; the flag-stone yielded, and
disclosed steps that descended until they were lost in the obscurity of
a subterraneous grotto.
Anyone else would have rushed on with a cry of joy. Dantès turned pale,
hesitated, and reflected.
“Come,” said he to himself, “be a man. I am accustomed to adversity. I
must not be cast down by the discovery that I have been deceived. What,
then, would be the use of all I have suffered? The heart breaks when,
after having been elated by flattering hopes, it sees all its illusions
destroyed. Faria has dreamed this; the Cardinal Spada buried no
treasure here; perhaps he never came here, or if he did, Cæsar Borgia,
the intrepid adventurer, the stealthy and indefatigable plunderer, has
followed him, discovered his traces, pursued them as I have done,
raised the stone, and descending before me, has left me nothing.”
He remained motionless and pensive, his eyes fixed on the gloomy
aperture that was open at his feet.
“Now that I expect nothing, now that I no longer entertain the
slightest hopes, the end of this adventure becomes simply a matter of