The Count of Monte Cristo

by Alexandre Dumas

Chapter 1. Marseilles--The Arrival.

On the 24th of February, 1815, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde
signalled the three-master, the Pharaon from Smyrna, Trieste, and
Naples.

As usual, a pilot put off immediately, and rounding the Chateau d'If,
got on board the vessel between Cape Morgion and Rion island.

Immediately, and according to custom, the ramparts of Fort Saint-Jean
were covered with spectators; it is always an event at Marseilles for a
ship to come into port, especially when this ship, like the Pharaon, has
been built, rigged, and laden at the old Phocee docks, and belongs to an
owner of the city.

The ship drew on and had safely passed the strait, which some volcanic
shock has made between the Calasareigne and Jaros islands; had doubled
Pomegue, and approached the harbor under topsails, jib, and spanker, but
so slowly and sedately that the idlers, with that instinct which is
the forerunner of evil, asked one another what misfortune could have
happened on board. However, those experienced in navigation saw plainly
that if any accident had occurred, it was not to the vessel herself,
for she bore down with all the evidence of being skilfully handled, the
anchor a-cockbill, the jib-boom guys already eased off, and standing by
the side of the pilot, who was steering the Pharaon towards the narrow
entrance of the inner port, was a young man, who, with activity and
vigilant eye, watched every motion of the ship, and repeated each
direction of the pilot.

The vague disquietude which prevailed among the spectators had so much
affected one of the crowd that he did not await the arrival of the
vessel in harbor, but jumping into a small skiff, desired to be pulled
alongside the Pharaon, which he reached as she rounded into La Reserve
basin.

When the young man on board saw this person approach, he left his
station by the pilot, and, hat in hand, leaned over the ship's bulwarks.

He was a fine, tall, slim young fellow of eighteen or twenty, with
black eyes, and hair as dark as a raven's wing; and his whole appearance
bespoke that calmness and resolution peculiar to men accustomed from
their cradle to contend with danger.

"Ah, is it you, Dantes?" cried the man in the skiff. "What's the matter?
and why have you such an air of sadness aboard?"

"A great misfortune, M. Morrel," replied the young man,--"a great
misfortune, for me especially! Off Civita Vecchia we lost our brave
Captain Leclere."

"And the cargo?" inquired the owner, eagerly.

"Is all safe, M. Morrel; and I think you will be satisfied on that head.
But poor Captain Leclere--"

"What happened to him?" asked the owner, with an air of considerable
resignation. "What happened to the worthy captain?"

"He died."

"Fell into the sea?"

"No, sir, he died of brain-fever in dreadful agony." Then turning to the
crew, he said, "Bear a hand there, to take in sail!"

All hands obeyed, and at once the eight or ten seamen who composed the
crew, sprang to their respective stations at the spanker brails and
outhaul, topsail sheets and halyards, the jib downhaul, and the topsail
clewlines and buntlines. The young sailor gave a look to see that his
orders were promptly and accurately obeyed, and then turned again to the
owner.

"And how did this misfortune occur?" inquired the latter, resuming the
interrupted conversation.

"Alas, sir, in the most unexpected manner. After a long talk with the
harbor-master, Captain Leclere left Naples greatly disturbed in mind.
In twenty-four hours he was attacked by a fever, and died three days
afterwards. We performed the usual burial service, and he is at his
rest, sewn up in his hammock with a thirty-six pound shot at his head
and his heels, off El Giglio island. We bring to his widow his sword and
cross of honor. It was worth while, truly," added the young man with a
melancholy smile, "to make war against the English for ten years, and to
die in his bed at last, like everybody else."

"Why, you see, Edmond," replied the owner, who appeared more comforted
at every moment, "we are all mortal, and the old must make way for the
young. If not, why, there would be no promotion; and since you assure me
that the cargo--"

"Is all safe and sound, M. Morrel, take my word for it; and I advise you
not to take 25,000 francs for the profits of the voyage."

Then, as they were just passing the Round Tower, the young man shouted:
"Stand by there to lower the topsails and jib; brail up the spanker!"

The order was executed as promptly as it would have been on board a
man-of-war.

"Let go--and clue up!" At this last command all the sails were lowered,
and the vessel moved almost imperceptibly onwards.

"Now, if you will come on board, M. Morrel," said Dantes, observing the
owner's impatience, "here is your supercargo, M. Danglars, coming out of
his cabin, who will furnish you with every particular. As for me, I must
look after the anchoring, and dress the ship in mourning."

The owner did not wait for a second invitation. He seized a rope which
Dantes flung to him, and with an activity that would have done credit to
a sailor, climbed up the side of the ship, while the young man, going
to his task, left the conversation to Danglars, who now came towards
the owner. He was a man of twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, of
unprepossessing countenance, obsequious to his superiors, insolent to
his subordinates; and this, in addition to his position as responsible
agent on board, which is always obnoxious to the sailors, made him as
much disliked by the crew as Edmond Dantes was beloved by them.

"Well, M. Morrel," said Danglars, "you have heard of the misfortune that
has befallen us?"

"Yes--yes: poor Captain Leclere! He was a brave and an honest man."

"And a first-rate seaman, one who had seen long and honorable service,
as became a man charged with the interests of a house so important as
that of Morrel & Son," replied Danglars.

"But," replied the owner, glancing after Dantes, who was watching the
anchoring of his vessel, "it seems to me that a sailor needs not be so
old as you say, Danglars, to understand his business, for our friend
Edmond seems to understand it thoroughly, and not to require instruction
from any one."

"Yes," said Danglars, darting at Edmond a look gleaming with hate. "Yes,
he is young, and youth is invariably self-confident. Scarcely was the
captain's breath out of his body when he assumed the command without
consulting any one, and he caused us to lose a day and a half at the
Island of Elba, instead of making for Marseilles direct."

"As to taking command of the vessel," replied Morrel, "that was his duty
as captain's mate; as to losing a day and a half off the Island of Elba,
he was wrong, unless the vessel needed repairs."

"The vessel was in as good condition as I am, and as, I hope you are,
M. Morrel, and this day and a half was lost from pure whim, for the
pleasure of going ashore, and nothing else."

"Dantes," said the shipowner, turning towards the young man, "come this
way!"

"In a moment, sir," answered Dantes, "and I'm with you." Then calling to
the crew, he said--"Let go!"

The anchor was instantly dropped, and the chain ran rattling through the
port-hole. Dantes continued at his post in spite of the presence of the
pilot, until this manoeuvre was completed, and then he added, "Half-mast
the colors, and square the yards!"

"You see," said Danglars, "he fancies himself captain already, upon my
word."

"And so, in fact, he is," said the owner.

"Except your signature and your partner's, M. Morrel."

"And why should he not have this?" asked the owner; "he is young, it is
true, but he seems to me a thorough seaman, and of full experience."

A cloud passed over Danglars' brow. "Your pardon, M. Morrel," said
Dantes, approaching, "the vessel now rides at anchor, and I am at your
service. You hailed me, I think?"

Danglars retreated a step or two. "I wished to inquire why you stopped
at the Island of Elba?"

"I do not know, sir; it was to fulfil the last instructions of Captain
Leclere, who, when dying, gave me a packet for Marshal Bertrand."

"Then did you see him, Edmond?"

"Who?"

"The marshal."

"Yes."

Morrel looked around him, and then, drawing Dantes on one side, he said
suddenly--"And how is the emperor?"

"Very well, as far as I could judge from the sight of him."

"You saw the emperor, then?"

"He entered the marshal's apartment while I was there."

"And you spoke to him?"

"Why, it was he who spoke to me, sir," said Dantes, with a smile.

"And what did he say to you?"

"Asked me questions about the vessel, the time she left Marseilles, the
course she had taken, and what was her cargo. I believe, if she had not
been laden, and I had been her master, he would have bought her. But I
told him I was only mate, and that she belonged to the firm of Morrel &
Son. 'Ah, yes,' he said, 'I know them. The Morrels have been shipowners
from father to son; and there was a Morrel who served in the same
regiment with me when I was in garrison at Valence.'"

"Pardieu, and that is true!" cried the owner, greatly delighted. "And
that was Policar Morrel, my uncle, who was afterwards a captain. Dantes,
you must tell my uncle that the emperor remembered him, and you will see
it will bring tears into the old soldier's eyes. Come, come," continued
he, patting Edmond's shoulder kindly, "you did very right, Dantes, to
follow Captain Leclere's instructions, and touch at Elba, although if
it were known that you had conveyed a packet to the marshal, and had
conversed with the emperor, it might bring you into trouble."

"How could that bring me into trouble, sir?" asked Dantes; "for I did
not even know of what I was the bearer; and the emperor merely made such
inquiries as he would of the first comer. But, pardon me, here are the
health officers and the customs inspectors coming alongside." And the
young man went to the gangway. As he departed, Danglars approached, and
said,--

"Well, it appears that he has given you satisfactory reasons for his
landing at Porto-Ferrajo?"

"Yes, most satisfactory, my dear Danglars."

"Well, so much the better," said the supercargo; "for it is not pleasant
to think that a comrade has not done his duty."

"Dantes has done his," replied the owner, "and that is not saying much.
It was Captain Leclere who gave orders for this delay."

"Talking of Captain Leclere, has not Dantes given you a letter from
him?"

"To me?--no--was there one?"

"I believe that, besides the packet, Captain Leclere confided a letter
to his care."

"Of what packet are you speaking, Danglars?"

"Why, that which Dantes left at Porto-Ferrajo."

"How do you know he had a packet to leave at Porto-Ferrajo?"

Danglars turned very red.

"I was passing close to the door of the captain's cabin, which was half
open, and I saw him give the packet and letter to Dantes."

"He did not speak to me of it," replied the shipowner; "but if there be
any letter he will give it to me."

Danglars reflected for a moment. "Then, M. Morrel, I beg of you,"
said he, "not to say a word to Dantes on the subject. I may have been
mistaken."

At this moment the young man returned; Danglars withdrew.

"Well, my dear Dantes, are you now free?" inquired the owner.

"Yes, sir."

"You have not been long detained."

"No. I gave the custom-house officers a copy of our bill of lading; and
as to the other papers, they sent a man off with the pilot, to whom I
gave them."

"Then you have nothing more to do here?"

"No--everything is all right now."

"Then you can come and dine with me?"

"I really must ask you to excuse me, M. Morrel. My first visit is due to
my father, though I am not the less grateful for the honor you have done
me."

"Right, Dantes, quite right. I always knew you were a good son."

"And," inquired Dantes, with some hesitation, "do you know how my father
is?"

"Well, I believe, my dear Edmond, though I have not seen him lately."

"Yes, he likes to keep himself shut up in his little room."

"That proves, at least, that he has wanted for nothing during your
absence."

Dantes smiled. "My father is proud, sir, and if he had not a meal
left, I doubt if he would have asked anything from anyone, except from
Heaven."

"Well, then, after this first visit has been made we shall count on
you."

"I must again excuse myself, M. Morrel, for after this first visit has
been paid I have another which I am most anxious to pay."

"True, Dantes, I forgot that there was at the Catalans some one who
expects you no less impatiently than your father--the lovely Mercedes."

Dantes blushed.

"Ah, ha," said the shipowner, "I am not in the least surprised, for
she has been to me three times, inquiring if there were any news of the
Pharaon. Peste, Edmond, you have a very handsome mistress!"

"She is not my mistress," replied the young sailor, gravely; "she is my
betrothed."

"Sometimes one and the same thing," said Morrel, with a smile.

"Not with us, sir," replied Dantes.

"Well, well, my dear Edmond," continued the owner, "don't let me detain
you. You have managed my affairs so well that I ought to allow you all
the time you require for your own. Do you want any money?"

"No, sir; I have all my pay to take--nearly three months' wages."

"You are a careful fellow, Edmond."

"Say I have a poor father, sir."

"Yes, yes, I know how good a son you are, so now hasten away to see
your father. I have a son too, and I should be very wroth with those who
detained him from me after a three months' voyage."

"Then I have your leave, sir?"

"Yes, if you have nothing more to say to me."

"Nothing."

"Captain Leclere did not, before he died, give you a letter for me?"

"He was unable to write, sir. But that reminds me that I must ask your
leave of absence for some days."

"To get married?"

"Yes, first, and then to go to Paris."

"Very good; have what time you require, Dantes. It will take quite six
weeks to unload the cargo, and we cannot get you ready for sea until
three months after that; only be back again in three months, for the
Pharaon," added the owner, patting the young sailor on the back, "cannot
sail without her captain."

"Without her captain!" cried Dantes, his eyes sparkling with animation;
"pray mind what you say, for you are touching on the most secret wishes
of my heart. Is it really your intention to make me captain of the
Pharaon?"

"If I were sole owner we'd shake hands on it now, my dear Dantes,
and call it settled; but I have a partner, and you know the Italian
proverb--Chi ha compagno ha padrone--'He who has a partner has a
master.' But the thing is at least half done, as you have one out of two
votes. Rely on me to procure you the other; I will do my best."

"Ah, M. Morrel," exclaimed the young seaman, with tears in his eyes,
and grasping the owner's hand, "M. Morrel, I thank you in the name of my
father and of Mercedes."

"That's all right, Edmond. There's a providence that watches over the
deserving. Go to your father: go and see Mercedes, and afterwards come
to me."

"Shall I row you ashore?"

"No, thank you; I shall remain and look over the accounts with Danglars.
Have you been satisfied with him this voyage?"

"That is according to the sense you attach to the question, sir. Do you
mean is he a good comrade? No, for I think he never liked me since the
day when I was silly enough, after a little quarrel we had, to propose
to him to stop for ten minutes at the island of Monte Cristo to settle
the dispute--a proposition which I was wrong to suggest, and he quite
right to refuse. If you mean as responsible agent when you ask me the
question, I believe there is nothing to say against him, and that you
will be content with the way in which he has performed his duty."

"But tell me, Dantes, if you had command of the Pharaon should you be
glad to see Danglars remain?"

"Captain or mate, M. Morrel, I shall always have the greatest respect
for those who possess the owners' confidence."

"That's right, that's right, Dantes! I see you are a thoroughly good
fellow, and will detain you no longer. Go, for I see how impatient you
are."

"Then I have leave?"

"Go, I tell you."

"May I have the use of your skiff?"

"Certainly."

"Then, for the present, M. Morrel, farewell, and a thousand thanks!"

"I hope soon to see you again, my dear Edmond. Good luck to you."

The young sailor jumped into the skiff, and sat down in the stern
sheets, with the order that he be put ashore at La Canebiere. The two
oarsmen bent to their work, and the little boat glided away as rapidly
as possible in the midst of the thousand vessels which choke up the
narrow way which leads between the two rows of ships from the mouth of
the harbor to the Quai d'Orleans.

The shipowner, smiling, followed him with his eyes until he saw him
spring out on the quay and disappear in the midst of the throng, which
from five o'clock in the morning until nine o'clock at night, swarms
in the famous street of La Canebiere,--a street of which the modern
Phocaeans are so proud that they say with all the gravity in the world,
and with that accent which gives so much character to what is said, "If
Paris had La Canebiere, Paris would be a second Marseilles." On turning
round the owner saw Danglars behind him, apparently awaiting orders,
but in reality also watching the young sailor,--but there was a great
difference in the expression of the two men who thus followed the
movements of Edmond Dantes.

Chapter 2. Father and Son.

We will leave Danglars struggling with the demon of hatred, and
endeavoring to insinuate in the ear of the shipowner some evil
suspicions against his comrade, and follow Dantes, who, after having
traversed La Canebiere, took the Rue de Noailles, and entering a small
house, on the left of the Allees de Meillan, rapidly ascended four
flights of a dark staircase, holding the baluster with one hand, while
with the other he repressed the beatings of his heart, and paused before
a half-open door, from which he could see the whole of a small room.

This room was occupied by Dantes' father. The news of the arrival of the
Pharaon had not yet reached the old man, who, mounted on a chair, was
amusing himself by training with trembling hand the nasturtiums and
sprays of clematis that clambered over the trellis at his window.
Suddenly, he felt an arm thrown around his body, and a well-known voice
behind him exclaimed, "Father--dear father!"

The old man uttered a cry, and turned round; then, seeing his son, he
fell into his arms, pale and trembling.

"What ails you, my dearest father? Are you ill?" inquired the young man,
much alarmed.

"No, no, my dear Edmond--my boy--my son!--no; but I did not expect you;
and joy, the surprise of seeing you so suddenly--Ah, I feel as if I were
going to die."

"Come, come, cheer up, my dear father! 'Tis I--really I! They say joy
never hurts, and so I came to you without any warning. Come now, do
smile, instead of looking at me so solemnly. Here I am back again, and
we are going to be happy."

"Yes, yes, my boy, so we will--so we will," replied the old man; "but
how shall we be happy? Shall you never leave me again? Come, tell me all
the good fortune that has befallen you."

"God forgive me," said the young man, "for rejoicing at happiness
derived from the misery of others, but, Heaven knows, I did not seek
this good fortune; it has happened, and I really cannot pretend to
lament it. The good Captain Leclere is dead, father, and it is probable
that, with the aid of M. Morrel, I shall have his place. Do you
understand, father? Only imagine me a captain at twenty, with a hundred
louis pay, and a share in the profits! Is this not more than a poor
sailor like me could have hoped for?"

"Yes, my dear boy," replied the old man, "it is very fortunate."

"Well, then, with the first money I touch, I mean you to have a small
house, with a garden in which to plant clematis, nasturtiums, and
honeysuckle. But what ails you, father? Are you not well?"

"'Tis nothing, nothing; it will soon pass away"--and as he said so the
old man's strength failed him, and he fell backwards.

"Come, come," said the young man, "a glass of wine, father, will revive
you. Where do you keep your wine?"

"No, no; thanks. You need not look for it; I do not want it," said the
old man.

"Yes, yes, father, tell me where it is," and he opened two or three
cupboards.

"It is no use," said the old man, "there is no wine."

"What, no wine?" said Dantes, turning pale, and looking alternately
at the hollow cheeks of the old man and the empty cupboards. "What, no
wine? Have you wanted money, father?"

"I want nothing now that I have you," said the old man.

"Yet," stammered Dantes, wiping the perspiration from his brow,--"yet I
gave you two hundred francs when I left, three months ago."

"Yes, yes, Edmond, that is true, but you forgot at that time a little
debt to our neighbor, Caderousse. He reminded me of it, telling me if
I did not pay for you, he would be paid by M. Morrel; and so, you see,
lest he might do you an injury"--

"Well?"

"Why, I paid him."

"But," cried Dantes, "it was a hundred and forty francs I owed
Caderousse."

"Yes," stammered the old man.

"And you paid him out of the two hundred francs I left you?"

The old man nodded.

"So that you have lived for three months on sixty francs," muttered
Edmond.

"You know how little I require," said the old man.

"Heaven pardon me," cried Edmond, falling on his knees before his
father.

"What are you doing?"

"You have wounded me to the heart."

"Never mind it, for I see you once more," said the old man; "and now
it's all over--everything is all right again."

"Yes, here I am," said the young man, "with a promising future and a
little money. Here, father, here!" he said, "take this--take it, and
send for something immediately." And he emptied his pockets on the
table, the contents consisting of a dozen gold pieces, five or six
five-franc pieces, and some smaller coin. The countenance of old Dantes
brightened.

"Whom does this belong to?" he inquired.

"To me, to you, to us! Take it; buy some provisions; be happy, and
to-morrow we shall have more."

"Gently, gently," said the old man, with a smile; "and by your leave I
will use your purse moderately, for they would say, if they saw me buy
too many things at a time, that I had been obliged to await your return,
in order to be able to purchase them."

"Do as you please; but, first of all, pray have a servant, father. I
will not have you left alone so long. I have some smuggled coffee and
most capital tobacco, in a small chest in the hold, which you shall have
to-morrow. But, hush, here comes somebody."

"'Tis Caderousse, who has heard of your arrival, and no doubt comes to
congratulate you on your fortunate return."

"Ah, lips that say one thing, while the heart thinks another," murmured
Edmond. "But, never mind, he is a neighbor who has done us a service on
a time, so he's welcome."

As Edmond paused, the black and bearded head of Caderousse appeared at
the door. He was a man of twenty-five or six, and held a piece of cloth,
which, being a tailor, he was about to make into a coat-lining.

"What, is it you, Edmond, back again?" said he, with a broad
Marseillaise accent, and a grin that displayed his ivory-white teeth.

"Yes, as you see, neighbor Caderousse; and ready to be agreeable to you
in any and every way," replied Dantes, but ill-concealing his coldness
under this cloak of civility.

"Thanks--thanks; but, fortunately, I do not want for anything; and it
chances that at times there are others who have need of me." Dantes made
a gesture. "I do not allude to you, my boy. No!--no! I lent you money,
and you returned it; that's like good neighbors, and we are quits."

"We are never quits with those who oblige us," was Dantes' reply; "for
when we do not owe them money, we owe them gratitude."

"What's the use of mentioning that? What is done is done. Let us talk
of your happy return, my boy. I had gone on the quay to match a piece of
mulberry cloth, when I met friend Danglars. 'You at Marseilles?'--'Yes,'
says he.

"'I thought you were at Smyrna.'--'I was; but am now back again.'

"'And where is the dear boy, our little Edmond?'

"'Why, with his father, no doubt,' replied Danglars. And so I came,"
added Caderousse, "as fast as I could to have the pleasure of shaking
hands with a friend."

"Worthy Caderousse!" said the old man, "he is so much attached to us."

"Yes, to be sure I am. I love and esteem you, because honest folks are
so rare. But it seems you have come back rich, my boy," continued the
tailor, looking askance at the handful of gold and silver which Dantes
had thrown on the table.

The young man remarked the greedy glance which shone in the dark eyes of
his neighbor. "Eh," he said, negligently, "this money is not mine. I was
expressing to my father my fears that he had wanted many things in my
absence, and to convince me he emptied his purse on the table. Come,
father" added Dantes, "put this money back in your box--unless neighbor
Caderousse wants anything, and in that case it is at his service."

"No, my boy, no," said Caderousse. "I am not in any want, thank God,
my living is suited to my means. Keep your money--keep it, I say;--one
never has too much;--but, at the same time, my boy, I am as much obliged
by your offer as if I took advantage of it."

"It was offered with good will," said Dantes.

"No doubt, my boy; no doubt. Well, you stand well with M. Morrel I
hear,--you insinuating dog, you!"

"M. Morrel has always been exceedingly kind to me," replied Dantes.

"Then you were wrong to refuse to dine with him."

"What, did you refuse to dine with him?" said old Dantes; "and did he
invite you to dine?"

"Yes, my dear father," replied Edmond, smiling at his father's
astonishment at the excessive honor paid to his son.

"And why did you refuse, my son?" inquired the old man.

"That I might the sooner see you again, my dear father," replied the
young man. "I was most anxious to see you."

"But it must have vexed M. Morrel, good, worthy man," said Caderousse.
"And when you are looking forward to be captain, it was wrong to annoy
the owner."

"But I explained to him the cause of my refusal," replied Dantes, "and I
hope he fully understood it."

"Yes, but to be captain one must do a little flattery to one's patrons."

"I hope to be captain without that," said Dantes.

"So much the better--so much the better! Nothing will give greater
pleasure to all your old friends; and I know one down there behind the
Saint Nicolas citadel who will not be sorry to hear it."

"Mercedes?" said the old man.

"Yes, my dear father, and with your permission, now I have seen you, and
know you are well and have all you require, I will ask your consent to
go and pay a visit to the Catalans."

"Go, my dear boy," said old Dantes: "and heaven bless you in your wife,
as it has blessed me in my son!"

"His wife!" said Caderousse; "why, how fast you go on, father Dantes;
she is not his wife yet, as it seems to me."

"So, but according to all probability she soon will be," replied Edmond.

"Yes--yes," said Caderousse; "but you were right to return as soon as
possible, my boy."

"And why?"

"Because Mercedes is a very fine girl, and fine girls never lack
followers; she particularly has them by dozens."

"Really?" answered Edmond, with a smile which had in it traces of slight
uneasiness.

"Ah, yes," continued Caderousse, "and capital offers, too; but you know,
you will be captain, and who could refuse you then?"

"Meaning to say," replied Dantes, with a smile which but ill-concealed
his trouble, "that if I were not a captain"--

"Eh--eh!" said Caderousse, shaking his head.

"Come, come," said the sailor, "I have a better opinion than you of
women in general, and of Mercedes in particular; and I am certain that,
captain or not, she will remain ever faithful to me."

"So much the better--so much the better," said Caderousse. "When one
is going to be married, there is nothing like implicit confidence; but
never mind that, my boy,--go and announce your arrival, and let her know
all your hopes and prospects."

"I will go directly," was Edmond's reply; and, embracing his father, and
nodding to Caderousse, he left the apartment.

Caderousse lingered for a moment, then taking leave of old Dantes, he
went downstairs to rejoin Danglars, who awaited him at the corner of the
Rue Senac.

"Well," said Danglars, "did you see him?"

"I have just left him," answered Caderousse.

"Did he allude to his hope of being captain?"

"He spoke of it as a thing already decided."

"Indeed!" said Danglars, "he is in too much hurry, it appears to me."

"Why, it seems M. Morrel has promised him the thing."

"So that he is quite elated about it?"

"Why, yes, he is actually insolent over the matter--has already offered
me his patronage, as if he were a grand personage, and proffered me a
loan of money, as though he were a banker."

"Which you refused?"

"Most assuredly; although I might easily have accepted it, for it was
I who put into his hands the first silver he ever earned; but now M.
Dantes has no longer any occasion for assistance--he is about to become
a captain."

"Pooh!" said Danglars, "he is not one yet."

"Ma foi, it will be as well if he is not," answered Caderousse; "for if
he should be, there will be really no speaking to him."

"If we choose," replied Danglars, "he will remain what he is; and
perhaps become even less than he is."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing--I was speaking to myself. And is he still in love with the
Catalane?"

"Over head and ears; but, unless I am much mistaken, there will be a
storm in that quarter."

"Explain yourself."

"Why should I?"

"It is more important than you think, perhaps. You do not like Dantes?"

"I never like upstarts."

"Then tell me all you know about the Catalane."

"I know nothing for certain; only I have seen things which induce me to
believe, as I told you, that the future captain will find some annoyance
in the vicinity of the Vieilles Infirmeries."

"What have you seen?--come, tell me!"

"Well, every time I have seen Mercedes come into the city she has
been accompanied by a tall, strapping, black-eyed Catalan, with a red
complexion, brown skin, and fierce air, whom she calls cousin."

"Really; and you think this cousin pays her attentions?"

"I only suppose so. What else can a strapping chap of twenty-one mean
with a fine wench of seventeen?"

"And you say that Dantes has gone to the Catalans?"

"He went before I came down."

"Let us go the same way; we will stop at La Reserve, and we can drink a
glass of La Malgue, whilst we wait for news."

"Come along," said Caderousse; "but you pay the score."

"Of course," replied Danglars; and going quickly to the designated
place, they called for a bottle of wine, and two glasses.

Pere Pamphile had seen Dantes pass not ten minutes before; and assured
that he was at the Catalans, they sat down under the budding foliage
of the planes and sycamores, in the branches of which the birds were
singing their welcome to one of the first days of spring.

Chapter 3. The Catalans.

Beyond a bare, weather-worn wall, about a hundred paces from the spot
where the two friends sat looking and listening as they drank their
wine, was the village of the Catalans. Long ago this mysterious colony
quitted Spain, and settled on the tongue of land on which it is to this
day. Whence it came no one knew, and it spoke an unknown tongue. One of
its chiefs, who understood Provencal, begged the commune of Marseilles
to give them this bare and barren promontory, where, like the sailors of
old, they had run their boats ashore. The request was granted; and three
months afterwards, around the twelve or fifteen small vessels which
had brought these gypsies of the sea, a small village sprang up. This
village, constructed in a singular and picturesque manner, half Moorish,
half Spanish, still remains, and is inhabited by descendants of the
first comers, who speak the language of their fathers. For three or four
centuries they have remained upon this small promontory, on which
they had settled like a flight of seabirds, without mixing with the
Marseillaise population, intermarrying, and preserving their original
customs and the costume of their mother-country as they have preserved
its language.

Our readers will follow us along the only street of this little village,
and enter with us one of the houses, which is sunburned to the beautiful
dead-leaf color peculiar to the buildings of the country, and within
coated with whitewash, like a Spanish posada. A young and beautiful
girl, with hair as black as jet, her eyes as velvety as the gazelle's,
was leaning with her back against the wainscot, rubbing in her slender
delicately moulded fingers a bunch of heath blossoms, the flowers of
which she was picking off and strewing on the floor; her arms, bare to
the elbow, brown, and modelled after those of the Arlesian Venus, moved
with a kind of restless impatience, and she tapped the earth with her
arched and supple foot, so as to display the pure and full shape of her
well-turned leg, in its red cotton, gray and blue clocked, stocking. At
three paces from her, seated in a chair which he balanced on two legs,
leaning his elbow on an old worm-eaten table, was a tall young man of
twenty, or two-and-twenty, who was looking at her with an air in which
vexation and uneasiness were mingled. He questioned her with his eyes,
but the firm and steady gaze of the young girl controlled his look.

"You see, Mercedes," said the young man, "here is Easter come round
again; tell me, is this the moment for a wedding?"

"I have answered you a hundred times, Fernand, and really you must be
very stupid to ask me again."

"Well, repeat it,--repeat it, I beg of you, that I may at last believe
it! Tell me for the hundredth time that you refuse my love, which had
your mother's sanction. Make me understand once for all that you are
trifling with my happiness, that my life or death are nothing to you.
Ah, to have dreamed for ten years of being your husband, Mercedes, and
to lose that hope, which was the only stay of my existence!"

"At least it was not I who ever encouraged you in that hope, Fernand,"
replied Mercedes; "you cannot reproach me with the slightest coquetry.
I have always said to you, 'I love you as a brother; but do not ask from
me more than sisterly affection, for my heart is another's.' Is not this
true, Fernand?"

"Yes, that is very true, Mercedes," replied the young man, "Yes, you
have been cruelly frank with me; but do you forget that it is among the
Catalans a sacred law to intermarry?"

"You mistake, Fernand; it is not a law, but merely a custom, and, I pray
of you, do not cite this custom in your favor. You are included in the
conscription, Fernand, and are only at liberty on sufferance, liable at
any moment to be called upon to take up arms. Once a soldier, what would
you do with me, a poor orphan, forlorn, without fortune, with nothing
but a half-ruined hut and a few ragged nets, the miserable inheritance
left by my father to my mother, and by my mother to me? She has been
dead a year, and you know, Fernand, I have subsisted almost entirely on
public charity. Sometimes you pretend I am useful to you, and that is
an excuse to share with me the produce of your fishing, and I accept it,
Fernand, because you are the son of my father's brother, because we were
brought up together, and still more because it would give you so much
pain if I refuse. But I feel very deeply that this fish which I go and
sell, and with the produce of which I buy the flax I spin,--I feel very
keenly, Fernand, that this is charity."

"And if it were, Mercedes, poor and lone as you are, you suit me as
well as the daughter of the first shipowner or the richest banker
of Marseilles! What do such as we desire but a good wife and careful
housekeeper, and where can I look for these better than in you?"

"Fernand," answered Mercedes, shaking her head, "a woman becomes a bad
manager, and who shall say she will remain an honest woman, when
she loves another man better than her husband? Rest content with my
friendship, for I say once more that is all I can promise, and I will
promise no more than I can bestow."

"I understand," replied Fernand, "you can endure your own wretchedness
patiently, but you are afraid to share mine. Well, Mercedes, beloved by
you, I would tempt fortune; you would bring me good luck, and I should
become rich. I could extend my occupation as a fisherman, might get a
place as clerk in a warehouse, and become in time a dealer myself."

"You could do no such thing, Fernand; you are a soldier, and if you
remain at the Catalans it is because there is no war; so remain a
fisherman, and contented with my friendship, as I cannot give you more."

"Well, I will do better, Mercedes. I will be a sailor; instead of the
costume of our fathers, which you despise, I will wear a varnished hat,
a striped shirt, and a blue jacket, with an anchor on the buttons. Would
not that dress please you?"

"What do you mean?" asked Mercedes, with an angry glance,--"what do you
mean? I do not understand you?"

"I mean, Mercedes, that you are thus harsh and cruel with me, because
you are expecting some one who is thus attired; but perhaps he whom you
await is inconstant, or if he is not, the sea is so to him."

"Fernand," cried Mercedes, "I believed you were good-hearted, and I was
mistaken! Fernand, you are wicked to call to your aid jealousy and the
anger of God! Yes, I will not deny it, I do await, and I do love him of
whom you speak; and, if he does not return, instead of accusing him of
the inconstancy which you insinuate, I will tell you that he died loving
me and me only." The young girl made a gesture of rage. "I understand
you, Fernand; you would be revenged on him because I do not love you;
you would cross your Catalan knife with his dirk. What end would that
answer? To lose you my friendship if he were conquered, and see that
friendship changed into hate if you were victor. Believe me, to seek a
quarrel with a man is a bad method of pleasing the woman who loves that
man. No, Fernand, you will not thus give way to evil thoughts. Unable to
have me for your wife, you will content yourself with having me for
your friend and sister; and besides," she added, her eyes troubled and
moistened with tears, "wait, wait, Fernand; you said just now that the
sea was treacherous, and he has been gone four months, and during these
four months there have been some terrible storms."

Fernand made no reply, nor did he attempt to check the tears which
flowed down the cheeks of Mercedes, although for each of these tears he
would have shed his heart's blood; but these tears flowed for another.
He arose, paced a while up and down the hut, and then, suddenly stopping
before Mercedes, with his eyes glowing and his hands clinched,--"Say,
Mercedes," he said, "once for all, is this your final determination?"

"I love Edmond Dantes," the young girl calmly replied, "and none but
Edmond shall ever be my husband."

"And you will always love him?"

"As long as I live."

Fernand let fall his head like a defeated man, heaved a sigh that was
like a groan, and then suddenly looking her full in the face, with
clinched teeth and expanded nostrils, said,--"But if he is dead"--

"If he is dead, I shall die too."

"If he has forgotten you"--

"Mercedes!" called a joyous voice from without,--"Mercedes!"

"Ah," exclaimed the young girl, blushing with delight, and fairly
leaping in excess of love, "you see he has not forgotten me, for here he
is!" And rushing towards the door, she opened it, saying, "Here, Edmond,
here I am!"

Fernand, pale and trembling, drew back, like a traveller at the sight
of a serpent, and fell into a chair beside him. Edmond and Mercedes were
clasped in each other's arms. The burning Marseilles sun, which shot
into the room through the open door, covered them with a flood of light.
At first they saw nothing around them. Their intense happiness isolated
them from all the rest of the world, and they only spoke in broken
words, which are the tokens of a joy so extreme that they seem rather
the expression of sorrow. Suddenly Edmond saw the gloomy, pale, and
threatening countenance of Fernand, as it was defined in the shadow.
By a movement for which he could scarcely account to himself, the young
Catalan placed his hand on the knife at his belt.

"Ah, your pardon," said Dantes, frowning in his turn; "I did not
perceive that there were three of us." Then, turning to Mercedes, he
inquired, "Who is this gentleman?"

"One who will be your best friend, Dantes, for he is my friend, my
cousin, my brother; it is Fernand--the man whom, after you, Edmond, I
love the best in the world. Do you not remember him?"

"Yes!" said Dantes, and without relinquishing Mercedes hand clasped in
one of his own, he extended the other to the Catalan with a cordial air.
But Fernand, instead of responding to this amiable gesture, remained
mute and trembling. Edmond then cast his eyes scrutinizingly at the
agitated and embarrassed Mercedes, and then again on the gloomy and
menacing Fernand. This look told him all, and his anger waxed hot.

"I did not know, when I came with such haste to you, that I was to meet
an enemy here."

"An enemy!" cried Mercedes, with an angry look at her cousin. "An enemy
in my house, do you say, Edmond! If I believed that, I would place my
arm under yours and go with you to Marseilles, leaving the house to
return to it no more."

Fernand's eye darted lightning. "And should any misfortune occur to
you, dear Edmond," she continued with the same calmness which proved to
Fernand that the young girl had read the very innermost depths of his
sinister thought, "if misfortune should occur to you, I would ascend the
highest point of the Cape de Morgion and cast myself headlong from it."

Fernand became deadly pale. "But you are deceived, Edmond," she
continued. "You have no enemy here--there is no one but Fernand, my
brother, who will grasp your hand as a devoted friend."

And at these words the young girl fixed her imperious look on the
Catalan, who, as if fascinated by it, came slowly towards Edmond, and
offered him his hand. His hatred, like a powerless though furious wave,
was broken against the strong ascendancy which Mercedes exercised over
him. Scarcely, however, had he touched Edmond's hand than he felt he had
done all he could do, and rushed hastily out of the house.

"Oh," he exclaimed, running furiously and tearing his hair--"Oh, who
will deliver me from this man? Wretched--wretched that I am!"

"Hallo, Catalan! Hallo, Fernand! where are you running to?" exclaimed a
voice.

The young man stopped suddenly, looked around him, and perceived
Caderousse sitting at table with Danglars, under an arbor.

"Well", said Caderousse, "why don't you come? Are you really in such a
hurry that you have no time to pass the time of day with your friends?"

"Particularly when they have still a full bottle before them," added
Danglars. Fernand looked at them both with a stupefied air, but did not
say a word.

"He seems besotted," said Danglars, pushing Caderousse with his knee.
"Are we mistaken, and is Dantes triumphant in spite of all we have
believed?"

"Why, we must inquire into that," was Caderousse's reply; and turning
towards the young man, said, "Well, Catalan, can't you make up your
mind?"

Fernand wiped away the perspiration steaming from his brow, and slowly
entered the arbor, whose shade seemed to restore somewhat of calmness to
his senses, and whose coolness somewhat of refreshment to his exhausted
body.

"Good-day," said he. "You called me, didn't you?" And he fell, rather
than sat down, on one of the seats which surrounded the table.

"I called you because you were running like a madman, and I was afraid
you would throw yourself into the sea," said Caderousse, laughing. "Why,
when a man has friends, they are not only to offer him a glass of wine,
but, moreover, to prevent his swallowing three or four pints of water
unnecessarily!"

Fernand gave a groan, which resembled a sob, and dropped his head into
his hands, his elbows leaning on the table.

"Well, Fernand, I must say," said Caderousse, beginning the
conversation, with that brutality of the common people in which
curiosity destroys all diplomacy, "you look uncommonly like a rejected
lover;" and he burst into a hoarse laugh.

"Bah!" said Danglars, "a lad of his make was not born to be unhappy in
love. You are laughing at him, Caderousse."

"No," he replied, "only hark how he sighs! Come, come, Fernand," said
Caderousse, "hold up your head, and answer us. It's not polite not to
reply to friends who ask news of your health."

"My health is well enough," said Fernand, clinching his hands without
raising his head.

"Ah, you see, Danglars," said Caderousse, winking at his friend, "this
is how it is; Fernand, whom you see here, is a good and brave Catalan,
one of the best fishermen in Marseilles, and he is in love with a very
fine girl, named Mercedes; but it appears, unfortunately, that the fine
girl is in love with the mate of the Pharaon; and as the Pharaon arrived
to-day--why, you understand!"

"No; I do not understand," said Danglars.

"Poor Fernand has been dismissed," continued Caderousse.

"Well, and what then?" said Fernand, lifting up his head, and looking at
Caderousse like a man who looks for some one on whom to vent his anger;
"Mercedes is not accountable to any person, is she? Is she not free to
love whomsoever she will?"

"Oh, if you take it in that sense," said Caderousse, "it is another
thing. But I thought you were a Catalan, and they told me the Catalans
were not men to allow themselves to be supplanted by a rival. It was
even told me that Fernand, especially, was terrible in his vengeance."

Fernand smiled piteously. "A lover is never terrible," he said.

"Poor fellow!" remarked Danglars, affecting to pity the young man from
the bottom of his heart. "Why, you see, he did not expect to see Dantes
return so suddenly--he thought he was dead, perhaps; or perchance
faithless! These things always come on us more severely when they come
suddenly."

"Ah, ma foi, under any circumstances," said Caderousse, who drank as he
spoke, and on whom the fumes of the wine began to take effect,--"under
any circumstances Fernand is not the only person put out by the
fortunate arrival of Dantes; is he, Danglars?"

"No, you are right--and I should say that would bring him ill-luck."

"Well, never mind," answered Caderousse, pouring out a glass of wine
for Fernand, and filling his own for the eighth or ninth time, while
Danglars had merely sipped his. "Never mind--in the meantime he marries
Mercedes--the lovely Mercedes--at least he returns to do that."

During this time Danglars fixed his piercing glance on the young man, on
whose heart Caderousse's words fell like molten lead.

"And when is the wedding to be?" he asked.

"Oh, it is not yet fixed!" murmured Fernand.

"No, but it will be," said Caderousse, "as surely as Dantes will be
captain of the Pharaon--eh, Danglars?"

Danglars shuddered at this unexpected attack, and turned to Caderousse,
whose countenance he scrutinized, to try and detect whether the blow
was premeditated; but he read nothing but envy in a countenance already
rendered brutal and stupid by drunkenness.

"Well," said he, filling the glasses, "let us drink to Captain Edmond
Dantes, husband of the beautiful Catalane!"

Caderousse raised his glass to his mouth with unsteady hand, and
swallowed the contents at a gulp. Fernand dashed his on the ground.

"Eh, eh, eh!" stammered Caderousse. "What do I see down there by the
wall, in the direction of the Catalans? Look, Fernand, your eyes are
better than mine. I believe I see double. You know wine is a deceiver;
but I should say it was two lovers walking side by side, and hand in
hand. Heaven forgive me, they do not know that we can see them, and they
are actually embracing!"

Danglars did not lose one pang that Fernand endured.

"Do you know them, Fernand?" he said.

"Yes," was the reply, in a low voice. "It is Edmond and Mercedes!"

"Ah, see there, now!" said Caderousse; "and I did not recognize them!
Hallo, Dantes! hello, lovely damsel! Come this way, and let us know when
the wedding is to be, for Fernand here is so obstinate he will not tell
us."

"Hold your tongue, will you?" said Danglars, pretending to restrain
Caderousse, who, with the tenacity of drunkards, leaned out of the
arbor. "Try to stand upright, and let the lovers make love without
interruption. See, look at Fernand, and follow his example; he is
well-behaved!"

Fernand, probably excited beyond bearing, pricked by Danglars, as the
bull is by the bandilleros, was about to rush out; for he had risen from
his seat, and seemed to be collecting himself to dash headlong upon his
rival, when Mercedes, smiling and graceful, lifted up her lovely head,
and looked at them with her clear and bright eyes. At this Fernand
recollected her threat of dying if Edmond died, and dropped again
heavily on his seat. Danglars looked at the two men, one after the
other, the one brutalized by liquor, the other overwhelmed with love.

"I shall get nothing from these fools," he muttered; "and I am very much
afraid of being here between a drunkard and a coward. Here's an envious
fellow making himself boozy on wine when he ought to be nursing his
wrath, and here is a fool who sees the woman he loves stolen from under
his nose and takes on like a big baby. Yet this Catalan has eyes that
glisten like those of the vengeful Spaniards, Sicilians, and Calabrians,
and the other has fists big enough to crush an ox at one blow.
Unquestionably, Edmond's star is in the ascendant, and he will marry the
splendid girl--he will be captain, too, and laugh at us all, unless"--a
sinister smile passed over Danglars' lips--"unless I take a hand in the
affair," he added.

"Hallo!" continued Caderousse, half-rising, and with his fist on the
table, "hallo, Edmond! do you not see your friends, or are you too proud
to speak to them?"

"No, my dear fellow!" replied Dantes, "I am not proud, but I am happy,
and happiness blinds, I think, more than pride."

"Ah, very well, that's an explanation!" said Caderousse. "How do you do,
Madame Dantes?"

Mercedes courtesied gravely, and said--"That is not my name, and in my
country it bodes ill fortune, they say, to call a young girl by the name
of her betrothed before he becomes her husband. So call me Mercedes, if
you please."

"We must excuse our worthy neighbor, Caderousse," said Dantes, "he is so
easily mistaken."

"So, then, the wedding is to take place immediately, M. Dantes," said
Danglars, bowing to the young couple.

"As soon as possible, M. Danglars; to-day all preliminaries will be
arranged at my father's, and to-morrow, or next day at latest, the
wedding festival here at La Reserve. My friends will be there, I hope;
that is to say, you are invited, M. Danglars, and you, Caderousse."

"And Fernand," said Caderousse with a chuckle; "Fernand, too, is
invited!"

"My wife's brother is my brother," said Edmond; "and we, Mercedes and I,
should be very sorry if he were absent at such a time."

Fernand opened his mouth to reply, but his voice died on his lips, and
he could not utter a word.

"To-day the preliminaries, to-morrow or next day the ceremony! You are
in a hurry, captain!"

"Danglars," said Edmond, smiling, "I will say to you as Mercedes said
just now to Caderousse, 'Do not give me a title which does not belong to
me'; that may bring me bad luck."

"Your pardon," replied Danglars, "I merely said you seemed in a hurry,
and we have lots of time; the Pharaon cannot be under weigh again in
less than three months."

"We are always in a hurry to be happy, M. Danglars; for when we have
suffered a long time, we have great difficulty in believing in good
fortune. But it is not selfishness alone that makes me thus in haste; I
must go to Paris."

"Ah, really?--to Paris! and will it be the first time you have ever been
there, Dantes?"

"Yes."

"Have you business there?"

"Not of my own; the last commission of poor Captain Leclere; you know
to what I allude, Danglars--it is sacred. Besides, I shall only take the
time to go and return."

"Yes, yes, I understand," said Danglars, and then in a low tone, he
added, "To Paris, no doubt to deliver the letter which the grand marshal
gave him. Ah, this letter gives me an idea--a capital idea! Ah; Dantes,
my friend, you are not yet registered number one on board the good ship
Pharaon;" then turning towards Edmond, who was walking away, "A pleasant
journey," he cried.

"Thank you," said Edmond with a friendly nod, and the two lovers
continued on their way, as calm and joyous as if they were the very
elect of heaven.

Chapter 4. Conspiracy.

Danglars followed Edmond and Mercedes with his eyes until the two lovers
disappeared behind one of the angles of Fort Saint Nicolas, then turning
round, he perceived Fernand, who had fallen, pale and trembling, into
his chair, while Caderousse stammered out the words of a drinking-song.

"Well, my dear sir," said Danglars to Fernand, "here is a marriage which
does not appear to make everybody happy."

"It drives me to despair," said Fernand.

"Do you, then, love Mercedes?"

"I adore her!"

"For long?"

"As long as I have known her--always."

"And you sit there, tearing your hair, instead of seeking to remedy your
condition; I did not think that was the way of your people."

"What would you have me do?" said Fernand.

"How do I know? Is it my affair? I am not in love with Mademoiselle
Mercedes; but for you--in the words of the gospel, seek, and you shall
find."

"I have found already."

"What?"

"I would stab the man, but the woman told me that if any misfortune
happened to her betrothed, she would kill herself."

"Pooh! Women say those things, but never do them."

"You do not know Mercedes; what she threatens she will do."

"Idiot!" muttered Danglars; "whether she kill herself or not, what
matter, provided Dantes is not captain?"

"Before Mercedes should die," replied Fernand, with the accents of
unshaken resolution, "I would die myself!"

"That's what I call love!" said Caderousse with a voice more tipsy than
ever. "That's love, or I don't know what love is."

"Come," said Danglars, "you appear to me a good sort of fellow, and hang
me, I should like to help you, but"--

"Yes," said Caderousse, "but how?"

"My dear fellow," replied Danglars, "you are three parts drunk; finish
the bottle, and you will be completely so. Drink then, and do not meddle
with what we are discussing, for that requires all one's wit and cool
judgment."

"I--drunk!" said Caderousse; "well that's a good one! I could drink
four more such bottles; they are no bigger than cologne flasks. Pere
Pamphile, more wine!" and Caderousse rattled his glass upon the table.

"You were saying, sir"--said Fernand, awaiting with great anxiety the
end of this interrupted remark.

"What was I saying? I forget. This drunken Caderousse has made me lose
the thread of my sentence."

"Drunk, if you like; so much the worse for those who fear wine, for it
is because they have bad thoughts which they are afraid the liquor will
extract from their hearts;" and Caderousse began to sing the two last
lines of a song very popular at the time,--

'Tous les mechants sont beuveurs d'eau; C'est bien prouve par le
deluge.' [*]

* "The wicked are great drinkers of water; As the flood
proved once for all."

"You said, sir, you would like to help me, but"--

"Yes; but I added, to help you it would be sufficient that Dantes
did not marry her you love; and the marriage may easily be thwarted,
methinks, and yet Dantes need not die."

"Death alone can separate them," remarked Fernand.

"You talk like a noodle, my friend," said Caderousse; "and here is
Danglars, who is a wide-awake, clever, deep fellow, who will prove to
you that you are wrong. Prove it, Danglars. I have answered for you. Say
there is no need why Dantes should die; it would, indeed, be a pity he
should. Dantes is a good fellow; I like Dantes. Dantes, your health."

Fernand rose impatiently. "Let him run on," said Danglars, restraining
the young man; "drunk as he is, he is not much out in what he says.
Absence severs as well as death, and if the walls of a prison were
between Edmond and Mercedes they would be as effectually separated as if
he lay under a tombstone."

"Yes; but one gets out of prison," said Caderousse, who, with what sense
was left him, listened eagerly to the conversation, "and when one gets
out and one's name is Edmond Dantes, one seeks revenge"--

"What matters that?" muttered Fernand.

"And why, I should like to know," persisted Caderousse, "should they put
Dantes in prison? he has not robbed or killed or murdered."

"Hold your tongue!" said Danglars.

"I won't hold my tongue!" replied Caderousse; "I say I want to know why
they should put Dantes in prison; I like Dantes; Dantes, your health!"
and he swallowed another glass of wine.

Danglars saw in the muddled look of the tailor the progress of his
intoxication, and turning towards Fernand, said, "Well, you understand
there is no need to kill him."

"Certainly not, if, as you said just now, you have the means of having
Dantes arrested. Have you that means?"

"It is to be found for the searching. But why should I meddle in the
matter? it is no affair of mine."

"I know not why you meddle," said Fernand, seizing his arm; "but this I
know, you have some motive of personal hatred against Dantes, for he who
himself hates is never mistaken in the sentiments of others."

"I!--motives of hatred against Dantes? None, on my word! I saw you were
unhappy, and your unhappiness interested me; that's all; but since you
believe I act for my own account, adieu, my dear friend, get out of the
affair as best you may;" and Danglars rose as if he meant to depart.

"No, no," said Fernand, restraining him, "stay! It is of very little
consequence to me at the end of the matter whether you have any angry
feeling or not against Dantes. I hate him! I confess it openly. Do you
find the means, I will execute it, provided it is not to kill the man,
for Mercedes has declared she will kill herself if Dantes is killed."

Caderousse, who had let his head drop on the table, now raised it, and
looking at Fernand with his dull and fishy eyes, he said,--"Kill Dantes!
who talks of killing Dantes? I won't have him killed--I won't! He's my
friend, and this morning offered to share his money with me, as I shared
mine with him. I won't have Dantes killed--I won't!"

"And who has said a word about killing him, muddlehead?" replied
Danglars. "We were merely joking; drink to his health," he added,
filling Caderousse's glass, "and do not interfere with us."

"Yes, yes, Dantes' good health!" said Caderousse, emptying his glass,
"here's to his health! his health--hurrah!"

"But the means--the means?" said Fernand.

"Have you not hit upon any?" asked Danglars.

"No!--you undertook to do so."

"True," replied Danglars; "the French have the superiority over the
Spaniards, that the Spaniards ruminate, while the French invent."

"Do you invent, then," said Fernand impatiently.

"Waiter," said Danglars, "pen, ink, and paper."

"Pen, ink, and paper," muttered Fernand.

"Yes; I am a supercargo; pen, ink, and paper are my tools, and without
my tools I am fit for nothing."

"Pen, ink, and paper, then," called Fernand loudly.

"There's what you want on that table," said the waiter.

"Bring them here." The waiter did as he was desired.

"When one thinks," said Caderousse, letting his hand drop on the paper,
"there is here wherewithal to kill a man more sure than if we waited at
the corner of a wood to assassinate him! I have always had more dread
of a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper, than of a sword or
pistol."

"The fellow is not so drunk as he appears to be," said Danglars. "Give
him some more wine, Fernand." Fernand filled Caderousse's glass, who,
like the confirmed toper he was, lifted his hand from the paper and
seized the glass.

The Catalan watched him until Caderousse, almost overcome by this fresh
assault on his senses, rested, or rather dropped, his glass upon the
table.

"Well!" resumed the Catalan, as he saw the final glimmer of Caderousse's
reason vanishing before the last glass of wine.

"Well, then, I should say, for instance," resumed Danglars, "that if
after a voyage such as Dantes has just made, in which he touched at the
Island of Elba, some one were to denounce him to the king's procureur as
a Bonapartist agent"--

"I will denounce him!" exclaimed the young man hastily.

"Yes, but they will make you then sign your declaration, and confront
you with him you have denounced; I will supply you with the means of
supporting your accusation, for I know the fact well. But Dantes cannot
remain forever in prison, and one day or other he will leave it, and
the day when he comes out, woe betide him who was the cause of his
incarceration!"

"Oh, I should wish nothing better than that he would come and seek a
quarrel with me."

"Yes, and Mercedes! Mercedes, who will detest you if you have only the
misfortune to scratch the skin of her dearly beloved Edmond!"

"True!" said Fernand.

"No, no," continued Danglars; "if we resolve on such a step, it would
be much better to take, as I now do, this pen, dip it into this ink, and
write with the left hand (that the writing may not be recognized) the
denunciation we propose." And Danglars, uniting practice with theory,
wrote with his left hand, and in a writing reversed from his usual
style, and totally unlike it, the following lines, which he handed to
Fernand, and which Fernand read in an undertone:--

"The honorable, the king's attorney, is informed by a friend of the
throne and religion, that one Edmond Dantes, mate of the ship Pharaon,
arrived this morning from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples
and Porto-Ferrajo, has been intrusted by Murat with a letter for the
usurper, and by the usurper with a letter for the Bonapartist committee
in Paris. Proof of this crime will be found on arresting him, for the
letter will be found upon him, or at his father's, or in his cabin on
board the Pharaon."

"Very good," resumed Danglars; "now your revenge looks like
common-sense, for in no way can it revert to yourself, and the matter
will thus work its own way; there is nothing to do now but fold the
letter as I am doing, and write upon it, 'To the king's attorney,' and
that's all settled." And Danglars wrote the address as he spoke.

"Yes, and that's all settled!" exclaimed Caderousse, who, by a last
effort of intellect, had followed the reading of the letter, and
instinctively comprehended all the misery which such a denunciation
must entail. "Yes, and that's all settled; only it will be an infamous
shame;" and he stretched out his hand to reach the letter.

"Yes," said Danglars, taking it from beyond his reach; "and as what I
say and do is merely in jest, and I, amongst the first and foremost,
should be sorry if anything happened to Dantes--the worthy Dantes--look
here!" And taking the letter, he squeezed it up in his hands and threw
it into a corner of the arbor.

"All right!" said Caderousse. "Dantes is my friend, and I won't have him
ill-used."

"And who thinks of using him ill? Certainly neither I nor Fernand,"
said Danglars, rising and looking at the young man, who still remained
seated, but whose eye was fixed on the denunciatory sheet of paper flung
into the corner.

"In this case," replied Caderousse, "let's have some more wine. I wish
to drink to the health of Edmond and the lovely Mercedes."

"You have had too much already, drunkard," said Danglars; "and if you
continue, you will be compelled to sleep here, because unable to stand
on your legs."

"I?" said Caderousse, rising with all the offended dignity of a drunken
man, "I can't keep on my legs? Why, I'll wager I can go up into the
belfry of the Accoules, and without staggering, too!"

"Done!" said Danglars, "I'll take your bet; but to-morrow--to-day it is
time to return. Give me your arm, and let us go."

"Very well, let us go," said Caderousse; "but I don't want your arm at
all. Come, Fernand, won't you return to Marseilles with us?"

"No," said Fernand; "I shall return to the Catalans."

"You're wrong. Come with us to Marseilles--come along."

"I will not."

"What do you mean? you will not? Well, just as you like, my prince;
there's liberty for all the world. Come along, Danglars, and let the
young gentleman return to the Catalans if he chooses."

Danglars took advantage of Caderousse's temper at the moment, to take
him off towards Marseilles by the Porte Saint-Victor, staggering as he
went.

When they had advanced about twenty yards, Danglars looked back and
saw Fernand stoop, pick up the crumpled paper, and putting it into his
pocket then rush out of the arbor towards Pillon.

"Well," said Caderousse, "why, what a lie he told! He said he was going
to the Catalans, and he is going to the city. Hallo, Fernand!"

"Oh, you don't see straight," said Danglars; "he's gone right enough."

"Well," said Caderousse, "I should have said not--how treacherous wine
is!"

"Come, come," said Danglars to himself, "now the thing is at work and it
will effect its purpose unassisted."

Chapter 5. The Marriage-Feast.

The morning's sun rose clear and resplendent, touching the foamy waves
into a network of ruby-tinted light.

The feast had been made ready on the second floor at La Reserve, with
whose arbor the reader is already familiar. The apartment destined for
the purpose was spacious and lighted by a number of windows, over each
of which was written in golden letters for some inexplicable reason the
name of one of the principal cities of France; beneath these windows a
wooden balcony extended the entire length of the house. And although
the entertainment was fixed for twelve o'clock, an hour previous to
that time the balcony was filled with impatient and expectant guests,
consisting of the favored part of the crew of the Pharaon, and other
personal friends of the bride-groom, the whole of whom had arrayed
themselves in their choicest costumes, in order to do greater honor to
the occasion.

Various rumors were afloat to the effect that the owners of the Pharaon
had promised to attend the nuptial feast; but all seemed unanimous in
doubting that an act of such rare and exceeding condescension could
possibly be intended.

Danglars, however, who now made his appearance, accompanied by
Caderousse, effectually confirmed the report, stating that he had
recently conversed with M. Morrel, who had himself assured him of his
intention to dine at La Reserve.

In fact, a moment later M. Morrel appeared and was saluted with an
enthusiastic burst of applause from the crew of the Pharaon, who hailed
the visit of the shipowner as a sure indication that the man whose
wedding feast he thus delighted to honor would ere long be first in
command of the ship; and as Dantes was universally beloved on board his
vessel, the sailors put no restraint on their tumultuous joy at finding
that the opinion and choice of their superiors so exactly coincided with
their own.

With the entrance of M. Morrel, Danglars and Caderousse were despatched
in search of the bride-groom to convey to him the intelligence of the
arrival of the important personage whose coming had created such a
lively sensation, and to beseech him to make haste.

Danglars and Caderousse set off upon their errand at full speed; but ere
they had gone many steps they perceived a group advancing towards them,
composed of the betrothed pair, a party of young girls in attendance on
the bride, by whose side walked Dantes' father; the whole brought up by
Fernand, whose lips wore their usual sinister smile.

Neither Mercedes nor Edmond observed the strange expression of his
countenance; they were so happy that they were conscious only of the
sunshine and the presence of each other.

Having acquitted themselves of their errand, and exchanged a hearty
shake of the hand with Edmond, Danglars and Caderousse took their places
beside Fernand and old Dantes,--the latter of whom attracted universal
notice. The old man was attired in a suit of glistening watered silk,
trimmed with steel buttons, beautifully cut and polished. His thin
but wiry legs were arrayed in a pair of richly embroidered clocked
stockings, evidently of English manufacture, while from his
three-cornered hat depended a long streaming knot of white and blue
ribbons. Thus he came along, supporting himself on a curiously carved
stick, his aged countenance lit up with happiness, looking for all the
world like one of the aged dandies of 1796, parading the newly opened
gardens of the Tuileries and Luxembourg. Beside him glided Caderousse,
whose desire to partake of the good things provided for the
wedding-party had induced him to become reconciled to the Dantes, father
and son, although there still lingered in his mind a faint and unperfect
recollection of the events of the preceding night; just as the brain
retains on waking in the morning the dim and misty outline of a dream.

As Danglars approached the disappointed lover, he cast on him a look of
deep meaning, while Fernand, as he slowly paced behind the happy pair,
who seemed, in their own unmixed content, to have entirely forgotten
that such a being as himself existed, was pale and abstracted;
occasionally, however, a deep flush would overspread his countenance,
and a nervous contraction distort his features, while, with an agitated
and restless gaze, he would glance in the direction of Marseilles, like
one who either anticipated or foresaw some great and important event.

Dantes himself was simply, but becomingly, clad in the dress peculiar to
the merchant service--a costume somewhat between a military and a civil
garb; and with his fine countenance, radiant with joy and happiness, a
more perfect specimen of manly beauty could scarcely be imagined.

Lovely as the Greek girls of Cyprus or Chios, Mercedes boasted the same
bright flashing eyes of jet, and ripe, round, coral lips. She moved
with the light, free step of an Arlesienne or an Andalusian. One more
practiced in the arts of great cities would have hid her blushes beneath
a veil, or, at least, have cast down her thickly fringed lashes, so as
to have concealed the liquid lustre of her animated eyes; but, on the
contrary, the delighted girl looked around her with a smile that seemed
to say: "If you are my friends, rejoice with me, for I am very happy."

As soon as the bridal party came in sight of La Reserve, M. Morrel
descended and came forth to meet it, followed by the soldiers and
sailors there assembled, to whom he had repeated the promise already
given, that Dantes should be the successor to the late Captain Leclere.
Edmond, at the approach of his patron, respectfully placed the arm of
his affianced bride within that of M. Morrel, who, forthwith conducting
her up the flight of wooden steps leading to the chamber in which the
feast was prepared, was gayly followed by the guests, beneath whose
heavy tread the slight structure creaked and groaned for the space of
several minutes.

"Father," said Mercedes, stopping when she had reached the centre of the
table, "sit, I pray you, on my right hand; on my left I will place him
who has ever been as a brother to me," pointing with a soft and gentle
smile to Fernand; but her words and look seemed to inflict the direst
torture on him, for his lips became ghastly pale, and even beneath the
dark hue of his complexion the blood might be seen retreating as though
some sudden pang drove it back to the heart.

During this time, Dantes, at the opposite side of the table, had been
occupied in similarly placing his most honored guests. M. Morrel was
seated at his right hand, Danglars at his left; while, at a sign from
Edmond, the rest of the company ranged themselves as they found it most
agreeable.

Then they began to pass around the dusky, piquant, Arlesian sausages,
and lobsters in their dazzling red cuirasses, prawns of large size and
brilliant color, the echinus with its prickly outside and dainty morsel
within, the clovis, esteemed by the epicures of the South as more than
rivalling the exquisite flavor of the oyster,--all the delicacies, in
fact, that are cast up by the wash of waters on the sandy beach, and
styled by the grateful fishermen "fruits of the sea."

"A pretty silence truly!" said the old father of the bride-groom, as
he carried to his lips a glass of wine of the hue and brightness of the
topaz, and which had just been placed before Mercedes herself. "Now,
would anybody think that this room contained a happy, merry party, who
desire nothing better than to laugh and dance the hours away?"

"Ah," sighed Caderousse, "a man cannot always feel happy because he is
about to be married."

"The truth is," replied Dantes, "that I am too happy for noisy mirth;
if that is what you meant by your observation, my worthy friend, you
are right; joy takes a strange effect at times, it seems to oppress us
almost the same as sorrow."

Danglars looked towards Fernand, whose excitable nature received and
betrayed each fresh impression.

"Why, what ails you?" asked he of Edmond. "Do you fear any approaching
evil? I should say that you were the happiest man alive at this
instant."

"And that is the very thing that alarms me," returned Dantes. "Man does
not appear to me to be intended to enjoy felicity so unmixed; happiness
is like the enchanted palaces we read of in our childhood, where fierce,
fiery dragons defend the entrance and approach; and monsters of all
shapes and kinds, requiring to be overcome ere victory is ours. I own
that I am lost in wonder to find myself promoted to an honor of which I
feel myself unworthy--that of being the husband of Mercedes."

"Nay, nay!" cried Caderousse, smiling, "you have not attained that honor
yet. Mercedes is not yet your wife. Just assume the tone and manner of
a husband, and see how she will remind you that your hour is not yet
come!"

The bride blushed, while Fernand, restless and uneasy, seemed to start
at every fresh sound, and from time to time wiped away the large drops
of perspiration that gathered on his brow.

"Well, never mind that, neighbor Caderousse; it is not worth while to
contradict me for such a trifle as that. 'Tis true that Mercedes is not
actually my wife; but," added he, drawing out his watch, "in an hour and
a half she will be."

A general exclamation of surprise ran round the table, with the
exception of the elder Dantes, whose laugh displayed the still perfect
beauty of his large white teeth. Mercedes looked pleased and gratified,
while Fernand grasped the handle of his knife with a convulsive clutch.

"In an hour?" inquired Danglars, turning pale. "How is that, my friend?"

"Why, thus it is," replied Dantes. "Thanks to the influence of M.
Morrel, to whom, next to my father, I owe every blessing I enjoy, every
difficulty his been removed. We have purchased permission to waive the
usual delay; and at half-past two o'clock the mayor of Marseilles will
be waiting for us at the city hall. Now, as a quarter-past one has
already struck, I do not consider I have asserted too much in saying,
that, in another hour and thirty minutes Mercedes will have become
Madame Dantes."

Fernand closed his eyes, a burning sensation passed across his brow, and
he was compelled to support himself by the table to prevent his falling
from his chair; but in spite of all his efforts, he could not refrain
from uttering a deep groan, which, however, was lost amid the noisy
felicitations of the company.

"Upon my word," cried the old man, "you make short work of this kind of
affair. Arrived here only yesterday morning, and married to-day at three
o'clock! Commend me to a sailor for going the quick way to work!"

"But," asked Danglars, in a timid tone, "how did you manage about the
other formalities--the contract--the settlement?"

"The contract," answered Dantes, laughingly, "it didn't take long to
fix that. Mercedes has no fortune; I have none to settle on her. So, you
see, our papers were quickly written out, and certainly do not come very
expensive." This joke elicited a fresh burst of applause.

"So that what we presumed to be merely the betrothal feast turns out to
be the actual wedding dinner!" said Danglars.

"No, no," answered Dantes; "don't imagine I am going to put you off in
that shabby manner. To-morrow morning I start for Paris; four days to
go, and the same to return, with one day to discharge the commission
intrusted to me, is all the time I shall be absent. I shall be back here
by the first of March, and on the second I give my real marriage feast."

This prospect of fresh festivity redoubled the hilarity of the guests
to such a degree, that the elder Dantes, who, at the commencement of
the repast, had commented upon the silence that prevailed, now found
it difficult, amid the general din of voices, to obtain a moment's
tranquillity in which to drink to the health and prosperity of the bride
and bride-groom.

Dantes, perceiving the affectionate eagerness of his father, responded
by a look of grateful pleasure; while Mercedes glanced at the clock and
made an expressive gesture to Edmond.

Around the table reigned that noisy hilarity which usually prevails at
such a time among people sufficiently free from the demands of
social position not to feel the trammels of etiquette. Such as at
the commencement of the repast had not been able to seat themselves
according to their inclination rose unceremoniously, and sought out more
agreeable companions. Everybody talked at once, without waiting for a
reply and each one seemed to be contented with expressing his or her own
thoughts.

Fernand's paleness appeared to have communicated itself to Danglars.
As for Fernand himself, he seemed to be enduring the tortures of the
damned; unable to rest, he was among the first to quit the table,
and, as though seeking to avoid the hilarious mirth that rose in such
deafening sounds, he continued, in utter silence, to pace the farther
end of the salon.

Caderousse approached him just as Danglars, whom Fernand seemed most
anxious to avoid, had joined him in a corner of the room.

"Upon my word," said Caderousse, from whose mind the friendly treatment
of Dantes, united with the effect of the excellent wine he had partaken
of, had effaced every feeling of envy or jealousy at Dantes' good
fortune,--"upon my word, Dantes is a downright good fellow, and when I
see him sitting there beside his pretty wife that is so soon to be. I
cannot help thinking it would have been a great pity to have served him
that trick you were planning yesterday."

"Oh, there was no harm meant," answered Danglars; "at first I certainly
did feel somewhat uneasy as to what Fernand might be tempted to do; but
when I saw how completely he had mastered his feelings, even so far as
to become one of his rival's attendants, I knew there was no further
cause for apprehension." Caderousse looked full at Fernand--he was
ghastly pale.

"Certainly," continued Danglars, "the sacrifice was no trifling one,
when the beauty of the bride is concerned. Upon my soul, that future
captain of mine is a lucky dog! Gad, I only wish he would let me take
his place."

"Shall we not set forth?" asked the sweet, silvery voice of Mercedes;
"two o'clock has just struck, and you know we are expected in a quarter
of an hour."

"To be sure!--to be sure!" cried Dantes, eagerly quitting the table;
"let us go directly!"

His words were re-echoed by the whole party, with vociferous cheers.

At this moment Danglars, who had been incessantly observing every change
in Fernand's look and manner, saw him stagger and fall back, with an
almost convulsive spasm, against a seat placed near one of the open
windows. At the same instant his ear caught a sort of indistinct sound
on the stairs, followed by the measured tread of soldiery, with the
clanking of swords and military accoutrements; then came a hum and buzz
as of many voices, so as to deaden even the noisy mirth of the bridal
party, among whom a vague feeling of curiosity and apprehension quelled
every disposition to talk, and almost instantaneously the most deathlike
stillness prevailed.

The sounds drew nearer. Three blows were struck upon the panel of the
door. The company looked at each other in consternation.

"I demand admittance," said a loud voice outside the room, "in the name
of the law!" As no attempt was made to prevent it, the door was opened,
and a magistrate, wearing his official scarf, presented himself,
followed by four soldiers and a corporal. Uneasiness now yielded to the
most extreme dread on the part of those present.

"May I venture to inquire the reason of this unexpected visit?" said
M. Morrel, addressing the magistrate, whom he evidently knew; "there is
doubtless some mistake easily explained."

"If it be so," replied the magistrate, "rely upon every reparation being
made; meanwhile, I am the bearer of an order of arrest, and although I
most reluctantly perform the task assigned me, it must, nevertheless, be
fulfilled. Who among the persons here assembled answers to the name of
Edmond Dantes?" Every eye was turned towards the young man who, spite of
the agitation he could not but feel, advanced with dignity, and said, in
a firm voice, "I am he; what is your pleasure with me?"

"Edmond Dantes," replied the magistrate, "I arrest you in the name of
the law!"

"Me!" repeated Edmond, slightly changing color, "and wherefore, I pray?"

"I cannot inform you, but you will be duly acquainted with the
reasons that have rendered such a step necessary at the preliminary
examination."

M. Morrel felt that further resistance or remonstrance was useless. He
saw before him an officer delegated to enforce the law, and perfectly
well knew that it would be as unavailing to seek pity from a magistrate
decked with his official scarf, as to address a petition to some cold
marble effigy. Old Dantes, however, sprang forward. There are situations
which the heart of a father or a mother cannot be made to understand.
He prayed and supplicated in terms so moving, that even the officer
was touched, and, although firm in his duty, he kindly said, "My worthy
friend, let me beg of you to calm your apprehensions. Your son has
probably neglected some prescribed form or attention in registering his
cargo, and it is more than probable he will be set at liberty directly
he has given the information required, whether touching the health of
his crew, or the value of his freight."

"What is the meaning of all this?" inquired Caderousse, frowningly, of
Danglars, who had assumed an air of utter surprise.

"How can I tell you?" replied he; "I am, like yourself, utterly
bewildered at all that is going on, and cannot in the least make out
what it is about." Caderousse then looked around for Fernand, but he had
disappeared.

The scene of the previous night now came back to his mind with startling
clearness. The painful catastrophe he had just witnessed appeared
effectually to have rent away the veil which the intoxication of the
evening before had raised between himself and his memory.

"So, so," said he, in a hoarse and choking voice, to Danglars, "this,
then, I suppose, is a part of the trick you were concerting yesterday?
All I can say is, that if it be so, 'tis an ill turn, and well deserves
to bring double evil on those who have projected it."

"Nonsense," returned Danglars, "I tell you again I have nothing whatever
to do with it; besides, you know very well that I tore the paper to
pieces."

"No, you did not!" answered Caderousse, "you merely threw it by--I saw
it lying in a corner."

"Hold your tongue, you fool!--what should you know about it?--why, you
were drunk!"

"Where is Fernand?" inquired Caderousse.

"How do I know?" replied Danglars; "gone, as every prudent man ought to
be, to look after his own affairs, most likely. Never mind where he is,
let you and I go and see what is to be done for our poor friends."

During this conversation, Dantes, after having exchanged a cheerful
shake of the hand with all his sympathizing friends, had surrendered
himself to the officer sent to arrest him, merely saying, "Make
yourselves quite easy, my good fellows, there is some little mistake to
clear up, that's all, depend upon it; and very likely I may not have to
go so far as the prison to effect that."

"Oh, to be sure!" responded Danglars, who had now approached the group,
"nothing more than a mistake, I feel quite certain."

Dantes descended the staircase, preceded by the magistrate, and followed
by the soldiers. A carriage awaited him at the door; he got in, followed
by two soldiers and the magistrate, and the vehicle drove off towards
Marseilles.

"Adieu, adieu, dearest Edmond!" cried Mercedes, stretching out her arms
to him from the balcony.

The prisoner heard the cry, which sounded like the sob of a broken
heart, and leaning from the coach he called out, "Good-by, Mercedes--we
shall soon meet again!" Then the vehicle disappeared round one of the
turnings of Fort Saint Nicholas.

"Wait for me here, all of you!" cried M. Morrel; "I will take the first
conveyance I find, and hurry to Marseilles, whence I will bring you word
how all is going on."

"That's right!" exclaimed a multitude of voices, "go, and return as
quickly as you can!"

This second departure was followed by a long and fearful state of
terrified silence on the part of those who were left behind. The old
father and Mercedes remained for some time apart, each absorbed in
grief; but at length the two poor victims of the same blow raised their
eyes, and with a simultaneous burst of feeling rushed into each other's
arms.

Meanwhile Fernand made his appearance, poured out for himself a glass
of water with a trembling hand; then hastily swallowing it, went to sit
down at the first vacant place, and this was, by mere chance, placed
next to the seat on which poor Mercedes had fallen half fainting,
when released from the warm and affectionate embrace of old Dantes.
Instinctively Fernand drew back his chair.

"He is the cause of all this misery--I am quite sure of it," whispered
Caderousse, who had never taken his eyes off Fernand, to Danglars.

"I don't think so," answered the other; "he's too stupid to imagine such
a scheme. I only hope the mischief will fall upon the head of whoever
wrought it."

"You don't mention those who aided and abetted the deed," said
Caderousse.

"Surely," answered Danglars, "one cannot be held responsible for every
chance arrow shot into the air."

"You can, indeed, when the arrow lights point downward on somebody's
head."

Meantime the subject of the arrest was being canvassed in every
different form.

"What think you, Danglars," said one of the party, turning towards him,
"of this event?"

"Why," replied he, "I think it just possible Dantes may have been
detected with some trifling article on board ship considered here as
contraband."

"But how could he have done so without your knowledge, Danglars, since
you are the ship's supercargo?"

"Why, as for that, I could only know what I was told respecting the
merchandise with which the vessel was laden. I know she was loaded with
cotton, and that she took in her freight at Alexandria from Pastret's
warehouse, and at Smyrna from Pascal's; that is all I was obliged to
know, and I beg I may not be asked for any further particulars."

"Now I recollect," said the afflicted old father; "my poor boy told me
yesterday he had got a small case of coffee, and another of tobacco for
me!"

"There, you see," exclaimed Danglars. "Now the mischief is out; depend
upon it the custom-house people went rummaging about the ship in our
absence, and discovered poor Dantes' hidden treasures."

Mercedes, however, paid no heed to this explanation of her lover's
arrest. Her grief, which she had hitherto tried to restrain, now burst
out in a violent fit of hysterical sobbing.

"Come, come," said the old man, "be comforted, my poor child; there is
still hope!"

"Hope!" repeated Danglars.

"Hope!" faintly murmured Fernand, but the word seemed to die away on his
pale agitated lips, and a convulsive spasm passed over his countenance.

"Good news! good news!" shouted forth one of the party stationed in the
balcony on the lookout. "Here comes M. Morrel back. No doubt, now, we
shall hear that our friend is released!"

Mercedes and the old man rushed to meet the shipowner and greeted him at
the door. He was very pale.

"What news?" exclaimed a general burst of voices.

"Alas, my friends," replied M. Morrel, with a mournful shake of his
head, "the thing has assumed a more serious aspect than I expected."

"Oh, indeed--indeed, sir, he is innocent!" sobbed forth Mercedes.

"That I believe!" answered M. Morrel; "but still he is charged"--

"With what?" inquired the elder Dantes.

"With being an agent of the Bonapartist faction!" Many of our readers
may be able to recollect how formidable such an accusation became in the
period at which our story is dated.

A despairing cry escaped the pale lips of Mercedes; the old man sank
into a chair.

"Ah, Danglars!" whispered Caderousse, "you have deceived me--the trick
you spoke of last night has been played; but I cannot suffer a poor
old man or an innocent girl to die of grief through your fault. I am
determined to tell them all about it."

"Be silent, you simpleton!" cried Danglars, grasping him by the arm, "or
I will not answer even for your own safety. Who can tell whether Dantes
be innocent or guilty? The vessel did touch at Elba, where he quitted
it, and passed a whole day in the island. Now, should any letters or
other documents of a compromising character be found upon him, will it
not be taken for granted that all who uphold him are his accomplices?"

With the rapid instinct of selfishness, Caderousse readily perceived the
solidity of this mode of reasoning; he gazed, doubtfully, wistfully, on
Danglars, and then caution supplanted generosity.

"Suppose we wait a while, and see what comes of it," said he, casting a
bewildered look on his companion.

"To be sure!" answered Danglars. "Let us wait, by all means. If he be
innocent, of course he will be set at liberty; if guilty, why, it is no
use involving ourselves in a conspiracy."

"Let us go, then. I cannot stay here any longer."

"With all my heart!" replied Danglars, pleased to find the other so
tractable. "Let us take ourselves out of the way, and leave things for
the present to take their course."

After their departure, Fernand, who had now again become the friend and
protector of Mercedes, led the girl to her home, while the friends of
Dantes conducted the now half-fainting man back to his abode.

The rumor of Edmond's arrest as a Bonapartist agent was not slow in
circulating throughout the city.

"Could you ever have credited such a thing, my dear Danglars?" asked M.
Morrel, as, on his return to the port for the purpose of gleaning fresh
tidings of Dantes, from M. de Villefort, the assistant procureur, he
overtook his supercargo and Caderousse. "Could you have believed such a
thing possible?"

"Why, you know I told you," replied Danglars, "that I considered the
circumstance of his having anchored at the Island of Elba as a very
suspicious circumstance."

"And did you mention these suspicions to any person beside myself?"

"Certainly not!" returned Danglars. Then added in a low whisper, "You
understand that, on account of your uncle, M. Policar Morrel, who served
under the other government, and who does not altogether conceal what
he thinks on the subject, you are strongly suspected of regretting the
abdication of Napoleon. I should have feared to injure both Edmond and
yourself, had I divulged my own apprehensions to a soul. I am too well
aware that though a subordinate, like myself, is bound to acquaint the
shipowner with everything that occurs, there are many things he ought
most carefully to conceal from all else."

"'Tis well, Danglars--'tis well!" replied M. Morrel. "You are a worthy
fellow; and I had already thought of your interests in the event of poor
Edmond having become captain of the Pharaon."

"Is it possible you were so kind?"

"Yes, indeed; I had previously inquired of Dantes what was his opinion
of you, and if he should have any reluctance to continue you in your
post, for somehow I have perceived a sort of coolness between you."

"And what was his reply?"

"That he certainly did think he had given you offence in an affair
which he merely referred to without entering into particulars, but that
whoever possessed the good opinion and confidence of the ship's owner
would have his preference also."

"The hypocrite!" murmured Danglars.

"Poor Dantes!" said Caderousse. "No one can deny his being a
noble-hearted young fellow."

"But meanwhile," continued M. Morrel, "here is the Pharaon without a
captain."

"Oh," replied Danglars, "since we cannot leave this port for the next
three months, let us hope that ere the expiration of that period Dantes
will be set at liberty."

"No doubt; but in the meantime?"

"I am entirely at your service, M. Morrel," answered Danglars. "You know
that I am as capable of managing a ship as the most experienced captain
in the service; and it will be so far advantageous to you to accept my
services, that upon Edmond's release from prison no further change will
be requisite on board the Pharaon than for Dantes and myself each to
resume our respective posts."

"Thanks, Danglars--that will smooth over all difficulties. I fully
authorize you at once to assume the command of the Pharaon, and look
carefully to the unloading of her freight. Private misfortunes must
never be allowed to interfere with business."

"Be easy on that score, M. Morrel; but do you think we shall be
permitted to see our poor Edmond?"

"I will let you know that directly I have seen M. de Villefort, whom I
shall endeavor to interest in Edmond's favor. I am aware he is a furious
royalist; but, in spite of that, and of his being king's attorney, he is
a man like ourselves, and I fancy not a bad sort of one."

"Perhaps not," replied Danglars; "but I hear that he is ambitious, and
that's rather against him."

"Well, well," returned M. Morrel, "we shall see. But now hasten on
board, I will join you there ere long." So saying, the worthy shipowner
quitted the two allies, and proceeded in the direction of the Palais de
Justice.

"You see," said Danglars, addressing Caderousse, "the turn things have
taken. Do you still feel any desire to stand up in his defence?"

"Not the slightest, but yet it seems to me a shocking thing that a mere
joke should lead to such consequences."

"But who perpetrated that joke, let me ask? neither you nor myself, but
Fernand; you knew very well that I threw the paper into a corner of the
room--indeed, I fancied I had destroyed it."

"Oh, no," replied Caderousse, "that I can answer for, you did not. I
only wish I could see it now as plainly as I saw it lying all crushed
and crumpled in a corner of the arbor."

"Well, then, if you did, depend upon it, Fernand picked it up, and
either copied it or caused it to be copied; perhaps, even, he did not
take the trouble of recopying it. And now I think of it, by Heavens, he
may have sent the letter itself! Fortunately, for me, the handwriting
was disguised."

"Then you were aware of Dantes being engaged in a conspiracy?"

"Not I. As I before said, I thought the whole thing was a joke, nothing
more. It seems, however, that I have unconsciously stumbled upon the
truth."

"Still," argued Caderousse, "I would give a great deal if nothing of the
kind had happened; or, at least, that I had had no hand in it. You will
see, Danglars, that it will turn out an unlucky job for both of us."

"Nonsense! If any harm come of it, it should fall on the guilty person;
and that, you know, is Fernand. How can we be implicated in any way?
All we have got to do is, to keep our own counsel, and remain perfectly
quiet, not breathing a word to any living soul; and you will see that
the storm will pass away without in the least affecting us."

"Amen!" responded Caderousse, waving his hand in token of adieu to
Danglars, and bending his steps towards the Allees de Meillan, moving
his head to and fro, and muttering as he went, after the manner of one
whose mind was overcharged with one absorbing idea.

"So far, then," said Danglars, mentally, "all has gone as I would have
it. I am, temporarily, commander of the Pharaon, with the certainty of
being permanently so, if that fool of a Caderousse can be persuaded to
hold his tongue. My only fear is the chance of Dantes being released.
But, there, he is in the hands of Justice; and," added he with a smile,
"she will take her own." So saying, he leaped into a boat, desiring to
be rowed on board the Pharaon, where M. Morrel had agreed to meet him.

Chapter 6. The Deputy Procureur du Roi.

In one of the aristocratic mansions built by Puget in the Rue du Grand
Cours opposite the Medusa fountain, a second marriage feast was being
celebrated, almost at the same hour with the nuptial repast given
by Dantes. In this case, however, although the occasion of the
entertainment was similar, the company was strikingly dissimilar.
Instead of a rude mixture of sailors, soldiers, and those belonging to
the humblest grade of life, the present assembly was composed of the
very flower of Marseilles society,--magistrates who had resigned their
office during the usurper's reign; officers who had deserted from the
imperial army and joined forces with Conde; and younger members of
families, brought up to hate and execrate the man whom five years of
exile would convert into a martyr, and fifteen of restoration elevate to
the rank of a god.

The guests were still at table, and the heated and energetic
conversation that prevailed betrayed the violent and vindictive passions
that then agitated each dweller of the South, where unhappily, for five
centuries religious strife had long given increased bitterness to the
violence of party feeling.

The emperor, now king of the petty Island of Elba, after having held
sovereign sway over one-half of the world, counting as his subjects
a small population of five or six thousand souls,--after having been
accustomed to hear the "Vive Napoleons" of a hundred and twenty millions
of human beings, uttered in ten different languages,--was looked upon
here as a ruined man, separated forever from any fresh connection with
France or claim to her throne.

The magistrates freely discussed their political views; the military
part of the company talked unreservedly of Moscow and Leipsic, while
the women commented on the divorce of Josephine. It was not over the
downfall of the man, but over the defeat of the Napoleonic idea, that
they rejoiced, and in this they foresaw for themselves the bright and
cheering prospect of a revivified political existence.

An old man, decorated with the cross of Saint Louis, now rose and
proposed the health of King Louis XVIII. It was the Marquis de
Saint-Meran. This toast, recalling at once the patient exile of Hartwell
and the peace-loving King of France, excited universal enthusiasm;
glasses were elevated in the air a l'Anglais, and the ladies, snatching
their bouquets from their fair bosoms, strewed the table with their
floral treasures. In a word, an almost poetical fervor prevailed.

"Ah," said the Marquise de Saint-Meran, a woman with a stern, forbidding
eye, though still noble and distinguished in appearance, despite her
fifty years--"ah, these revolutionists, who have driven us from those
very possessions they afterwards purchased for a mere trifle during the
Reign of Terror, would be compelled to own, were they here, that all
true devotion was on our side, since we were content to follow the
fortunes of a falling monarch, while they, on the contrary, made their
fortune by worshipping the rising sun; yes, yes, they could not help
admitting that the king, for whom we sacrificed rank, wealth, and
station was truly our 'Louis the well-beloved,' while their wretched
usurper his been, and ever will be, to them their evil genius, their
'Napoleon the accursed.' Am I not right, Villefort?"

"I beg your pardon, madame. I really must pray you to excuse me, but--in
truth--I was not attending to the conversation."

"Marquise, marquise!" interposed the old nobleman who had proposed the
toast, "let the young people alone; let me tell you, on one's wedding
day there are more agreeable subjects of conversation than dry
politics."

"Never mind, dearest mother," said a young and lovely girl, with a
profusion of light brown hair, and eyes that seemed to float in liquid
crystal, "'tis all my fault for seizing upon M. de Villefort, so as to
prevent his listening to what you said. But there--now take him--he is
your own for as long as you like. M. Villefort, I beg to remind you my
mother speaks to you."

"If the marquise will deign to repeat the words I but imperfectly
caught, I shall be delighted to answer," said M. de Villefort.

"Never mind, Renee," replied the marquise, with a look of tenderness
that seemed out of keeping with her harsh dry features; but, however all
other feelings may be withered in a woman's nature, there is always one
bright smiling spot in the desert of her heart, and that is the shrine
of maternal love. "I forgive you. What I was saying, Villefort, was,
that the Bonapartists had not our sincerity, enthusiasm, or devotion."

"They had, however, what supplied the place of those fine qualities,"
replied the young man, "and that was fanaticism. Napoleon is the
Mahomet of the West, and is worshipped by his commonplace but
ambitions followers, not only as a leader and lawgiver, but also as the
personification of equality."

"He!" cried the marquise: "Napoleon the type of equality! For mercy's
sake, then, what would you call Robespierre? Come, come, do not strip
the latter of his just rights to bestow them on the Corsican, who, to my
mind, has usurped quite enough."

"Nay, madame; I would place each of these heroes on his right
pedestal--that of Robespierre on his scaffold in the Place Louis Quinze;
that of Napoleon on the column of the Place Vendome. The only difference
consists in the opposite character of the equality advocated by these
two men; one is the equality that elevates, the other is the equality
that degrades; one brings a king within reach of the guillotine, the
other elevates the people to a level with the throne. Observe," said
Villefort, smiling, "I do not mean to deny that both these men were
revolutionary scoundrels, and that the 9th Thermidor and the 4th of
April, in the year 1814, were lucky days for France, worthy of being
gratefully remembered by every friend to monarchy and civil order;
and that explains how it comes to pass that, fallen, as I trust he is
forever, Napoleon has still retained a train of parasitical satellites.
Still, marquise, it has been so with other usurpers--Cromwell, for
instance, who was not half so bad as Napoleon, had his partisans and
advocates."

"Do you know, Villefort, that you are talking in a most dreadfully
revolutionary strain? But I excuse it, it is impossible to expect the
son of a Girondin to be free from a small spice of the old leaven." A
deep crimson suffused the countenance of Villefort.

"'Tis true, madame," answered he, "that my father was a Girondin, but he
was not among the number of those who voted for the king's death; he
was an equal sufferer with yourself during the Reign of Terror, and
had well-nigh lost his head on the same scaffold on which your father
perished."

"True," replied the marquise, without wincing in the slightest degree at
the tragic remembrance thus called up; "but bear in mind, if you please,
that our respective parents underwent persecution and proscription from
diametrically opposite principles; in proof of which I may remark, that
while my family remained among the stanchest adherents of the exiled
princes, your father lost no time in joining the new government; and
that while the Citizen Noirtier was a Girondin, the Count Noirtier
became a senator."

"Dear mother," interposed Renee, "you know very well it was agreed that
all these disagreeable reminiscences should forever be laid aside."

"Suffer me, also, madame," replied Villefort, "to add my earnest request
to Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran's, that you will kindly allow the veil of
oblivion to cover and conceal the past. What avails recrimination over
matters wholly past recall? For my own part, I have laid aside even the
name of my father, and altogether disown his political principles. He
was--nay, probably may still be--a Bonapartist, and is called Noirtier;
I, on the contrary, am a stanch royalist, and style myself de Villefort.
Let what may remain of revolutionary sap exhaust itself and die away
with the old trunk, and condescend only to regard the young shoot which
has started up at a distance from the parent tree, without having the
power, any more than the wish, to separate entirely from the stock from
which it sprung."

"Bravo, Villefort!" cried the marquis; "excellently well said! Come,
now, I have hopes of obtaining what I have been for years endeavoring
to persuade the marquise to promise; namely, a perfect amnesty and
forgetfulness of the past."

"With all my heart," replied the marquise; "let the past be forever
forgotten. I promise you it affords me as little pleasure to revive it
as it does you. All I ask is, that Villefort will be firm and inflexible
for the future in his political principles. Remember, also, Villefort,
that we have pledged ourselves to his majesty for your fealty and strict
loyalty, and that at our recommendation the king consented to forget the
past, as I do" (and here she extended to him her hand)--"as I now do at
your entreaty. But bear in mind, that should there fall in your way any
one guilty of conspiring against the government, you will be so much the
more bound to visit the offence with rigorous punishment, as it is known
you belong to a suspected family."

"Alas, madame," returned Villefort, "my profession, as well as the times
in which we live, compels me to be severe. I have already successfully
conducted several public prosecutions, and brought the offenders to
merited punishment. But we have not done with the thing yet."

"Do you, indeed, think so?" inquired the marquise.

"I am, at least, fearful of it. Napoleon, in the Island of Elba, is
too near France, and his proximity keeps up the hopes of his partisans.
Marseilles is filled with half-pay officers, who are daily, under one
frivolous pretext or other, getting up quarrels with the royalists;
from hence arise continual and fatal duels among the higher classes of
persons, and assassinations in the lower."

"You have heard, perhaps," said the Comte de Salvieux, one of M. de
Saint-Meran's oldest friends, and chamberlain to the Comte d'Artois,
"that the Holy Alliance purpose removing him from thence?"

"Yes; they were talking about it when we left Paris," said M. de
Saint-Meran; "and where is it decided to transfer him?"

"To Saint Helena."

"For heaven's sake, where is that?" asked the marquise.

"An island situated on the other side of the equator, at least two
thousand leagues from here," replied the count.

"So much the better. As Villefort observes, it is a great act of folly
to have left such a man between Corsica, where he was born, and Naples,
of which his brother-in-law is king, and face to face with Italy, the
sovereignty of which he coveted for his son."

"Unfortunately," said Villefort, "there are the treaties of 1814, and we
cannot molest Napoleon without breaking those compacts."

"Oh, well, we shall find some way out of it," responded M. de Salvieux.
"There wasn't any trouble over treaties when it was a question of
shooting the poor Duc d'Enghien."

"Well," said the marquise, "it seems probable that, by the aid of the
Holy Alliance, we shall be rid of Napoleon; and we must trust to the
vigilance of M. de Villefort to purify Marseilles of his partisans. The
king is either a king or no king; if he be acknowledged as sovereign of
France, he should be upheld in peace and tranquillity; and this can best
be effected by employing the most inflexible agents to put down every
attempt at conspiracy--'tis the best and surest means of preventing
mischief."

"Unfortunately, madame," answered Villefort, "the strong arm of the law
is not called upon to interfere until the evil has taken place."

"Then all he has got to do is to endeavor to repair it."

"Nay, madame, the law is frequently powerless to effect this; all it can
do is to avenge the wrong done."

"Oh, M. de Villefort," cried a beautiful young creature, daughter to
the Comte de Salvieux, and the cherished friend of Mademoiselle de
Saint-Meran, "do try and get up some famous trial while we are at
Marseilles. I never was in a law-court; I am told it is so very
amusing!"

"Amusing, certainly," replied the young man, "inasmuch as, instead of
shedding tears as at the fictitious tale of woe produced at a theatre,
you behold in a law-court a case of real and genuine distress--a drama
of life. The prisoner whom you there see pale, agitated, and alarmed,
instead of--as is the case when a curtain falls on a tragedy--going home
to sup peacefully with his family, and then retiring to rest, that he
may recommence his mimic woes on the morrow,--is removed from your
sight merely to be reconducted to his prison and delivered up to the
executioner. I leave you to judge how far your nerves are calculated to
bear you through such a scene. Of this, however, be assured, that should
any favorable opportunity present itself, I will not fail to offer you
the choice of being present."

"For shame, M. de Villefort!" said Renee, becoming quite pale; "don't
you see how you are frightening us?--and yet you laugh."

"What would you have? 'Tis like a duel. I have already recorded
sentence of death, five or six times, against the movers of political
conspiracies, and who can say how many daggers may be ready sharpened,
and only waiting a favorable opportunity to be buried in my heart?"

"Gracious heavens, M. de Villefort," said Renee, becoming more and more
terrified; "you surely are not in earnest."

"Indeed I am," replied the young magistrate with a smile; "and in the
interesting trial that young lady is anxious to witness, the case would
only be still more aggravated. Suppose, for instance, the prisoner,
as is more than probable, to have served under Napoleon--well, can
you expect for an instant, that one accustomed, at the word of his
commander, to rush fearlessly on the very bayonets of his foe, will
scruple more to drive a stiletto into the heart of one he knows to
be his personal enemy, than to slaughter his fellow-creatures, merely
because bidden to do so by one he is bound to obey? Besides, one
requires the excitement of being hateful in the eyes of the accused, in
order to lash one's self into a state of sufficient vehemence and power.
I would not choose to see the man against whom I pleaded smile, as
though in mockery of my words. No; my pride is to see the accused pale,
agitated, and as though beaten out of all composure by the fire of my
eloquence." Renee uttered a smothered exclamation.

"Bravo!" cried one of the guests; "that is what I call talking to some
purpose."

"Just the person we require at a time like the present," said a second.

"What a splendid business that last case of yours was, my dear
Villefort!" remarked a third; "I mean the trial of the man for murdering
his father. Upon my word, you killed him ere the executioner had laid
his hand upon him."

"Oh, as for parricides, and such dreadful people as that," interposed
Renee, "it matters very little what is done to them; but as regards
poor unfortunate creatures whose only crime consists in having mixed
themselves up in political intrigues"--

"Why, that is the very worst offence they could possibly commit; for,
don't you see, Renee, the king is the father of his people, and he who
shall plot or contrive aught against the life and safety of the parent
of thirty-two millions of souls, is a parricide upon a fearfully great
scale?"

"I don't know anything about that," replied Renee; "but, M. de
Villefort, you have promised me--have you not?--always to show mercy to
those I plead for."

"Make yourself quite easy on that point," answered Villefort, with
one of his sweetest smiles; "you and I will always consult upon our
verdicts."

"My love," said the marquise, "attend to your doves, your lap-dogs, and
embroidery, but do not meddle with what you do not understand. Nowadays
the military profession is in abeyance and the magisterial robe is
the badge of honor. There is a wise Latin proverb that is very much in
point."

"Cedant arma togae," said Villefort with a bow.

"I cannot speak Latin," responded the marquise.

"Well," said Renee, "I cannot help regretting you had not chosen some
other profession than your own--a physician, for instance. Do you know I
always felt a shudder at the idea of even a destroying angel?"

"Dear, good Renee," whispered Villefort, as he gazed with unutterable
tenderness on the lovely speaker.

"Let us hope, my child," cried the marquis, "that M. de Villefort may
prove the moral and political physician of this province; if so, he will
have achieved a noble work."

"And one which will go far to efface the recollection of his father's
conduct," added the incorrigible marquise.

"Madame," replied Villefort, with a mournful smile, "I have already had
the honor to observe that my father has--at least, I hope so--abjured
his past errors, and that he is, at the present moment, a firm and
zealous friend to religion and order--a better royalist, possibly, than
his son; for he has to atone for past dereliction, while I have no other
impulse than warm, decided preference and conviction." Having made this
well-turned speech, Villefort looked carefully around to mark the effect
of his oratory, much as he would have done had he been addressing the
bench in open court.

"Do you know, my dear Villefort," cried the Comte de Salvieux, "that
is exactly what I myself said the other day at the Tuileries, when
questioned by his majesty's principal chamberlain touching the
singularity of an alliance between the son of a Girondin and the
daughter of an officer of the Duc de Conde; and I assure you he seemed
fully to comprehend that this mode of reconciling political differences
was based upon sound and excellent principles. Then the king, who,
without our suspecting it, had overheard our conversation, interrupted
us by saying, 'Villefort'--observe that the king did not pronounce the
word Noirtier, but, on the contrary, placed considerable emphasis on
that of Villefort--'Villefort,' said his majesty, 'is a young man of
great judgment and discretion, who will be sure to make a figure in his
profession; I like him much, and it gave me great pleasure to hear that
he was about to become the son-in-law of the Marquis and Marquise de
Saint-Meran. I should myself have recommended the match, had not the
noble marquis anticipated my wishes by requesting my consent to it.'"

"Is it possible the king could have condescended so far as to express
himself so favorably of me?" asked the enraptured Villefort.

"I give you his very words; and if the marquis chooses to be candid,
he will confess that they perfectly agree with what his majesty said to
him, when he went six months ago to consult him upon the subject of your
espousing his daughter."

"That is true," answered the marquis.

"How much do I owe this gracious prince! What is there I would not do to
evince my earnest gratitude!"

"That is right," cried the marquise. "I love to see you thus. Now, then,
were a conspirator to fall into your hands, he would be most welcome."

"For my part, dear mother." interposed Renee, "I trust your wishes will
not prosper, and that Providence will only permit petty offenders,
poor debtors, and miserable cheats to fall into M. de Villefort's
hands,--then I shall be contented."

"Just the same as though you prayed that a physician might only be
called upon to prescribe for headaches, measles, and the stings of
wasps, or any other slight affection of the epidermis. If you wish to
see me the king's attorney, you must desire for me some of those violent
and dangerous diseases from the cure of which so much honor redounds to
the physician."

At this moment, and as though the utterance of Villefort's wish had
sufficed to effect its accomplishment, a servant entered the room, and
whispered a few words in his ear. Villefort immediately rose from table
and quitted the room upon the plea of urgent business; he soon, however,
returned, his whole face beaming with delight. Renee regarded him with
fond affection; and certainly his handsome features, lit up as they then
were with more than usual fire and animation, seemed formed to excite
the innocent admiration with which she gazed on her graceful and
intelligent lover.

"You were wishing just now," said Villefort, addressing her, "that
I were a doctor instead of a lawyer. Well, I at least resemble the
disciples of Esculapius in one thing--that of not being able to call a
day my own, not even that of my betrothal."

"And wherefore were you called away just now?" asked Mademoiselle de
Saint-Meran, with an air of deep interest.

"For a very serious matter, which bids fair to make work for the
executioner."

"How dreadful!" exclaimed Renee, turning pale.

"Is it possible?" burst simultaneously from all who were near enough to
the magistrate to hear his words.

"Why, if my information prove correct, a sort of Bonaparte conspiracy
has just been discovered."

"Can I believe my ears?" cried the marquise.

"I will read you the letter containing the accusation, at least," said
Villefort:--

"'The king's attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and the
religions institutions of his country, that one named Edmond Dantes,
mate of the ship Pharaon, this day arrived from Smyrna, after having
touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been the bearer of a letter
from Murat to the usurper, and again taken charge of another letter from
the usurper to the Bonapartist club in Paris. Ample corroboration of
this statement may be obtained by arresting the above-mentioned Edmond
Dantes, who either carries the letter for Paris about with him, or has
it at his father's abode. Should it not be found in the possession
of father or son, then it will assuredly be discovered in the cabin
belonging to the said Dantes on board the Pharaon.'"

"But," said Renee, "this letter, which, after all, is but an anonymous
scrawl, is not even addressed to you, but to the king's attorney."

"True; but that gentleman being absent, his secretary, by his orders,
opened his letters; thinking this one of importance, he sent for me,
but not finding me, took upon himself to give the necessary orders for
arresting the accused party."

"Then the guilty person is absolutely in custody?" said the marquise.

"Nay, dear mother, say the accused person. You know we cannot yet
pronounce him guilty."

"He is in safe custody," answered Villefort; "and rely upon it, if
the letter is found, he will not be likely to be trusted abroad again,
unless he goes forth under the especial protection of the headsman."

"And where is the unfortunate being?" asked Renee.

"He is at my house."

"Come, come, my friend," interrupted the marquise, "do not neglect your
duty to linger with us. You are the king's servant, and must go wherever
that service calls you."

"O Villefort!" cried Renee, clasping her hands, and looking towards
her lover with piteous earnestness, "be merciful on this the day of our
betrothal."

The young man passed round to the side of the table where the fair
pleader sat, and leaning over her chair said tenderly,--

"To give you pleasure, my sweet Renee, I promise to show all the lenity
in my power; but if the charges brought against this Bonapartist hero
prove correct, why, then, you really must give me leave to order his
head to be cut off." Renee shuddered.

"Never mind that foolish girl, Villefort," said the marquise. "She will
soon get over these things." So saying, Madame de Saint-Meran extended
her dry bony hand to Villefort, who, while imprinting a son-in-law's
respectful salute on it, looked at Renee, as much as to say, "I must try
and fancy 'tis your dear hand I kiss, as it should have been."

"These are mournful auspices to accompany a betrothal," sighed poor
Renee.

"Upon my word, child!" exclaimed the angry marquise, "your folly exceeds
all bounds. I should be glad to know what connection there can possibly
be between your sickly sentimentality and the affairs of the state!"

"O mother!" murmured Renee.

"Nay, madame, I pray you pardon this little traitor. I promise you that
to make up for her want of loyalty, I will be most inflexibly severe;"
then casting an expressive glance at his betrothed, which seemed to say,
"Fear not, for your dear sake my justice shall be tempered with mercy,"
and receiving a sweet and approving smile in return, Villefort quitted
the room.

Chapter 7. The Examination.

No sooner had Villefort left the salon, than he assumed the grave air
of a man who holds the balance of life and death in his hands. Now, in
spite of the nobility of his countenance, the command of which, like a
finished actor, he had carefully studied before the glass, it was by
no means easy for him to assume an air of judicial severity. Except the
recollection of the line of politics his father had adopted, and which
might interfere, unless he acted with the greatest prudence, with his
own career, Gerard de Villefort was as happy as a man could be. Already
rich, he held a high official situation, though only twenty-seven.
He was about to marry a young and charming woman, whom he loved, not
passionately, but reasonably, as became a deputy attorney of the
king; and besides her personal attractions, which were very great,
Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran's family possessed considerable political
influence, which they would, of course, exert in his favor. The dowry
of his wife amounted to fifty thousand crowns, and he had, besides,
the prospect of seeing her fortune increased to half a million at her
father's death. These considerations naturally gave Villefort a feeling
of such complete felicity that his mind was fairly dazzled in its
contemplation.

At the door he met the commissary of police, who was waiting for him.
The sight of this officer recalled Villefort from the third heaven to
earth; he composed his face, as we have before described, and said, "I
have read the letter, sir, and you have acted rightly in arresting
this man; now inform me what you have discovered concerning him and the
conspiracy."

"We know nothing as yet of the conspiracy, monsieur; all the papers
found have been sealed up and placed on your desk. The prisoner himself
is named Edmond Dantes, mate on board the three-master the Pharaon,
trading in cotton with Alexandria and Smyrna, and belonging to Morrel &
Son, of Marseilles."

"Before he entered the merchant service, had he ever served in the
marines?"

"Oh, no, monsieur, he is very young."

"How old?"

"Nineteen or twenty at the most."

At this moment, and as Villefort had arrived at the corner of the
Rue des Conseils, a man, who seemed to have been waiting for him,
approached; it was M. Morrel.

"Ah, M. de Villefort," cried he, "I am delighted to see you. Some
of your people have committed the strangest mistake--they have just
arrested Edmond Dantes, mate of my vessel."

"I know it, monsieur," replied Villefort, "and I am now going to examine
him."

"Oh," said Morrel, carried away by his friendship, "you do not know him,
and I do. He is the most estimable, the most trustworthy creature in the
world, and I will venture to say, there is not a better seaman in all
the merchant service. Oh, M. de Villefort, I beseech your indulgence for
him."

Villefort, as we have seen, belonged to the aristocratic party at
Marseilles, Morrel to the plebeian; the first was a royalist, the other
suspected of Bonapartism. Villefort looked disdainfully at Morrel, and
replied,--

"You are aware, monsieur, that a man may be estimable and trustworthy in
private life, and the best seaman in the merchant service, and yet be,
politically speaking, a great criminal. Is it not true?"

The magistrate laid emphasis on these words, as if he wished to apply
them to the owner himself, while his eyes seemed to plunge into
the heart of one who, interceding for another, had himself need of
indulgence. Morrel reddened, for his own conscience was not quite clear
on politics; besides, what Dantes had told him of his interview with the
grand-marshal, and what the emperor had said to him, embarrassed him. He
replied, however,--

"I entreat you, M. de Villefort, be, as you always are, kind and
equitable, and give him back to us soon." This give us sounded
revolutionary in the deputy's ears.

"Ah, ah," murmured he, "is Dantes then a member of some Carbonari
society, that his protector thus employs the collective form? He was, if
I recollect, arrested in a tavern, in company with a great many others."
Then he added, "Monsieur, you may rest assured I shall perform my duty
impartially, and that if he be innocent you shall not have appealed
to me in vain; should he, however, be guilty, in this present epoch,
impunity would furnish a dangerous example, and I must do my duty."

As he had now arrived at the door of his own house, which adjoined
the Palais de Justice, he entered, after having, coldly saluted the
shipowner, who stood, as if petrified, on the spot where Villefort had
left him. The ante-chamber was full of police agents and gendarmes, in
the midst of whom, carefully watched, but calm and smiling, stood the
prisoner. Villefort traversed the ante-chamber, cast a side glance at
Dantes, and taking a packet which a gendarme offered him, disappeared,
saying, "Bring in the prisoner."

Rapid as had been Villefort's glance, it had served to give him an idea
of the man he was about to interrogate. He had recognized intelligence
in the high forehead, courage in the dark eye and bent brow, and
frankness in the thick lips that showed a set of pearly teeth.
Villefort's first impression was favorable; but he had been so often
warned to mistrust first impulses, that he applied the maxim to the
impression, forgetting the difference between the two words. He stifled,
therefore, the feelings of compassion that were rising, composed his
features, and sat down, grim and sombre, at his desk. An instant after
Dantes entered. He was pale, but calm and collected, and saluting his
judge with easy politeness, looked round for a seat, as if he had been
in M. Morrel's salon. It was then that he encountered for the first
time Villefort's look,--that look peculiar to the magistrate, who, while
seeming to read the thoughts of others, betrays nothing of his own.

"Who and what are you?" demanded Villefort, turning over a pile of
papers, containing information relative to the prisoner, that a police
agent had given to him on his entry, and that, already, in an hour's
time, had swelled to voluminous proportions, thanks to the corrupt
espionage of which "the accused" is always made the victim.

"My name is Edmond Dantes," replied the young man calmly; "I am mate of
the Pharaon, belonging to Messrs. Morrel & Son."

"Your age?" continued Villefort.

"Nineteen," returned Dantes.

"What were you doing at the moment you were arrested?"

"I was at the festival of my marriage, monsieur," said the young man,
his voice slightly tremulous, so great was the contrast between that
happy moment and the painful ceremony he was now undergoing; so great
was the contrast between the sombre aspect of M. de Villefort and the
radiant face of Mercedes.

"You were at the festival of your marriage?" said the deputy, shuddering
in spite of himself.

"Yes, monsieur; I am on the point of marrying a young girl I have been
attached to for three years." Villefort, impassive as he was, was struck
with this coincidence; and the tremulous voice of Dantes, surprised
in the midst of his happiness, struck a sympathetic chord in his own
bosom--he also was on the point of being married, and he was summoned
from his own happiness to destroy that of another. "This philosophic
reflection," thought he, "will make a great sensation at M. de
Saint-Meran's;" and he arranged mentally, while Dantes awaited further
questions, the antithesis by which orators often create a reputation for
eloquence. When this speech was arranged, Villefort turned to Dantes.

"Go on, sir," said he.

"What would you have me say?"

"Give all the information in your power."

"Tell me on which point you desire information, and I will tell all I
know; only," added he, with a smile, "I warn you I know very little."

"Have you served under the usurper?"

"I was about to be mustered into the Royal Marines when he fell."

"It is reported your political opinions are extreme," said Villefort,
who had never heard anything of the kind, but was not sorry to make this
inquiry, as if it were an accusation.

"My political opinions!" replied Dantes. "Alas, sir, I never had any
opinions. I am hardly nineteen; I know nothing; I have no part to play.
If I obtain the situation I desire, I shall owe it to M. Morrel. Thus
all my opinions--I will not say public, but private--are confined to
these three sentiments,--I love my father, I respect M. Morrel, and
I adore Mercedes. This, sir, is all I can tell you, and you see how
uninteresting it is." As Dantes spoke, Villefort gazed at his ingenuous
and open countenance, and recollected the words of Renee, who, without
knowing who the culprit was, had besought his indulgence for him. With
the deputy's knowledge of crime and criminals, every word the young man
uttered convinced him more and more of his innocence. This lad, for he
was scarcely a man,--simple, natural, eloquent with that eloquence of
the heart never found when sought for; full of affection for everybody,
because he was happy, and because happiness renders even the wicked
good--extended his affection even to his judge, spite of Villefort's
severe look and stern accent. Dantes seemed full of kindness.

"Pardieu," said Villefort, "he is a noble fellow. I hope I shall gain
Renee's favor easily by obeying the first command she ever imposed on
me. I shall have at least a pressure of the hand in public, and a sweet
kiss in private." Full of this idea, Villefort's face became so joyous,
that when he turned to Dantes, the latter, who had watched the change on
his physiognomy, was smiling also.

"Sir," said Villefort, "have you any enemies, at least, that you know."

"I have enemies?" replied Dantes; "my position is not sufficiently
elevated for that. As for my disposition, that is, perhaps, somewhat
too hasty; but I have striven to repress it. I have had ten or twelve
sailors under me, and if you question them, they will tell you that
they love and respect me, not as a father, for I am too young, but as an
elder brother."

"But you may have excited jealousy. You are about to become captain at
nineteen--an elevated post; you are about to marry a pretty girl, who
loves you; and these two pieces of good fortune may have excited the
envy of some one."

"You are right; you know men better than I do, and what you say may
possibly be the case, I confess; but if such persons are among my
acquaintances I prefer not to know it, because then I should be forced
to hate them."

"You are wrong; you should always strive to see clearly around you. You
seem a worthy young man; I will depart from the strict line of my duty
to aid you in discovering the author of this accusation. Here is the
paper; do you know the writing?" As he spoke, Villefort drew the letter
from his pocket, and presented it to Dantes. Dantes read it. A cloud
passed over his brow as he said,--

"No, monsieur, I do not know the writing, and yet it is tolerably plain.
Whoever did it writes well. I am very fortunate," added he, looking
gratefully at Villefort, "to be examined by such a man as you; for this
envious person is a real enemy." And by the rapid glance that the young
man's eyes shot forth, Villefort saw how much energy lay hid beneath
this mildness.

"Now," said the deputy, "answer me frankly, not as a prisoner to a
judge, but as one man to another who takes an interest in him, what
truth is there in the accusation contained in this anonymous letter?"
And Villefort threw disdainfully on his desk the letter Dantes had just
given back to him.

"None at all. I will tell you the real facts. I swear by my honor as a
sailor, by my love for Mercedes, by the life of my father"--

"Speak, monsieur," said Villefort. Then, internally, "If Renee could
see me, I hope she would be satisfied, and would no longer call me a
decapitator."

"Well, when we quitted Naples, Captain Leclere was attacked with a brain
fever. As we had no doctor on board, and he was so anxious to arrive at
Elba, that he would not touch at any other port, his disorder rose to
such a height, that at the end of the third day, feeling he was dying,
he called me to him. 'My dear Dantes,' said he, 'swear to perform what I
am going to tell you, for it is a matter of the deepest importance.'

"'I swear, captain,' replied I.

"'Well, as after my death the command devolves on you as mate,
assume the command, and bear up for the Island of Elba, disembark at
Porto-Ferrajo, ask for the grand-marshal, give him this letter--perhaps
they will give you another letter, and charge you with a commission. You
will accomplish what I was to have done, and derive all the honor and
profit from it.'

"'I will do it, captain; but perhaps I shall not be admitted to the
grand marshal's presence as easily as you expect?'

"'Here is a ring that will obtain audience of him, and remove every
difficulty,' said the captain. At these words he gave me a ring. It was
time--two hours after he was delirious; the next day he died."

"And what did you do then?"

"What I ought to have done, and what every one would have done in my
place. Everywhere the last requests of a dying man are sacred; but with
a sailor the last requests of his superior are commands. I sailed for
the Island of Elba, where I arrived the next day; I ordered everybody
to remain on board, and went on shore alone. As I had expected, I found
some difficulty in obtaining access to the grand-marshal; but I sent the
ring I had received from the captain to him, and was instantly admitted.
He questioned me concerning Captain Leclere's death; and, as the latter
had told me, gave me a letter to carry on to a person in Paris. I
undertook it because it was what my captain had bade me do. I landed
here, regulated the affairs of the vessel, and hastened to visit my
affianced bride, whom I found more lovely than ever. Thanks to M.
Morrel, all the forms were got over; in a word I was, as I told you,
at my marriage-feast; and I should have been married in an hour, and
to-morrow I intended to start for Paris, had I not been arrested on this
charge which you as well as I now see to be unjust."

"Ah," said Villefort, "this seems to me the truth. If you have been
culpable, it was imprudence, and this imprudence was in obedience to the
orders of your captain. Give up this letter you have brought from Elba,
and pass your word you will appear should you be required, and go and
rejoin your friends.

"I am free, then, sir?" cried Dantes joyfully.

"Yes; but first give me this letter."

"You have it already, for it was taken from me with some others which I
see in that packet."

"Stop a moment," said the deputy, as Dantes took his hat and gloves. "To
whom is it addressed?"

"To Monsieur Noirtier, Rue Coq-Heron, Paris." Had a thunderbolt fallen
into the room, Villefort could not have been more stupefied. He sank
into his seat, and hastily turning over the packet, drew forth the fatal
letter, at which he glanced with an expression of terror.

"M. Noirtier, Rue Coq-Heron, No. 13," murmured he, growing still paler.

"Yes," said Dantes; "do you know him?"

"No," replied Villefort; "a faithful servant of the king does not know
conspirators."

"It is a conspiracy, then?" asked Dantes, who after believing himself
free, now began to feel a tenfold alarm. "I have, however, already told
you, sir, I was entirely ignorant of the contents of the letter."

"Yes; but you knew the name of the person to whom it was addressed,"
said Villefort.

"I was forced to read the address to know to whom to give it."

"Have you shown this letter to any one?" asked Villefort, becoming still
more pale.

"To no one, on my honor."

"Everybody is ignorant that you are the bearer of a letter from the
Island of Elba, and addressed to M. Noirtier?"

"Everybody, except the person who gave it to me."

"And that was too much, far too much," murmured Villefort. Villefort's
brow darkened more and more, his white lips and clinched teeth filled
Dantes with apprehension. After reading the letter, Villefort covered
his face with his hands.

"Oh," said Dantes timidly, "what is the matter?" Villefort made no
answer, but raised his head at the expiration of a few seconds, and
again perused the letter.

"And you say that you are ignorant of the contents of this letter?"

"I give you my word of honor, sir," said Dantes; "but what is the
matter? You are ill--shall I ring for assistance?--shall I call?"

"No," said Villefort, rising hastily; "stay where you are. It is for me
to give orders here, and not you."

"Monsieur," replied Dantes proudly, "it was only to summon assistance
for you."

"I want none; it was a temporary indisposition. Attend to yourself;
answer me." Dantes waited, expecting a question, but in vain. Villefort
fell back on his chair, passed his hand over his brow, moist with
perspiration, and, for the third time, read the letter.

"Oh, if he knows the contents of this!" murmured he, "and that Noirtier
is the father of Villefort, I am lost!" And he fixed his eyes upon
Edmond as if he would have penetrated his thoughts.

"Oh, it is impossible to doubt it," cried he, suddenly.

"In heaven's name!" cried the unhappy young man, "if you doubt me,
question me; I will answer you." Villefort made a violent effort, and in
a tone he strove to render firm,--

"Sir," said he, "I am no longer able, as I had hoped, to restore you
immediately to liberty; before doing so, I must consult the trial
justice; what my own feeling is you already know."

"Oh, monsieur," cried Dantes, "you have been rather a friend than a
judge."

"Well, I must detain you some time longer, but I will strive to make it
as short as possible. The principal charge against you is this letter,
and you see"--Villefort approached the fire, cast it in, and waited
until it was entirely consumed.

"You see, I destroy it?"

"Oh," exclaimed Dantes, "you are goodness itself."

"Listen," continued Villefort; "you can now have confidence in me after
what I have done."

"Oh, command, and I will obey."

"Listen; this is not a command, but advice I give you."

"Speak, and I will follow your advice."

"I shall detain you until this evening in the Palais de Justice. Should
any one else interrogate you, say to him what you have said to me, but
do not breathe a word of this letter."

"I promise." It was Villefort who seemed to entreat, and the prisoner
who reassured him.

"You see," continued he, glancing toward the grate, where fragments of
burnt paper fluttered in the flames, "the letter is destroyed; you and I
alone know of its existence; should you, therefore, be questioned, deny
all knowledge of it--deny it boldly, and you are saved."

"Be satisfied; I will deny it."

"It was the only letter you had?"

"It was."

"Swear it."

"I swear it."

Villefort rang. A police agent entered. Villefort whispered some words
in his ear, to which the officer replied by a motion of his head.

"Follow him," said Villefort to Dantes. Dantes saluted Villefort
and retired. Hardly had the door closed when Villefort threw himself
half-fainting into a chair.

"Alas, alas," murmured he, "if the procureur himself had been at
Marseilles I should have been ruined. This accursed letter would have
destroyed all my hopes. Oh, my father, must your past career always
interfere with my successes?" Suddenly a light passed over his face,
a smile played round his set mouth, and his haggard eyes were fixed in
thought.

"This will do," said he, "and from this letter, which might have ruined
me, I will make my fortune. Now to the work I have in hand." And after
having assured himself that the prisoner was gone, the deputy procureur
hastened to the house of his betrothed.

Chapter 8. The Chateau D'If.

The commissary of police, as he traversed the ante-chamber, made a sign
to two gendarmes, who placed themselves one on Dantes' right and the
other on his left. A door that communicated with the Palais de Justice
was opened, and they went through a long range of gloomy corridors,
whose appearance might have made even the boldest shudder. The Palais de
Justice communicated with the prison,--a sombre edifice, that from
its grated windows looks on the clock-tower of the Accoules. After
numberless windings, Dantes saw a door with an iron wicket. The
commissary took up an iron mallet and knocked thrice, every blow seeming
to Dantes as if struck on his heart. The door opened, the two gendarmes
gently pushed him forward, and the door closed with a loud sound behind
him. The air he inhaled was no longer pure, but thick and mephitic,--he
was in prison. He was conducted to a tolerably neat chamber, but grated
and barred, and its appearance, therefore, did not greatly alarm him;
besides, the words of Villefort, who seemed to interest himself so
much, resounded still in his ears like a promise of freedom. It was four
o'clock when Dantes was placed in this chamber. It was, as we have said,
the 1st of March, and the prisoner was soon buried in darkness. The
obscurity augmented the acuteness of his hearing; at the slightest sound
he rose and hastened to the door, convinced they were about to liberate
him, but the sound died away, and Dantes sank again into his seat. At
last, about ten o'clock, and just as Dantes began to despair, steps were
heard in the corridor, a key turned in the lock, the bolts creaked,
the massy oaken door flew open, and a flood of light from two torches
pervaded the apartment. By the torchlight Dantes saw the glittering
sabres and carbines of four gendarmes. He had advanced at first, but
stopped at the sight of this display of force.

"Are you come to fetch me?" asked he.

"Yes," replied a gendarme.

"By the orders of the deputy procureur?"

"I believe so." The conviction that they came from M. de Villefort
relieved all Dantes' apprehensions; he advanced calmly, and placed
himself in the centre of the escort. A carriage waited at the door, the
coachman was on the box, and a police officer sat beside him.

"Is this carriage for me?" said Dantes.

"It is for you," replied a gendarme.

Dantes was about to speak; but feeling himself urged forward, and having
neither the power nor the intention to resist, he mounted the steps, and
was in an instant seated inside between two gendarmes; the two others
took their places opposite, and the carriage rolled heavily over the
stones.

The prisoner glanced at the windows--they were grated; he had changed
his prison for another that was conveying him he knew not whither.
Through the grating, however, Dantes saw they were passing through the
Rue Caisserie, and by the Rue Saint-Laurent and the Rue Taramis, to the
port. Soon he saw the lights of La Consigne.

The carriage stopped, the officer descended, approached the guardhouse,
a dozen soldiers came out and formed themselves in order; Dantes saw the
reflection of their muskets by the light of the lamps on the quay.

"Can all this force be summoned on my account?" thought he.

The officer opened the door, which was locked, and, without speaking
a word, answered Dantes' question; for he saw between the ranks of
the soldiers a passage formed from the carriage to the port. The two
gendarmes who were opposite to him descended first, then he was ordered
to alight and the gendarmes on each side of him followed his example.
They advanced towards a boat, which a custom-house officer held by a
chain, near the quay.

The soldiers looked at Dantes with an air of stupid curiosity. In an
instant he was placed in the stern-sheets of the boat, between the
gendarmes, while the officer stationed himself at the bow; a shove sent
the boat adrift, and four sturdy oarsmen impelled it rapidly towards the
Pilon. At a shout from the boat, the chain that closes the mouth of
the port was lowered and in a second they were, as Dantes knew, in the
Frioul and outside the inner harbor.

The prisoner's first feeling was of joy at again breathing the pure
air--for air is freedom; but he soon sighed, for he passed before La
Reserve, where he had that morning been so happy, and now through the
open windows came the laughter and revelry of a ball. Dantes folded his
hands, raised his eyes to heaven, and prayed fervently.

The boat continued her voyage. They had passed the Tete de Morte,
were now off the Anse du Pharo, and about to double the battery. This
manoeuvre was incomprehensible to Dantes.

"Whither are you taking me?" asked he.

"You will soon know."

"But still"--

"We are forbidden to give you any explanation." Dantes, trained in
discipline, knew that nothing would be more absurd than to question
subordinates, who were forbidden to reply; and so he remained silent.

The most vague and wild thoughts passed through his mind. The boat they
were in could not make a long voyage; there was no vessel at anchor
outside the harbor; he thought, perhaps, they were going to leave him on
some distant point. He was not bound, nor had they made any attempt to
handcuff him; this seemed a good augury. Besides, had not the deputy,
who had been so kind to him, told him that provided he did not pronounce
the dreaded name of Noirtier, he had nothing to apprehend? Had not
Villefort in his presence destroyed the fatal letter, the only proof
against him?

He waited silently, striving to pierce through the darkness.

They had left the Ile Ratonneau, where the lighthouse stood, on the
right, and were now opposite the Point des Catalans. It seemed to the
prisoner that he could distinguish a feminine form on the beach, for it
was there Mercedes dwelt. How was it that a presentiment did not warn
Mercedes that her lover was within three hundred yards of her?

One light alone was visible; and Dantes saw that it came from Mercedes'
chamber. Mercedes was the only one awake in the whole settlement. A loud
cry could be heard by her. But pride restrained him and he did not utter
it. What would his guards think if they heard him shout like a madman?

He remained silent, his eyes fixed upon the light; the boat went on, but
the prisoner thought only of Mercedes. An intervening elevation of land
hid the light. Dantes turned and perceived that they had got out to sea.
While he had been absorbed in thought, they had shipped their oars and
hoisted sail; the boat was now moving with the wind.

In spite of his repugnance to address the guards, Dantes turned to the
nearest gendarme, and taking his hand,--

"Comrade," said he, "I adjure you, as a Christian and a soldier, to tell
me where we are going. I am Captain Dantes, a loyal Frenchman, thought
accused of treason; tell me where you are conducting me, and I promise
you on my honor I will submit to my fate."

The gendarme looked irresolutely at his companion, who returned for
answer a sign that said, "I see no great harm in telling him now," and
the gendarme replied,--

"You are a native of Marseilles, and a sailor, and yet you do not know
where you are going?"

"On my honor, I have no idea."

"Have you no idea whatever?"

"None at all."

"That is impossible."

"I swear to you it is true. Tell me, I entreat."

"But my orders."

"Your orders do not forbid your telling me what I must know in ten
minutes, in half an hour, or an hour. You see I cannot escape, even if I
intended."

"Unless you are blind, or have never been outside the harbor, you must
know."

"I do not."

"Look round you then." Dantes rose and looked forward, when he saw
rise within a hundred yards of him the black and frowning rock on which
stands the Chateau d'If. This gloomy fortress, which has for more than
three hundred years furnished food for so many wild legends, seemed to
Dantes like a scaffold to a malefactor.

"The Chateau d'If?" cried he, "what are we going there for?" The
gendarme smiled.

"I am not going there to be imprisoned," said Dantes; "it is only
used for political prisoners. I have committed no crime. Are there any
magistrates or judges at the Chateau d'If?"

"There are only," said the gendarme, "a governor, a garrison, turnkeys,
and good thick walls. Come, come, do not look so astonished, or you
will make me think you are laughing at me in return for my good nature."
Dantes pressed the gendarme's hand as though he would crush it.

"You think, then," said he, "that I am taken to the Chateau d'If to be
imprisoned there?"

"It is probable; but there is no occasion to squeeze so hard."

"Without any inquiry, without any formality?"

"All the formalities have been gone through; the inquiry is already
made."

"And so, in spite of M. de Villefort's promises?"

"I do not know what M. de Villefort promised you," said the gendarme,
"but I know we are taking you to the Chateau d'If. But what are you
doing? Help, comrades, help!"

By a rapid movement, which the gendarme's practiced eye had perceived,
Dantes sprang forward to precipitate himself into the sea; but four
vigorous arms seized him as his feet quitted the bottom of the boat. He
fell back cursing with rage.

"Good!" said the gendarme, placing his knee on his chest; "believe
soft-spoken gentlemen again! Harkye, my friend, I have disobeyed my
first order, but I will not disobey the second; and if you move, I will
blow your brains out." And he levelled his carbine at Dantes, who felt
the muzzle against his temple.

For a moment the idea of struggling crossed his mind, and of so ending
the unexpected evil that had overtaken him. But he bethought him of M.
de Villefort's promise; and, besides, death in a boat from the hand of
a gendarme seemed too terrible. He remained motionless, but gnashing his
teeth and wringing his hands with fury.

At this moment the boat came to a landing with a violent shock. One of
the sailors leaped on shore, a cord creaked as it ran through a pulley,
and Dantes guessed they were at the end of the voyage, and that they
were mooring the boat.

His guards, taking him by the arms and coat-collar, forced him to rise,
and dragged him towards the steps that lead to the gate of the fortress,
while the police officer carrying a musket with fixed bayonet followed
behind.

Dantes made no resistance; he was like a man in a dream: he saw soldiers
drawn up on the embankment; he knew vaguely that he was ascending a
flight of steps; he was conscious that he passed through a door, and
that the door closed behind him; but all this indistinctly as through
a mist. He did not even see the ocean, that terrible barrier against
freedom, which the prisoners look upon with utter despair.

They halted for a minute, during which he strove to collect his
thoughts. He looked around; he was in a court surrounded by high walls;
he heard the measured tread of sentinels, and as they passed before the
light he saw the barrels of their muskets shine.

They waited upwards of ten minutes. Certain Dantes could not escape, the
gendarmes released him. They seemed awaiting orders. The orders came.

"Where is the prisoner?" said a voice.

"Here," replied the gendarmes.

"Let him follow me; I will take him to his cell."

"Go!" said the gendarmes, thrusting Dantes forward.

The prisoner followed his guide, who led him into a room almost under
ground, whose bare and reeking walls seemed as though impregnated with
tears; a lamp placed on a stool illumined the apartment faintly,
and showed Dantes the features of his conductor, an under-jailer,
ill-clothed, and of sullen appearance.

"Here is your chamber for to-night," said he. "It is late, and the
governor is asleep. To-morrow, perhaps, he may change you. In the
meantime there is bread, water, and fresh straw; and that is all a
prisoner can wish for. Goodnight." And before Dantes could open his
mouth--before he had noticed where the jailer placed his bread or the
water--before he had glanced towards the corner where the straw was,
the jailer disappeared, taking with him the lamp and closing the door,
leaving stamped upon the prisoner's mind the dim reflection of the
dripping walls of his dungeon.

Dantes was alone in darkness and in silence--cold as the shadows that
he felt breathe on his burning forehead. With the first dawn of day the
jailer returned, with orders to leave Dantes where he was. He found the
prisoner in the same position, as if fixed there, his eyes swollen with
weeping. He had passed the night standing, and without sleep. The jailer
advanced; Dantes appeared not to perceive him. He touched him on the
shoulder. Edmond started.

"Have you not slept?" said the jailer.

"I do not know," replied Dantes. The jailer stared.

"Are you hungry?" continued he.

"I do not know."

"Do you wish for anything?"

"I wish to see the governor." The jailer shrugged his shoulders and left
the chamber.

Dantes followed him with his eyes, and stretched forth his hands towards
the open door; but the door closed. All his emotion then burst forth;
he cast himself on the ground, weeping bitterly, and asking himself what
crime he had committed that he was thus punished.

The day passed thus; he scarcely tasted food, but walked round and
round the cell like a wild beast in its cage. One thought in particular
tormented him: namely, that during his journey hither he had sat so
still, whereas he might, a dozen times, have plunged into the sea, and,
thanks to his powers of swimming, for which he was famous, have gained
the shore, concealed himself until the arrival of a Genoese or Spanish
vessel, escaped to Spain or Italy, where Mercedes and his father could
have joined him. He had no fears as to how he should live--good seamen
are welcome everywhere. He spoke Italian like a Tuscan, and Spanish like
a Castilian; he would have been free, and happy with Mercedes and
his father, whereas he was now confined in the Chateau d'If, that
impregnable fortress, ignorant of the future destiny of his father and
Mercedes; and all this because he had trusted to Villefort's promise.
The thought was maddening, and Dantes threw himself furiously down on
his straw. The next morning at the same hour, the jailer came again.

"Well," said the jailer, "are you more reasonable to-day?" Dantes made
no reply.

"Come, cheer up; is there anything that I can do for you?"

"I wish to see the governor."

"I have already told you it was impossible."

"Why so?"

"Because it is against prison rules, and prisoners must not even ask for
it."

"What is allowed, then?"

"Better fare, if you pay for it, books, and leave to walk about."

"I do not want books, I am satisfied with my food, and do not care to
walk about; but I wish to see the governor."

"If you worry me by repeating the same thing, I will not bring you any
more to eat."

"Well, then," said Edmond, "if you do not, I shall die of hunger--that
is all."

The jailer saw by his tone he would be happy to die; and as every
prisoner is worth ten sous a day to his jailer, he replied in a more
subdued tone.

"What you ask is impossible; but if you are very well behaved you will
be allowed to walk about, and some day you will meet the governor, and
if he chooses to reply, that is his affair."

"But," asked Dantes, "how long shall I have to wait?"

"Ah, a month--six months--a year."

"It is too long a time. I wish to see him at once."

"Ah," said the jailer, "do not always brood over what is impossible, or
you will be mad in a fortnight."

"You think so?"

"Yes; we have an instance here; it was by always offering a million of
francs to the governor for his liberty that an abbe became mad, who was
in this chamber before you."

"How long has he left it?"

"Two years."

"Was he liberated, then?"

"No; he was put in a dungeon."

"Listen!" said Dantes. "I am not an abbe, I am not mad; perhaps I shall
be, but at present, unfortunately, I am not. I will make you another
offer."

"What is that?"

"I do not offer you a million, because I have it not; but I will give
you a hundred crowns if, the first time you go to Marseilles, you will
seek out a young girl named Mercedes, at the Catalans, and give her two
lines from me."

"If I took them, and were detected, I should lose my place, which is
worth two thousand francs a year; so that I should be a great fool to
run such a risk for three hundred."

"Well," said Dantes, "mark this; if you refuse at least to tell Mercedes
I am here, I will some day hide myself behind the door, and when you
enter I will dash out your brains with this stool."

"Threats!" cried the jailer, retreating and putting himself on the
defensive; "you are certainly going mad. The abbe began like you, and in
three days you will be like him, mad enough to tie up; but, fortunately,
there are dungeons here." Dantes whirled the stool round his head.

"All right, all right," said the jailer; "all right, since you will have
it so. I will send word to the governor."

"Very well," returned Dantes, dropping the stool and sitting on it as if
he were in reality mad. The jailer went out, and returned in an instant
with a corporal and four soldiers.

"By the governor's orders," said he, "conduct the prisoner to the tier
beneath."

"To the dungeon, then," said the corporal.

"Yes; we must put the madman with the madmen." The soldiers seized
Dantes, who followed passively.

He descended fifteen steps, and the door of a dungeon was opened, and
he was thrust in. The door closed, and Dantes advanced with outstretched
hands until he touched the wall; he then sat down in the corner until
his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The jailer was right; Dantes
wanted but little of being utterly mad.

Chapter 9. The Evening of the Betrothal.

Villefort had, as we have said, hastened back to Madame de Saint-Meran's
in the Place du Grand Cours, and on entering the house found that the
guests whom he had left at table were taking coffee in the salon. Renee
was, with all the rest of the company, anxiously awaiting him, and his
entrance was followed by a general exclamation.

"Well, Decapitator, Guardian of the State, Royalist, Brutus, what is the
matter?" said one. "Speak out."

"Are we threatened with a fresh Reign of Terror?" asked another.

"Has the Corsican ogre broken loose?" cried a third.

"Marquise," said Villefort, approaching his future mother-in-law, "I
request your pardon for thus leaving you. Will the marquis honor me by a
few moments' private conversation?"

"Ah, it is really a serious matter, then?" asked the marquis, remarking
the cloud on Villefort's brow.

"So serious that I must take leave of you for a few days; so," added he,
turning to Renee, "judge for yourself if it be not important."

"You are going to leave us?" cried Renee, unable to hide her emotion at
this unexpected announcement.

"Alas," returned Villefort, "I must!"

"Where, then, are you going?" asked the marquise.

"That, madame, is an official secret; but if you have any commissions
for Paris, a friend of mine is going there to-night, and will with
pleasure undertake them." The guests looked at each other.

"You wish to speak to me alone?" said the marquis.

"Yes, let us go to the library, please." The marquis took his arm, and
they left the salon.

"Well," asked he, as soon as they were by themselves, "tell me what it
is?"

"An affair of the greatest importance, that demands my immediate
presence in Paris. Now, excuse the indiscretion, marquis, but have you
any landed property?"

"All my fortune is in the funds; seven or eight hundred thousand
francs."

"Then sell out--sell out, marquis, or you will lose it all."

"But how can I sell out here?"

"You have a broker, have you not?"

"Yes."

"Then give me a letter to him, and tell him to sell out without an
instant's delay, perhaps even now I shall arrive too late."

"The deuce you say!" replied the marquis, "let us lose no time, then!"

And, sitting down, he wrote a letter to his broker, ordering him to sell
out at the market price.

"Now, then," said Villefort, placing the letter in his pocketbook, "I
must have another!"

"To whom?"

"To the king."

"To the king?"

"Yes."

"I dare not write to his majesty."

"I do not ask you to write to his majesty, but ask M. de Salvieux to
do so. I want a letter that will enable me to reach the king's presence
without all the formalities of demanding an audience; that would
occasion a loss of precious time."

"But address yourself to the keeper of the seals; he has the right of
entry at the Tuileries, and can procure you audience at any hour of the
day or night."

"Doubtless; but there is no occasion to divide the honors of my
discovery with him. The keeper would leave me in the background, and
take all the glory to himself. I tell you, marquis, my fortune is made
if I only reach the Tuileries the first, for the king will not forget
the service I do him."

"In that case go and get ready. I will call Salvieux and make him write
the letter."

"Be as quick as possible, I must be on the road in a quarter of an
hour."

"Tell your coachman to stop at the door."

"You will present my excuses to the marquise and Mademoiselle Renee,
whom I leave on such a day with great regret."

"You will find them both here, and can make your farewells in person."

"A thousand thanks--and now for the letter."

The marquis rang, a servant entered.

"Say to the Comte de Salvieux that I would like to see him."

"Now, then, go," said the marquis.

"I shall be gone only a few moments."

Villefort hastily quitted the apartment, but reflecting that the sight
of the deputy procureur running through the streets would be enough to
throw the whole city into confusion, he resumed his ordinary pace. At
his door he perceived a figure in the shadow that seemed to wait for
him. It was Mercedes, who, hearing no news of her lover, had come
unobserved to inquire after him.

As Villefort drew near, she advanced and stood before him. Dantes had
spoken of Mercedes, and Villefort instantly recognized her. Her beauty
and high bearing surprised him, and when she inquired what had become of
her lover, it seemed to him that she was the judge, and he the accused.

"The young man you speak of," said Villefort abruptly, "is a great
criminal, and I can do nothing for him, mademoiselle." Mercedes burst
into tears, and, as Villefort strove to pass her, again addressed him.

"But, at least, tell me where he is, that I may know whether he is alive
or dead," said she.

"I do not know; he is no longer in my hands," replied Villefort.

And desirous of putting an end to the interview, he pushed by her, and
closed the door, as if to exclude the pain he felt. But remorse is not
thus banished; like Virgil's wounded hero, he carried the arrow in his
wound, and, arrived at the salon, Villefort uttered a sigh that was
almost a sob, and sank into a chair.

Then the first pangs of an unending torture seized upon his heart. The
man he sacrificed to his ambition, that innocent victim immolated on
the altar of his father's faults, appeared to him pale and threatening,
leading his affianced bride by the hand, and bringing with him remorse,
not such as the ancients figured, furious and terrible, but that slow
and consuming agony whose pangs are intensified from hour to hour up
to the very moment of death. Then he had a moment's hesitation. He had
frequently called for capital punishment on criminals, and owing to his
irresistible eloquence they had been condemned, and yet the slightest
shadow of remorse had never clouded Villefort's brow, because they were
guilty; at least, he believed so; but here was an innocent man whose
happiness he had destroyed: in this case he was not the judge, but the
executioner.

As he thus reflected, he felt the sensation we have described, and which
had hitherto been unknown to him, arise in his bosom, and fill him
with vague apprehensions. It is thus that a wounded man trembles
instinctively at the approach of the finger to his wound until it be
healed, but Villefort's was one of those that never close, or if they
do, only close to reopen more agonizing than ever. If at this moment the
sweet voice of Renee had sounded in his ears pleading for mercy, or the
fair Mercedes had entered and said, "In the name of God, I conjure you
to restore me my affianced husband," his cold and trembling hands
would have signed his release; but no voice broke the stillness of the
chamber, and the door was opened only by Villefort's valet, who came to
tell him that the travelling carriage was in readiness.

Villefort rose, or rather sprang, from his chair, hastily opened one
of the drawers of his desk, emptied all the gold it contained into
his pocket, stood motionless an instant, his hand pressed to his head,
muttered a few inarticulate sounds, and then, perceiving that his
servant had placed his cloak on his shoulders, he sprang into the
carriage, ordering the postilions to drive to M. de Saint-Meran's. The
hapless Dantes was doomed.

As the marquis had promised, Villefort found the marquise and Renee
in waiting. He started when he saw Renee, for he fancied she was again
about to plead for Dantes. Alas, her emotions were wholly personal: she
was thinking only of Villefort's departure.

She loved Villefort, and he left her at the moment he was about to
become her husband. Villefort knew not when he should return, and Renee,
far from pleading for Dantes, hated the man whose crime separated her
from her lover.

Meanwhile what of Mercedes? She had met Fernand at the corner of the Rue
de la Loge; she had returned to the Catalans, and had despairingly cast
herself on her couch. Fernand, kneeling by her side, took her hand, and
covered it with kisses that Mercedes did not even feel. She passed the
night thus. The lamp went out for want of oil, but she paid no heed to
the darkness, and dawn came, but she knew not that it was day. Grief had
made her blind to all but one object--that was Edmond.

"Ah, you are there," said she, at length, turning towards Fernand.

"I have not quitted you since yesterday," returned Fernand sorrowfully.

M. Morrel had not readily given up the fight. He had learned that Dantes
had been taken to prison, and he had gone to all his friends, and
the influential persons of the city; but the report was already in
circulation that Dantes was arrested as a Bonapartist agent; and as the
most sanguine looked upon any attempt of Napoleon to remount the throne
as impossible, he met with nothing but refusal, and had returned home
in despair, declaring that the matter was serious and that nothing more
could be done.

Caderousse was equally restless and uneasy, but instead of seeking, like
M. Morrel, to aid Dantes, he had shut himself up with two bottles of
black currant brandy, in the hope of drowning reflection. But he did not
succeed, and became too intoxicated to fetch any more drink, and yet not
so intoxicated as to forget what had happened. With his elbows on the
table he sat between the two empty bottles, while spectres danced in the
light of the unsnuffed candle--spectres such as Hoffmann strews over his
punch-drenched pages, like black, fantastic dust.

Danglars alone was content and joyous--he had got rid of an enemy and
made his own situation on the Pharaon secure. Danglars was one of those
men born with a pen behind the ear, and an inkstand in place of a heart.
Everything with him was multiplication or subtraction. The life of a man
was to him of far less value than a numeral, especially when, by taking
it away, he could increase the sum total of his own desires. He went to
bed at his usual hour, and slept in peace.

Villefort, after having received M. de Salvieux' letter, embraced Renee,
kissed the marquise's hand, and shaken that of the marquis, started for
Paris along the Aix road.

Old Dantes was dying with anxiety to know what had become of Edmond. But
we know very well what had become of Edmond.

Chapter 10. The King's Closet at the Tuileries.

We will leave Villefort on the road to Paris, travelling--thanks
to trebled fees--with all speed, and passing through two or three
apartments, enter at the Tuileries the little room with the arched
window, so well known as having been the favorite closet of Napoleon and
Louis XVIII., and now of Louis Philippe.

There, seated before a walnut table he had brought with him from
Hartwell, and to which, from one of those fancies not uncommon to
great people, he was particularly attached, the king, Louis XVIII., was
carelessly listening to a man of fifty or fifty-two years of age, with
gray hair, aristocratic bearing, and exceedingly gentlemanly attire,
and meanwhile making a marginal note in a volume of Gryphius's rather
inaccurate, but much sought-after, edition of Horace--a work which
was much indebted to the sagacious observations of the philosophical
monarch.

"You say, sir"--said the king.

"That I am exceedingly disquieted, sire."

"Really, have you had a vision of the seven fat kine and the seven lean
kine?"

"No, sire, for that would only betoken for us seven years of plenty and
seven years of scarcity; and with a king as full of foresight as your
majesty, scarcity is not a thing to be feared."

"Then of what other scourge are you afraid, my dear Blacas?"

"Sire, I have every reason to believe that a storm is brewing in the
south."

"Well, my dear duke," replied Louis XVIII., "I think you are wrongly
informed, and know positively that, on the contrary, it is very fine
weather in that direction." Man of ability as he was, Louis XVIII. liked
a pleasant jest.

"Sire," continued M. de Blacas, "if it only be to reassure a faithful
servant, will your majesty send into Languedoc, Provence, and Dauphine,
trusty men, who will bring you back a faithful report as to the feeling
in these three provinces?"

"Caninus surdis," replied the king, continuing the annotations in his
Horace.

"Sire," replied the courtier, laughing, in order that he might seem
to comprehend the quotation, "your majesty may be perfectly right in
relying on the good feeling of France, but I fear I am not altogether
wrong in dreading some desperate attempt."

"By whom?"

"By Bonaparte, or, at least, by his adherents."

"My dear Blacas," said the king, "you with your alarms prevent me from
working."

"And you, sire, prevent me from sleeping with your security."

"Wait, my dear sir, wait a moment; for I have such a delightful note on
the Pastor quum traheret--wait, and I will listen to you afterwards."

There was a brief pause, during which Louis XVIII. wrote, in a hand as
small as possible, another note on the margin of his Horace, and then
looking at the duke with the air of a man who thinks he has an idea of
his own, while he is only commenting upon the idea of another, said,--

"Go on, my dear duke, go on--I listen."

"Sire," said Blacas, who had for a moment the hope of sacrificing
Villefort to his own profit, "I am compelled to tell you that these are
not mere rumors destitute of foundation which thus disquiet me; but a
serious-minded man, deserving all my confidence, and charged by me to
watch over the south" (the duke hesitated as he pronounced these words),
"has arrived by post to tell me that a great peril threatens the king,
and so I hastened to you, sire."

"Mala ducis avi domum," continued Louis XVIII., still annotating.

"Does your majesty wish me to drop the subject?"

"By no means, my dear duke; but just stretch out your hand."

"Which?"

"Whichever you please--there to the left."

"Here, sire?"

"I tell you to the left, and you are looking to the right; I mean on my
left--yes, there. You will find yesterday's report of the minister of
police. But here is M. Dandre himself;" and M. Dandre, announced by the
chamberlain-in-waiting, entered.

"Come in," said Louis XVIII., with repressed smile, "come in, Baron, and
tell the duke all you know--the latest news of M. de Bonaparte; do not
conceal anything, however serious,--let us see, the Island of Elba is a
volcano, and we may expect to have issuing thence flaming and bristling
war--bella, horrida bella." M. Dandre leaned very respectfully on the
back of a chair with his two hands, and said,--

"Has your majesty perused yesterday's report?"

"Yes, yes; but tell the duke himself, who cannot find anything, what the
report contains--give him the particulars of what the usurper is doing
in his islet."

"Monsieur," said the baron to the duke, "all the servants of his majesty
must approve of the latest intelligence which we have from the Island
of Elba. Bonaparte"--M. Dandre looked at Louis XVIII., who, employed in
writing a note, did not even raise his head. "Bonaparte," continued
the baron, "is mortally wearied, and passes whole days in watching his
miners at work at Porto-Longone."

"And scratches himself for amusement," added the king.

"Scratches himself?" inquired the duke, "what does your majesty mean?"

"Yes, indeed, my dear duke. Did you forget that this great man, this
hero, this demigod, is attacked with a malady of the skin which worries
him to death, prurigo?"

"And, moreover, my dear duke," continued the minister of police, "we are
almost assured that, in a very short time, the usurper will be insane."

"Insane?"

"Raving mad; his head becomes weaker. Sometimes he weeps bitterly,
sometimes laughs boisterously, at other time he passes hours on
the seashore, flinging stones in the water and when the flint makes
'duck-and-drake' five or six times, he appears as delighted as if he had
gained another Marengo or Austerlitz. Now, you must agree that these are
indubitable symptoms of insanity."

"Or of wisdom, my dear baron--or of wisdom," said Louis XVIII.,
laughing; "the greatest captains of antiquity amused themselves
by casting pebbles into the ocean--see Plutarch's life of Scipio
Africanus."

M. de Blacas pondered deeply between the confident monarch and the
truthful minister. Villefort, who did not choose to reveal the whole
secret, lest another should reap all the benefit of the disclosure, had
yet communicated enough to cause him the greatest uneasiness.

"Well, well, Dandre," said Louis XVIII., "Blacas is not yet convinced;
let us proceed, therefore, to the usurper's conversion." The minister of
police bowed.

"The usurper's conversion!" murmured the duke, looking at the king and
Dandre, who spoke alternately, like Virgil's shepherds. "The usurper
converted!"

"Decidedly, my dear duke."

"In what way converted?"

"To good principles. Tell him all about it, baron."

"Why, this is the way of it," said the minister, with the gravest air in
the world: "Napoleon lately had a review, and as two or three of his
old veterans expressed a desire to return to France, he gave them their
dismissal, and exhorted them to 'serve the good king.' These were his
own words, of that I am certain."

"Well, Blacas, what think you of this?" inquired the king triumphantly,
and pausing for a moment from the voluminous scholiast before him.

"I say, sire, that the minister of police is greatly deceived or I am;
and as it is impossible it can be the minister of police as he has the
guardianship of the safety and honor of your majesty, it is probable
that I am in error. However, sire, if I might advise, your majesty will
interrogate the person of whom I spoke to you, and I will urge your
majesty to do him this honor."

"Most willingly, duke; under your auspices I will receive any person you
please, but you must not expect me to be too confiding. Baron, have you
any report more recent than this dated the 20th February.--this is the
4th of March?"

"No, sire, but I am hourly expecting one; it may have arrived since I
left my office."

"Go thither, and if there be none--well, well," continued Louis XVIII.,
"make one; that is the usual way, is it not?" and the king laughed
facetiously.

"Oh, sire," replied the minister, "we have no occasion to invent any;
every day our desks are loaded with most circumstantial denunciations,
coming from hosts of people who hope for some return for services which
they seek to render, but cannot; they trust to fortune, and rely upon
some unexpected event in some way to justify their predictions."

"Well, sir, go"; said Louis XVIII., "and remember that I am waiting for
you."

"I will but go and return, sire; I shall be back in ten minutes."

"And I, sire," said M. de Blacas, "will go and find my messenger."

"Wait, sir, wait," said Louis XVIII. "Really, M. de Blacas, I
must change your armorial bearings; I will give you an eagle with
outstretched wings, holding in its claws a prey which tries in vain to
escape, and bearing this device--Tenax."

"Sire, I listen," said De Blacas, biting his nails with impatience.

"I wish to consult you on this passage, 'Molli fugiens anhelitu,' you
know it refers to a stag flying from a wolf. Are you not a sportsman
and a great wolf-hunter? Well, then, what do you think of the molli
anhelitu?"

"Admirable, sire; but my messenger is like the stag you refer to, for he
has posted two hundred and twenty leagues in scarcely three days."

"Which is undergoing great fatigue and anxiety, my dear duke, when we
have a telegraph which transmits messages in three or four hours, and
that without getting in the least out of breath."

"Ah, sire, you recompense but badly this poor young man, who has come so
far, and with so much ardor, to give your majesty useful information. If
only for the sake of M. de Salvieux, who recommends him to me, I entreat
your majesty to receive him graciously."

"M. de Salvieux, my brother's chamberlain?"

"Yes, sire."

"He is at Marseilles."

"And writes me thence."

"Does he speak to you of this conspiracy?"

"No; but strongly recommends M. de Villefort, and begs me to present him
to your majesty."

"M. de Villefort!" cried the king, "is the messenger's name M. de
Villefort?"

"Yes, sire."

"And he comes from Marseilles?"

"In person."

"Why did you not mention his name at once?" replied the king, betraying
some uneasiness.

"Sire, I thought his name was unknown to your majesty."

"No, no, Blacas; he is a man of strong and elevated understanding,
ambitious, too, and, pardieu, you know his father's name!"

"His father?"

"Yes, Noirtier."

"Noirtier the Girondin?--Noirtier the senator?"

"He himself."

"And your majesty has employed the son of such a man?"

"Blacas, my friend, you have but limited comprehension. I told you
Villefort was ambitious, and to attain this ambition Villefort would
sacrifice everything, even his father."

"Then, sire, may I present him?"

"This instant, duke! Where is he?"

"Waiting below, in my carriage."

"Seek him at once."

"I hasten to do so." The duke left the royal presence with the speed of
a young man; his really sincere royalism made him youthful again. Louis
XVIII. remained alone, and turning his eyes on his half-opened Horace,
muttered,--

"Justum et tenacem propositi virum."

M. de Blacas returned as speedily as he had departed, but in the
ante-chamber he was forced to appeal to the king's authority.
Villefort's dusty garb, his costume, which was not of courtly cut,
excited the susceptibility of M. de Breze, who was all astonishment at
finding that this young man had the audacity to enter before the king
in such attire. The duke, however, overcame all difficulties with a
word--his majesty's order; and, in spite of the protestations which the
master of ceremonies made for the honor of his office and principles,
Villefort was introduced.

The king was seated in the same place where the duke had left him. On
opening the door, Villefort found himself facing him, and the young
magistrate's first impulse was to pause.

"Come in, M. de Villefort," said the king, "come in." Villefort bowed,
and advancing a few steps, waited until the king should interrogate him.

"M. de Villefort," said Louis XVIII., "the Duc de Blacas assures me you
have some interesting information to communicate."

"Sire, the duke is right, and I believe your majesty will think it
equally important."

"In the first place, and before everything else, sir, is the news as bad
in your opinion as I am asked to believe?"

"Sire, I believe it to be most urgent, but I hope, by the speed I have
used, that it is not irreparable."

"Speak as fully as you please, sir," said the king, who began to give
way to the emotion which had showed itself in Blacas's face and affected
Villefort's voice. "Speak, sir, and pray begin at the beginning; I like
order in everything."

"Sire," said Villefort, "I will render a faithful report to your
majesty, but I must entreat your forgiveness if my anxiety leads to some
obscurity in my language." A glance at the king after this discreet
and subtle exordium, assured Villefort of the benignity of his august
auditor, and he went on:--

"Sire, I have come as rapidly to Paris as possible, to inform your
majesty that I have discovered, in the exercise of my duties, not a
commonplace and insignificant plot, such as is every day got up in the
lower ranks of the people and in the army, but an actual conspiracy--a
storm which menaces no less than your majesty's throne. Sire, the
usurper is arming three ships, he meditates some project, which, however
mad, is yet, perhaps, terrible. At this moment he will have left Elba,
to go whither I know not, but assuredly to attempt a landing either at
Naples, or on the coast of Tuscany, or perhaps on the shores of France.
Your majesty is well aware that the sovereign of the Island of Elba has
maintained his relations with Italy and France?"

"I am, sir," said the king, much agitated; "and recently we have had
information that the Bonapartist clubs have had meetings in the Rue
Saint-Jacques. But proceed, I beg of you. How did you obtain these
details?"

"Sire, they are the results of an examination which I have made of a man
of Marseilles, whom I have watched for some time, and arrested on the
day of my departure. This person, a sailor, of turbulent character,
and whom I suspected of Bonapartism, has been secretly to the Island
of Elba. There he saw the grand-marshal, who charged him with an oral
message to a Bonapartist in Paris, whose name I could not extract from
him; but this mission was to prepare men's minds for a return (it is the
man who says this, sire)--a return which will soon occur."

"And where is this man?"

"In prison, sire."

"And the matter seems serious to you?"

"So serious, sire, that when the circumstance surprised me in the midst
of a family festival, on the very day of my betrothal, I left my bride
and friends, postponing everything, that I might hasten to lay at your
majesty's feet the fears which impressed me, and the assurance of my
devotion."

"True," said Louis XVIII., "was there not a marriage engagement between
you and Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran?"

"Daughter of one of your majesty's most faithful servants."

"Yes, yes; but let us talk of this plot, M. de Villefort."

"Sire, I fear it is more than a plot; I fear it is a conspiracy."

"A conspiracy in these times," said Louis XVIII., smiling, "is a thing
very easy to meditate, but more difficult to conduct to an end, inasmuch
as, re-established so recently on the throne of our ancestors, we have
our eyes open at once upon the past, the present, and the future. For
the last ten months my ministers have redoubled their vigilance, in
order to watch the shore of the Mediterranean. If Bonaparte landed at
Naples, the whole coalition would be on foot before he could even reach
Piomoino; if he land in Tuscany, he will be in an unfriendly territory;
if he land in France, it must be with a handful of men, and the result
of that is easily foretold, execrated as he is by the population. Take
courage, sir; but at the same time rely on our royal gratitude."

"Ah, here is M. Dandre!" cried de Blacas. At this instant the minister
of police appeared at the door, pale, trembling, and as if ready to
faint. Villefort was about to retire, but M. de Blacas, taking his hand,
restrained him.

Chapter 11. The Corsican Ogre.

At the sight of this agitation Louis XVIII. pushed from him violently
the table at which he was sitting.

"What ails you, baron?" he exclaimed. "You appear quite aghast. Has your
uneasiness anything to do with what M. de Blacas has told me, and M. de
Villefort has just confirmed?" M. de Blacas moved suddenly towards the
baron, but the fright of the courtier pleaded for the forbearance of
the statesman; and besides, as matters were, it was much more to his
advantage that the prefect of police should triumph over him than that
he should humiliate the prefect.

"Sire"--stammered the baron.

"Well, what is it?" asked Louis XVIII. The minister of police, giving
way to an impulse of despair, was about to throw himself at the feet of
Louis XVIII., who retreated a step and frowned.

"Will you speak?" he said.

"Oh, sire, what a dreadful misfortune! I am, indeed, to be pitied. I can
never forgive myself!"

"Monsieur," said Louis XVIII., "I command you to speak."

"Well, sire, the usurper left Elba on the 26th February, and landed on
the 1st of March."

"And where? In Italy?" asked the king eagerly.

"In France, sire,--at a small port, near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan."

"The usurper landed in France, near Antibes, in the Gulf of Juan, two
hundred and fifty leagues from Paris, on the 1st of March, and you only
acquired this information to-day, the 4th of March! Well, sir, what you
tell me is impossible. You must have received a false report, or you
have gone mad."

"Alas, sire, it is but too true!" Louis made a gesture of indescribable
anger and alarm, and then drew himself up as if this sudden blow had
struck him at the same moment in heart and countenance.

"In France!" he cried, "the usurper in France! Then they did not watch
over this man. Who knows? they were, perhaps, in league with him."

"Oh, sire," exclaimed the Duc de Blacas, "M. Dandre is not a man to be
accused of treason! Sire, we have all been blind, and the minister of
police has shared the general blindness, that is all."

"But"--said Villefort, and then suddenly checking himself, he was
silent; then he continued, "Your pardon, sire," he said, bowing, "my
zeal carried me away. Will your majesty deign to excuse me?"

"Speak, sir, speak boldly," replied Louis. "You alone forewarned us of
the evil; now try and aid us with the remedy."

"Sire," said Villefort, "the usurper is detested in the south; and it
seems to me that if he ventured into the south, it would be easy to
raise Languedoc and Provence against him."

"Yes, assuredly," replied the minister; "but he is advancing by Gap and
Sisteron."

"Advancing--he is advancing!" said Louis XVIII. "Is he then advancing on
Paris?" The minister of police maintained a silence which was equivalent
to a complete avowal.

"And Dauphine, sir?" inquired the king, of Villefort. "Do you think it
possible to rouse that as well as Provence?"

"Sire, I am sorry to tell your majesty a cruel fact; but the feeling
in Dauphine is quite the reverse of that in Provence or Languedoc. The
mountaineers are Bonapartists, sire."

"Then," murmured Louis, "he was well informed. And how many men had he
with him?"

"I do not know, sire," answered the minister of police.

"What, you do not know! Have you neglected to obtain information on that
point? Of course it is of no consequence," he added, with a withering
smile.

"Sire, it was impossible to learn; the despatch simply stated the fact
of the landing and the route taken by the usurper."

"And how did this despatch reach you?" inquired the king. The minister
bowed his head, and while a deep color overspread his cheeks, he
stammered out,--

"By the telegraph, sire."--Louis XVIII. advanced a step, and folded his
arms over his chest as Napoleon would have done.

"So then," he exclaimed, turning pale with anger, "seven conjoined and
allied armies overthrew that man. A miracle of heaven replaced me on
the throne of my fathers after five-and-twenty years of exile. I have,
during those five-and-twenty years, spared no pains to understand the
people of France and the interests which were confided to me; and now,
when I see the fruition of my wishes almost within reach, the power I
hold in my hands bursts, and shatters me to atoms!"

"Sire, it is fatality!" murmured the minister, feeling that the pressure
of circumstances, however light a thing to destiny, was too much for any
human strength to endure.

"What our enemies say of us is then true. We have learnt nothing,
forgotten nothing! If I were betrayed as he was, I would console myself;
but to be in the midst of persons elevated by myself to places of honor,
who ought to watch over me more carefully than over themselves,--for my
fortune is theirs--before me they were nothing--after me they will be
nothing, and perish miserably from incapacity--ineptitude! Oh, yes, sir,
you are right--it is fatality!"

The minister quailed before this outburst of sarcasm. M. de Blacas wiped
the moisture from his brow. Villefort smiled within himself, for he felt
his increased importance.

"To fall," continued King Louis, who at the first glance had sounded the
abyss on which the monarchy hung suspended,--"to fall, and learn of that
fall by telegraph! Oh, I would rather mount the scaffold of my brother,
Louis XVI., than thus descend the staircase at the Tuileries driven away
by ridicule. Ridicule, sir--why, you know not its power in France, and
yet you ought to know it!"

"Sire, sire," murmured the minister, "for pity's"--

"Approach, M. de Villefort," resumed the king, addressing the young man,
who, motionless and breathless, was listening to a conversation on which
depended the destiny of a kingdom. "Approach, and tell monsieur that it
is possible to know beforehand all that he has not known."

"Sire, it was really impossible to learn secrets which that man
concealed from all the world."

"Really impossible! Yes--that is a great word, sir. Unfortunately, there
are great words, as there are great men; I have measured them. Really
impossible for a minister who has an office, agents, spies, and fifteen
hundred thousand francs for secret service money, to know what is going
on at sixty leagues from the coast of France! Well, then, see, here is a
gentleman who had none of these resources at his disposal--a gentleman,
only a simple magistrate, who learned more than you with all your
police, and who would have saved my crown, if, like you, he had the
power of directing a telegraph." The look of the minister of police was
turned with concentrated spite on Villefort, who bent his head in modest
triumph.

"I do not mean that for you, Blacas," continued Louis XVIII.; "for if
you have discovered nothing, at least you have had the good sense
to persevere in your suspicions. Any other than yourself would have
considered the disclosure of M. de Villefort insignificant, or else
dictated by venal ambition," These words were an allusion to the
sentiments which the minister of police had uttered with so much
confidence an hour before.

Villefort understood the king's intent. Any other person would, perhaps,
have been overcome by such an intoxicating draught of praise; but
he feared to make for himself a mortal enemy of the police minister,
although he saw that Dandre was irrevocably lost. In fact, the
minister, who, in the plenitude of his power, had been unable to unearth
Napoleon's secret, might in despair at his own downfall interrogate
Dantes and so lay bare the motives of Villefort's plot. Realizing this,
Villefort came to the rescue of the crest-fallen minister, instead of
aiding to crush him.

"Sire," said Villefort, "the suddenness of this event must prove to your
majesty that the issue is in the hands of Providence; what your majesty
is pleased to attribute to me as profound perspicacity is simply owing
to chance, and I have profited by that chance, like a good and devoted
servant--that's all. Do not attribute to me more than I deserve, sire,
that your majesty may never have occasion to recall the first opinion
you have been pleased to form of me." The minister of police thanked
the young man by an eloquent look, and Villefort understood that he had
succeeded in his design; that is to say, that without forfeiting the
gratitude of the king, he had made a friend of one on whom, in case of
necessity, he might rely.

"'Tis well," resumed the king. "And now, gentlemen," he continued,
turning towards M. de Blacas and the minister of police, "I have no
further occasion for you, and you may retire; what now remains to do is
in the department of the minister of war."

"Fortunately, sire," said M. de Blacas, "we can rely on the army; your
majesty knows how every report confirms their loyalty and attachment."

"Do not mention reports, duke, to me, for I know now what confidence to
place in them. Yet, speaking of reports, baron, what have you learned
with regard to the affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques?"

"The affair in the Rue Saint-Jacques!" exclaimed Villefort, unable to
repress an exclamation. Then, suddenly pausing, he added, "Your pardon,
sire, but my devotion to your majesty has made me forget, not the
respect I have, for that is too deeply engraved in my heart, but the
rules of etiquette."

"Go on, go on, sir," replied the king; "you have to-day earned the right
to make inquiries here."

"Sire," interposed the minister of police, "I came a moment ago to give
your majesty fresh information which I had obtained on this head, when
your majesty's attention was attracted by the terrible event that has
occurred in the gulf, and now these facts will cease to interest your
majesty."

"On the contrary, sir,--on the contrary," said Louis XVIII., "this
affair seems to me to have a decided connection with that which occupies
our attention, and the death of General Quesnel will, perhaps, put us on
the direct track of a great internal conspiracy." At the name of General
Quesnel, Villefort trembled.

"Everything points to the conclusion, sire," said the minister of
police, "that death was not the result of suicide, as we first believed,
but of assassination. General Quesnel, it appears, had just left a
Bonapartist club when he disappeared. An unknown person had been
with him that morning, and made an appointment with him in the Rue
Saint-Jacques; unfortunately, the general's valet, who was dressing
his hair at the moment when the stranger entered, heard the street
mentioned, but did not catch the number." As the police minister related
this to the king, Villefort, who looked as if his very life hung on the
speaker's lips, turned alternately red and pale. The king looked towards
him.

"Do you not think with me, M. de Villefort, that General Quesnel, whom
they believed attached to the usurper, but who was really entirely
devoted to me, has perished the victim of a Bonapartist ambush?"

"It is probable, sire," replied Villefort. "But is this all that is
known?"

"They are on the track of the man who appointed the meeting with him."

"On his track?" said Villefort.

"Yes, the servant has given his description. He is a man of from fifty
to fifty-two years of age, dark, with black eyes covered with shaggy
eyebrows, and a thick mustache. He was dressed in a blue frock-coat,
buttoned up to the chin, and wore at his button-hole the rosette of an
officer of the Legion of Honor. Yesterday a person exactly corresponding
with this description was followed, but he was lost sight of at the
corner of the Rue de la Jussienne and the Rue Coq-Heron." Villefort
leaned on the back of an arm-chair, for as the minister of police went
on speaking he felt his legs bend under him; but when he learned that
the unknown had escaped the vigilance of the agent who followed him, he
breathed again.

"Continue to seek for this man, sir," said the king to the minister of
police; "for if, as I am all but convinced, General Quesnel, who
would have been so useful to us at this moment, has been murdered, his
assassins, Bonapartists or not, shall be cruelly punished." It required
all Villefort's coolness not to betray the terror with which this
declaration of the king inspired him.

"How strange," continued the king, with some asperity; "the police think
that they have disposed of the whole matter when they say, 'A murder has
been committed,' and especially so when they can add, 'And we are on the
track of the guilty persons.'"

"Sire, your majesty will, I trust, be amply satisfied on this point at
least."

"We shall see. I will no longer detain you, M. de Villefort, for you
must be fatigued after so long a journey; go and rest. Of course you
stopped at your father's?" A feeling of faintness came over Villefort.

"No, sire," he replied, "I alighted at the Hotel de Madrid, in the Rue
de Tournon."

"But you have seen him?"

"Sire, I went straight to the Duc de Blacas."

"But you will see him, then?"

"I think not, sire."

"Ah, I forgot," said Louis, smiling in a manner which proved that all
these questions were not made without a motive; "I forgot you and
M. Noirtier are not on the best terms possible, and that is another
sacrifice made to the royal cause, and for which you should be
recompensed."

"Sire, the kindness your majesty deigns to evince towards me is a
recompense which so far surpasses my utmost ambition that I have nothing
more to ask for."

"Never mind, sir, we will not forget you; make your mind easy. In the
meanwhile" (the king here detached the cross of the Legion of Honor
which he usually wore over his blue coat, near the cross of St. Louis,
above the order of Notre-Dame-du-Mont-Carmel and St. Lazare, and gave it
to Villefort)--"in the meanwhile take this cross."

"Sire," said Villefort, "your majesty mistakes; this is an officer's
cross."

"Ma foi," said Louis XVIII., "take it, such as it is, for I have not the
time to procure you another. Blacas, let it be your care to see that the
brevet is made out and sent to M. de Villefort." Villefort's eyes were
filled with tears of joy and pride; he took the cross and kissed it.

"And now," he said, "may I inquire what are the orders with which your
majesty deigns to honor me?"

"Take what rest you require, and remember that if you are not able to
serve me here in Paris, you may be of the greatest service to me at
Marseilles."

"Sire," replied Villefort, bowing, "in an hour I shall have quitted
Paris."

"Go, sir," said the king; "and should I forget you (kings' memories are
short), do not be afraid to bring yourself to my recollection. Baron,
send for the minister of war. Blacas, remain."

"Ah, sir," said the minister of police to Villefort, as they left the
Tuileries, "you entered by luck's door--your fortune is made."

"Will it be long first?" muttered Villefort, saluting the minister,
whose career was ended, and looking about him for a hackney-coach.
One passed at the moment, which he hailed; he gave his address to the
driver, and springing in, threw himself on the seat, and gave loose to
dreams of ambition.

Ten minutes afterwards Villefort reached his hotel, ordered horses to be
ready in two hours, and asked to have his breakfast brought to him. He
was about to begin his repast when the sound of the bell rang sharp and
loud. The valet opened the door, and Villefort heard some one speak his
name.

"Who could know that I was here already?" said the young man. The valet
entered.

"Well," said Villefort, "what is it?--Who rang?--Who asked for me?"

"A stranger who will not send in his name."

"A stranger who will not send in his name! What can he want with me?"

"He wishes to speak to you."

"To me?"

"Yes."

"Did he mention my name?"

"Yes."

"What sort of person is he?"

"Why, sir, a man of about fifty."

"Short or tall?"

"About your own height, sir."

"Dark or fair?"

"Dark,--very dark; with black eyes, black hair, black eyebrows."

"And how dressed?" asked Villefort quickly.

"In a blue frock-coat, buttoned up close, decorated with the Legion of
Honor."

"It is he!" said Villefort, turning pale.

"Eh, pardieu," said the individual whose description we have twice
given, entering the door, "what a great deal of ceremony! Is it the
custom in Marseilles for sons to keep their fathers waiting in their
anterooms?"

"Father!" cried Villefort, "then I was not deceived; I felt sure it must
be you."

"Well, then, if you felt so sure," replied the new-comer, putting his
cane in a corner and his hat on a chair, "allow me to say, my dear
Gerard, that it was not very filial of you to keep me waiting at the
door."

"Leave us, Germain," said Villefort. The servant quitted the apartment
with evident signs of astonishment.

Chapter 12. Father and Son.

M. Noirtier--for it was, indeed, he who entered--looked after the
servant until the door was closed, and then, fearing, no doubt, that he
might be overheard in the ante-chamber, he opened the door again,
nor was the precaution useless, as appeared from the rapid retreat of
Germain, who proved that he was not exempt from the sin which ruined our
first parents. M. Noirtier then took the trouble to close and bolt the
ante-chamber door, then that of the bed-chamber, and then extended his
hand to Villefort, who had followed all his motions with surprise which
he could not conceal.

"Well, now, my dear Gerard," said he to the young man, with a very
significant look, "do you know, you seem as if you were not very glad to
see me?"

"My dear father," said Villefort, "I am, on the contrary, delighted; but
I so little expected your visit, that it has somewhat overcome me."

"But, my dear fellow," replied M. Noirtier, seating himself, "I might
say the same thing to you, when you announce to me your wedding for the
28th of February, and on the 3rd of March you turn up here in Paris."

"And if I have come, my dear father," said Gerard, drawing closer to
M. Noirtier, "do not complain, for it is for you that I came, and my
journey will be your salvation."

"Ah, indeed!" said M. Noirtier, stretching himself out at his ease
in the chair. "Really, pray tell me all about it, for it must be
interesting."

"Father, you have heard speak of a certain Bonapartist club in the Rue
Saint-Jacques?"

"No. 53; yes, I am vice-president."

"Father, your coolness makes me shudder."

"Why, my dear boy, when a man has been proscribed by the mountaineers,
has escaped from Paris in a hay-cart, been hunted over the plains of
Bordeaux by Robespierre's bloodhounds, he becomes accustomed to most
things. But go on, what about the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques?"

"Why, they induced General Quesnel to go there, and General Quesnel, who
quitted his own house at nine o'clock in the evening, was found the next
day in the Seine."

"And who told you this fine story?"

"The king himself."

"Well, then, in return for your story," continued Noirtier, "I will tell
you another."

"My dear father, I think I already know what you are about to tell me."

"Ah, you have heard of the landing of the emperor?"

"Not so loud, father, I entreat of you--for your own sake as well as
mine. Yes, I heard this news, and knew it even before you could; for
three days ago I posted from Marseilles to Paris with all possible
speed, half-desperate at the enforced delay."

"Three days ago? You are crazy. Why, three days ago the emperor had not
landed."

"No matter, I was aware of his intention."

"How did you know about it?"

"By a letter addressed to you from the Island of Elba."

"To me?"

"To you; and which I discovered in the pocket-book of the messenger. Had
that letter fallen into the hands of another, you, my dear father, would
probably ere this have been shot." Villefort's father laughed.

"Come, come," said he, "will the Restoration adopt imperial methods so
promptly? Shot, my dear boy? What an idea! Where is the letter you speak
of? I know you too well to suppose you would allow such a thing to pass
you."

"I burnt it, for fear that even a fragment should remain; for that
letter must have led to your condemnation."

"And the destruction of your future prospects," replied Noirtier; "yes,
I can easily comprehend that. But I have nothing to fear while I have
you to protect me."

"I do better than that, sir--I save you."

"You do? Why, really, the thing becomes more and more dramatic--explain
yourself."

"I must refer again to the club in the Rue Saint-Jacques."

"It appears that this club is rather a bore to the police. Why didn't
they search more vigilantly? they would have found"--

"They have not found; but they are on the track."

"Yes, that the usual phrase; I am quite familiar with it. When the
police is at fault, it declares that it is on the track; and the
government patiently awaits the day when it comes to say, with a
sneaking air, that the track is lost."

"Yes, but they have found a corpse; the general has been killed, and in
all countries they call that a murder."

"A murder do you call it? why, there is nothing to prove that the
general was murdered. People are found every day in the Seine, having
thrown themselves in, or having been drowned from not knowing how to
swim."

"Father, you know very well that the general was not a man to drown
himself in despair, and people do not bathe in the Seine in the month of
January. No, no, do not be deceived; this was murder in every sense of
the word."

"And who thus designated it?"

"The king himself."

"The king! I thought he was philosopher enough to allow that there was
no murder in politics. In politics, my dear fellow, you know, as well
as I do, there are no men, but ideas--no feelings, but interests; in
politics we do not kill a man, we only remove an obstacle, that is all.
Would you like to know how matters have progressed? Well, I will tell
you. It was thought reliance might be placed in General Quesnel; he was
recommended to us from the Island of Elba; one of us went to him, and
invited him to the Rue Saint-Jacques, where he would find some friends.
He came there, and the plan was unfolded to him for leaving Elba, the
projected landing, etc. When he had heard and comprehended all to the
fullest extent, he replied that he was a royalist. Then all looked at
each other,--he was made to take an oath, and did so, but with such an
ill grace that it was really tempting Providence to swear him, and yet,
in spite of that, the general was allowed to depart free--perfectly
free. Yet he did not return home. What could that mean? why, my dear
fellow, that on leaving us he lost his way, that's all. A murder?
really, Villefort, you surprise me. You, a deputy procureur, to found
an accusation on such bad premises! Did I ever say to you, when you were
fulfilling your character as a royalist, and cut off the head of one of
my party, 'My son, you have committed a murder?' No, I said, 'Very well,
sir, you have gained the victory; to-morrow, perchance, it will be our
turn.'"

"But, father, take care; when our turn comes, our revenge will be
sweeping."

"I do not understand you."

"You rely on the usurper's return?"

"We do."

"You are mistaken; he will not advance two leagues into the interior of
France without being followed, tracked, and caught like a wild beast."

"My dear fellow, the emperor is at this moment on the way to Grenoble;
on the 10th or 12th he will be at Lyons, and on the 20th or 25th at
Paris."

"The people will rise."

"Yes, to go and meet him."

"He has but a handful of men with him, and armies will be despatched
against him."

"Yes, to escort him into the capital. Really, my dear Gerard, you are
but a child; you think yourself well informed because the telegraph
has told you, three days after the landing, 'The usurper has landed at
Cannes with several men. He is pursued.' But where is he? what is he
doing? You do not know at all, and in this way they will chase him to
Paris, without drawing a trigger."

"Grenoble and Lyons are faithful cities, and will oppose to him an
impassable barrier."

"Grenoble will open her gates to him with enthusiasm--all Lyons will
hasten to welcome him. Believe me, we are as well informed as you, and
our police are as good as your own. Would you like a proof of it? well,
you wished to conceal your journey from me, and yet I knew of your
arrival half an hour after you had passed the barrier. You gave your
direction to no one but your postilion, yet I have your address, and in
proof I am here the very instant you are going to sit at table. Ring,
then, if you please, for a second knife, fork, and plate, and we will
dine together."

"Indeed!" replied Villefort, looking at his father with astonishment,
"you really do seem very well informed."

"Eh? the thing is simple enough. You who are in power have only the
means that money produces--we who are in expectation, have those which
devotion prompts."

"Devotion!" said Villefort, with a sneer.

"Yes, devotion; for that is, I believe, the phrase for hopeful
ambition."

And Villefort's father extended his hand to the bell-rope, to summon the
servant whom his son had not called. Villefort caught his arm.

"Wait, my dear father," said the young man, "one word more."

"Say on."

"However stupid the royalist police may be, they do know one terrible
thing."

"What is that?"

"The description of the man who, on the morning of the day when General
Quesnel disappeared, presented himself at his house."

"Oh, the admirable police have found that out, have they? And what may
be that description?"

"Dark complexion; hair, eyebrows, and whiskers, black; blue frock-coat,
buttoned up to the chin; rosette of an officer of the Legion of Honor in
his button-hole; a hat with wide brim, and a cane."

"Ah, ha, that's it, is it?" said Noirtier; "and why, then, have they not
laid hands on him?"

"Because yesterday, or the day before, they lost sight of him at the
corner of the Rue Coq-Heron."

"Didn't I say that your police were good for nothing?"

"Yes; but they may catch him yet."

"True," said Noirtier, looking carelessly around him, "true, if this
person were not on his guard, as he is;" and he added with a smile, "He
will consequently make a few changes in his personal appearance." At
these words he rose, and put off his frock-coat and cravat, went towards
a table on which lay his son's toilet articles, lathered his face,
took a razor, and, with a firm hand, cut off the compromising whiskers.
Villefort watched him with alarm not devoid of admiration.

His whiskers cut off, Noirtier gave another turn to his hair; took,
instead of his black cravat, a colored neckerchief which lay at the top
of an open portmanteau; put on, in lieu of his blue and high-buttoned
frock-coat, a coat of Villefort's of dark brown, and cut away in front;
tried on before the glass a narrow-brimmed hat of his son's, which
appeared to fit him perfectly, and, leaving his cane in the corner where
he had deposited it, he took up a small bamboo switch, cut the air with
it once or twice, and walked about with that easy swagger which was one
of his principal characteristics.

"Well," he said, turning towards his wondering son, when this disguise
was completed, "well, do you think your police will recognize me now."

"No, father," stammered Villefort; "at least, I hope not."

"And now, my dear boy," continued Noirtier, "I rely on your prudence to
remove all the things which I leave in your care."

"Oh, rely on me," said Villefort.

"Yes, yes; and now I believe you are right, and that you have really
saved my life; be assured I will return the favor hereafter." Villefort
shook his head.

"You are not convinced yet?"

"I hope at least, that you may be mistaken."

"Shall you see the king again?"

"Perhaps."

"Would you pass in his eyes for a prophet?"

"Prophets of evil are not in favor at the court, father."

"True, but some day they do them justice; and supposing a second
restoration, you would then pass for a great man."

"Well, what should I say to the king?"

"Say this to him: 'Sire, you are deceived as to the feeling in France,
as to the opinions of the towns, and the prejudices of the army; he
whom in Paris you call the Corsican ogre, who at Nevers is styled
the usurper, is already saluted as Bonaparte at Lyons, and emperor at
Grenoble. You think he is tracked, pursued, captured; he is advancing
as rapidly as his own eagles. The soldiers you believe to be dying with
hunger, worn out with fatigue, ready to desert, gather like atoms of
snow about the rolling ball as it hastens onward. Sire, go, leave France
to its real master, to him who acquired it, not by purchase, but by
right of conquest; go, sire, not that you incur any risk, for your
adversary is powerful enough to show you mercy, but because it would be
humiliating for a grandson of Saint Louis to owe his life to the man of
Arcola, Marengo, Austerlitz.' Tell him this, Gerard; or, rather, tell
him nothing. Keep your journey a secret; do not boast of what you
have come to Paris to do, or have done; return with all speed; enter
Marseilles at night, and your house by the back-door, and there remain,
quiet, submissive, secret, and, above all, inoffensive; for this time, I
swear to you, we shall act like powerful men who know their enemies. Go,
my son--go, my dear Gerard, and by your obedience to my paternal orders,
or, if you prefer it, friendly counsels, we will keep you in your place.
This will be," added Noirtier, with a smile, "one means by which you
may a second time save me, if the political balance should some day take
another turn, and cast you aloft while hurling me down. Adieu, my dear
Gerard, and at your next journey alight at my door." Noirtier left the
room when he had finished, with the same calmness that had characterized
him during the whole of this remarkable and trying conversation.
Villefort, pale and agitated, ran to the window, put aside the curtain,
and saw him pass, cool and collected, by two or three ill-looking men at
the corner of the street, who were there, perhaps, to arrest a man with
black whiskers, and a blue frock-coat, and hat with broad brim.

Villefort stood watching, breathless, until his father had disappeared
at the Rue Bussy. Then he turned to the various articles he had left
behind him, put the black cravat and blue frock-coat at the bottom of
the portmanteau, threw the hat into a dark closet, broke the cane into
small bits and flung it in the fire, put on his travelling-cap, and
calling his valet, checked with a look the thousand questions he was
ready to ask, paid his bill, sprang into his carriage, which was ready,
learned at Lyons that Bonaparte had entered Grenoble, and in the
midst of the tumult which prevailed along the road, at length reached
Marseilles, a prey to all the hopes and fears which enter into the heart
of man with ambition and its first successes.

Chapter 13. The Hundred Days.

M. Noirtier was a true prophet, and things progressed rapidly, as he had
predicted. Every one knows the history of the famous return from Elba,
a return which was unprecedented in the past, and will probably remain
without a counterpart in the future.

Louis XVIII. made but a faint attempt to parry this unexpected blow;
the monarchy he had scarcely reconstructed tottered on its precarious
foundation, and at a sign from the emperor the incongruous structure
of ancient prejudices and new ideas fell to the ground. Villefort,
therefore, gained nothing save the king's gratitude (which was rather
likely to injure him at the present time) and the cross of the Legion of
Honor, which he had the prudence not to wear, although M. de Blacas had
duly forwarded the brevet.

Napoleon would, doubtless, have deprived Villefort of his office had
it not been for Noirtier, who was all powerful at court, and thus the
Girondin of '93 and the Senator of 1806 protected him who so lately
had been his protector. All Villefort's influence barely enabled him to
stifle the secret Dantes had so nearly divulged. The king's procureur
alone was deprived of his office, being suspected of royalism.

However, scarcely was the imperial power established--that is, scarcely
had the emperor re-entered the Tuileries and begun to issue orders from
the closet into which we have introduced our readers,--he found on the
table there Louis XVIII.'s half-filled snuff-box,--scarcely had this
occurred when Marseilles began, in spite of the authorities, to rekindle
the flames of civil war, always smouldering in the south, and it
required but little to excite the populace to acts of far greater
violence than the shouts and insults with which they assailed the
royalists whenever they ventured abroad.

Owing to this change, the worthy shipowner became at that moment--we
will not say all powerful, because Morrel was a prudent and rather
a timid man, so much so, that many of the most zealous partisans of
Bonaparte accused him of "moderation"--but sufficiently influential to
make a demand in favor of Dantes.

Villefort retained his place, but his marriage was put off until a more
favorable opportunity. If the emperor remained on the throne, Gerard
required a different alliance to aid his career; if Louis XVIII.
returned, the influence of M. de Saint-Meran, like his own, could
be vastly increased, and the marriage be still more suitable. The
deputy-procureur was, therefore, the first magistrate of Marseilles,
when one morning his door opened, and M. Morrel was announced.

Any one else would have hastened to receive him; but Villefort was a man
of ability, and he knew this would be a sign of weakness. He made Morrel
wait in the ante-chamber, although he had no one with him, for the
simple reason that the king's procureur always makes every one wait, and
after passing a quarter of an hour in reading the papers, he ordered M.
Morrel to be admitted.

Morrel expected Villefort would be dejected; he found him as he had
found him six weeks before, calm, firm, and full of that glacial
politeness, that most insurmountable barrier which separates the
well-bred from the vulgar man.

He had entered Villefort's office expecting that the magistrate would
tremble at the sight of him; on the contrary, he felt a cold shudder all
over him when he saw Villefort sitting there with his elbow on his desk,
and his head leaning on his hand. He stopped at the door; Villefort
gazed at him as if he had some difficulty in recognizing him; then,
after a brief interval, during which the honest shipowner turned his hat
in his hands,--

"M. Morrel, I believe?" said Villefort.

"Yes, sir."

"Come nearer," said the magistrate, with a patronizing wave of the hand,
"and tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of this visit."

"Do you not guess, monsieur?" asked Morrel.

"Not in the least; but if I can serve you in any way I shall be
delighted."

"Everything depends on you."

"Explain yourself, pray."

"Monsieur," said Morrel, recovering his assurance as he proceeded, "do
you recollect that a few days before the landing of his majesty the
emperor, I came to intercede for a young man, the mate of my ship, who
was accused of being concerned in correspondence with the Island of
Elba? What was the other day a crime is to-day a title to favor. You
then served Louis XVIII., and you did not show any favor--it was your
duty; to-day you serve Napoleon, and you ought to protect him--it is
equally your duty; I come, therefore, to ask what has become of him?"

Villefort by a strong effort sought to control himself. "What is his
name?" said he. "Tell me his name."

"Edmond Dantes."

Villefort would probably have rather stood opposite the muzzle of a
pistol at five-and-twenty paces than have heard this name spoken; but he
did not blanch.

"Dantes," repeated he, "Edmond Dantes."

"Yes, monsieur." Villefort opened a large register, then went to a
table, from the table turned to his registers, and then, turning to
Morrel,--

"Are you quite sure you are not mistaken, monsieur?" said he, in the
most natural tone in the world.

Had Morrel been a more quick-sighted man, or better versed in these
matters, he would have been surprised at the king's procureur answering
him on such a subject, instead of referring him to the governors of the
prison or the prefect of the department. But Morrel, disappointed in
his expectations of exciting fear, was conscious only of the other's
condescension. Villefort had calculated rightly.

"No," said Morrel; "I am not mistaken. I have known him for ten years,
the last four of which he was in my service. Do not you recollect, I
came about six weeks ago to plead for clemency, as I come to-day to
plead for justice. You received me very coldly. Oh, the royalists were
very severe with the Bonapartists in those days."

"Monsieur," returned Villefort, "I was then a royalist, because I
believed the Bourbons not only the heirs to the throne, but the chosen
of the nation. The miraculous return of Napoleon has conquered me, the
legitimate monarch is he who is loved by his people."

"That's right!" cried Morrel. "I like to hear you speak thus, and I
augur well for Edmond from it."

"Wait a moment," said Villefort, turning over the leaves of a register;
"I have it--a sailor, who was about to marry a young Catalan girl. I
recollect now; it was a very serious charge."

"How so?"

"You know that when he left here he was taken to the Palais de Justice."

"Well?"

"I made my report to the authorities at Paris, and a week after he was
carried off."

"Carried off!" said Morrel. "What can they have done with him?"

"Oh, he has been taken to Fenestrelles, to Pignerol, or to the
Sainte-Marguerite islands. Some fine morning he will return to take
command of your vessel."

"Come when he will, it shall be kept for him. But how is it he is not
already returned? It seems to me the first care of government should be
to set at liberty those who have suffered for their adherence to it."

"Do not be too hasty, M. Morrel," replied Villefort. "The order of
imprisonment came from high authority, and the order for his liberation
must proceed from the same source; and, as Napoleon has scarcely been
reinstated a fortnight, the letters have not yet been forwarded."

"But," said Morrel, "is there no way of expediting all these
formalities--of releasing him from arrest?"

"There has been no arrest."

"How?"

"It is sometimes essential to government to cause a man's disappearance
without leaving any traces, so that no written forms or documents may
defeat their wishes."

"It might be so under the Bourbons, but at present"--

"It has always been so, my dear Morrel, since the reign of Louis XIV.
The emperor is more strict in prison discipline than even Louis himself,
and the number of prisoners whose names are not on the register is
incalculable." Had Morrel even any suspicions, so much kindness would
have dispelled them.

"Well, M. de Villefort, how would you advise me to act?" asked he.

"Petition the minister."

"Oh, I know what that is; the minister receives two hundred petitions
every day, and does not read three."

"That is true; but he will read a petition countersigned and presented
by me."

"And will you undertake to deliver it?"

"With the greatest pleasure. Dantes was then guilty, and now he is
innocent, and it is as much my duty to free him as it was to condemn
him." Villefort thus forestalled any danger of an inquiry, which,
however improbable it might be, if it did take place would leave him
defenceless.

"But how shall I address the minister?"

"Sit down there," said Villefort, giving up his place to Morrel, "and
write what I dictate."

"Will you be so good?"

"Certainly. But lose no time; we have lost too much already."

"That is true. Only think what the poor fellow may even now be
suffering." Villefort shuddered at the suggestion; but he had gone
too far to draw back. Dantes must be crushed to gratify Villefort's
ambition.

Villefort dictated a petition, in which, from an excellent intention, no
doubt, Dantes' patriotic services were exaggerated, and he was made out
one of the most active agents of Napoleon's return. It was evident that
at the sight of this document the minister would instantly release him.
The petition finished, Villefort read it aloud.

"That will do," said he; "leave the rest to me."

"Will the petition go soon?"

"To-day."

"Countersigned by you?"

"The best thing I can do will be to certify the truth of the contents
of your petition." And, sitting down, Villefort wrote the certificate at
the bottom.

"What more is to be done?"

"I will do whatever is necessary." This assurance delighted Morrel, who
took leave of Villefort, and hastened to announce to old Dantes that he
would soon see his son.

As for Villefort, instead of sending to Paris, he carefully preserved
the petition that so fearfully compromised Dantes, in the hopes of an
event that seemed not unlikely,--that is, a second restoration. Dantes
remained a prisoner, and heard not the noise of the fall of Louis
XVIII.'s throne, or the still more tragic destruction of the empire.

Twice during the Hundred Days had Morrel renewed his demand, and twice
had Villefort soothed him with promises. At last there was Waterloo,
and Morrel came no more; he had done all that was in his power, and any
fresh attempt would only compromise himself uselessly.

Louis XVIII. remounted the throne; Villefort, to whom Marseilles
had become filled with remorseful memories, sought and obtained the
situation of king's procureur at Toulouse, and a fortnight afterwards
he married Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran, whose father now stood higher at
court than ever.

And so Dantes, after the Hundred Days and after Waterloo, remained in
his dungeon, forgotten of earth and heaven. Danglars comprehended the
full extent of the wretched fate that overwhelmed Dantes; and, when
Napoleon returned to France, he, after the manner of mediocre minds,
termed the coincidence, "a decree of Providence." But when Napoleon
returned to Paris, Danglars' heart failed him, and he lived in constant
fear of Dantes' return on a mission of vengeance. He therefore informed
M. Morrel of his wish to quit the sea, and obtained a recommendation
from him to a Spanish merchant, into whose service he entered at the end
of March, that is, ten or twelve days after Napoleon's return. He then
left for Madrid, and was no more heard of.

Fernand understood nothing except that Dantes was absent. What had
become of him he cared not to inquire. Only, during the respite the
absence of his rival afforded him, he reflected, partly on the means of
deceiving Mercedes as to the cause of his absence, partly on plans of
emigration and abduction, as from time to time he sat sad and motionless
on the summit of Cape Pharo, at the spot from whence Marseilles and
the Catalans are visible, watching for the apparition of a young and
handsome man, who was for him also the messenger of vengeance. Fernand's
mind was made up; he would shoot Dantes, and then kill himself. But
Fernand was mistaken; a man of his disposition never kills himself, for
he constantly hopes.

During this time the empire made its last conscription, and every man
in France capable of bearing arms rushed to obey the summons of the
emperor. Fernand departed with the rest, bearing with him the terrible
thought that while he was away, his rival would perhaps return and marry
Mercedes. Had Fernand really meant to kill himself, he would have done
so when he parted from Mercedes. His devotion, and the compassion he
showed for her misfortunes, produced the effect they always produce on
noble minds--Mercedes had always had a sincere regard for Fernand, and
this was now strengthened by gratitude.

"My brother," said she as she placed his knapsack on his shoulders,
"be careful of yourself, for if you are killed, I shall be alone in the
world." These words carried a ray of hope into Fernand's heart. Should
Dantes not return, Mercedes might one day be his.

Mercedes was left alone face to face with the vast plain that had never
seemed so barren, and the sea that had never seemed so vast. Bathed in
tears she wandered about the Catalan village. Sometimes she stood mute
and motionless as a statue, looking towards Marseilles, at other times
gazing on the sea, and debating as to whether it were not better to cast
herself into the abyss of the ocean, and thus end her woes. It was
not want of courage that prevented her putting this resolution into
execution; but her religious feelings came to her aid and saved her.
Caderousse was, like Fernand, enrolled in the army, but, being married
and eight years older, he was merely sent to the frontier. Old Dantes,
who was only sustained by hope, lost all hope at Napoleon's downfall.
Five months after he had been separated from his son, and almost at the
hour of his arrest, he breathed his last in Mercedes' arms. M. Morrel
paid the expenses of his funeral, and a few small debts the poor old man
had contracted.

There was more than benevolence in this action; there was courage; the
south was aflame, and to assist, even on his death-bed, the father of so
dangerous a Bonapartist as Dantes, was stigmatized as a crime.

Chapter 14. The Two Prisoners.

A year after Louis XVIII.'s restoration, a visit was made by the
inspector-general of prisons. Dantes in his cell heard the noise of
preparation,--sounds that at the depth where he lay would have been
inaudible to any but the ear of a prisoner, who could hear the splash of
the drop of water that every hour fell from the roof of his dungeon. He
guessed something uncommon was passing among the living; but he had so
long ceased to have any intercourse with the world, that he looked upon
himself as dead.

The inspector visited, one after another, the cells and dungeons of
several of the prisoners, whose good behavior or stupidity recommended
them to the clemency of the government. He inquired how they were fed,
and if they had any request to make. The universal response was, that
the fare was detestable, and that they wanted to be set free.

The inspector asked if they had anything else to ask for. They shook
their heads. What could they desire beyond their liberty? The inspector
turned smilingly to the governor.

"I do not know what reason government can assign for these useless
visits; when you see one prisoner, you see all,--always the same
thing,--ill fed and innocent. Are there any others?"

"Yes; the dangerous and mad prisoners are in the dungeons."

"Let us visit them," said the inspector with an air of fatigue. "We must
play the farce to the end. Let us see the dungeons."

"Let us first send for two soldiers," said the governor. "The prisoners
sometimes, through mere uneasiness of life, and in order to be sentenced
to death, commit acts of useless violence, and you might fall a victim."

"Take all needful precautions," replied the inspector.

Two soldiers were accordingly sent for, and the inspector descended
a stairway, so foul, so humid, so dark, as to be loathsome to sight,
smell, and respiration.

"Oh," cried the inspector, "who can live here?"

"A most dangerous conspirator, a man we are ordered to keep the most
strict watch over, as he is daring and resolute."

"He is alone?"

"Certainly."

"How long has he been there?"

"Nearly a year."

"Was he placed here when he first arrived?"

"No; not until he attempted to kill the turnkey, who took his food to
him."

"To kill the turnkey?"

"Yes, the very one who is lighting us. Is it not true, Antoine?" asked
the governor.

"True enough; he wanted to kill me!" returned the turnkey.

"He must be mad," said the inspector.

"He is worse than that,--he is a devil!" returned the turnkey.

"Shall I complain of him?" demanded the inspector.

"Oh, no; it is useless. Besides, he is almost mad now, and in another
year he will be quite so."

"So much the better for him,--he will suffer less," said the inspector.
He was, as this remark shows, a man full of philanthropy, and in every
way fit for his office.

"You are right, sir," replied the governor; "and this remark proves that
you have deeply considered the subject. Now we have in a dungeon about
twenty feet distant, and to which you descend by another stair, an abbe,
formerly leader of a party in Italy, who has been here since 1811, and
in 1813 he went mad, and the change is astonishing. He used to weep, he
now laughs; he grew thin, he now grows fat. You had better see him, for
his madness is amusing."

"I will see them both," returned the inspector; "I must conscientiously
perform my duty." This was the inspector's first visit; he wished to
display his authority.

"Let us visit this one first," added he.

"By all means," replied the governor, and he signed to the turnkey to
open the door. At the sound of the key turning in the lock, and the
creaking of the hinges, Dantes, who was crouched in a corner of the
dungeon, whence he could see the ray of light that came through a narrow
iron grating above, raised his head. Seeing a stranger, escorted by two
turnkeys holding torches and accompanied by two soldiers, and to whom
the governor spoke bareheaded, Dantes, who guessed the truth, and that
the moment to address himself to the superior authorities was come,
sprang forward with clasped hands.

The soldiers interposed their bayonets, for they thought that he was
about to attack the inspector, and the latter recoiled two or three
steps. Dantes saw that he was looked upon as dangerous. Then, infusing
all the humility he possessed into his eyes and voice, he addressed the
inspector, and sought to inspire him with pity.

The inspector listened attentively; then, turning to the governor,
observed, "He will become religious--he is already more gentle; he is
afraid, and retreated before the bayonets--madmen are not afraid of
anything; I made some curious observations on this at Charenton." Then,
turning to the prisoner, "What is it you want?" said he.

"I want to know what crime I have committed--to be tried; and if I am
guilty, to be shot; if innocent, to be set at liberty."

"Are you well fed?" said the inspector.

"I believe so; I don't know; it's of no consequence. What matters
really, not only to me, but to officers of justice and the king, is that
an innocent man should languish in prison, the victim of an infamous
denunciation, to die here cursing his executioners."

"You are very humble to-day," remarked the governor; "you are not
so always; the other day, for instance, when you tried to kill the
turnkey."

"It is true, sir, and I beg his pardon, for he his always been very good
to me, but I was mad."

"And you are not so any longer?"

"No; captivity has subdued me--I have been here so long."

"So long?--when were you arrested, then?" asked the inspector.

"The 28th of February, 1815, at half-past two in the afternoon."

"To-day is the 30th of July, 1816,--why it is but seventeen months."

"Only seventeen months," replied Dantes. "Oh, you do not know what is
seventeen months in prison!--seventeen ages rather, especially to a man
who, like me, had arrived at the summit of his ambition--to a man, who,
like me, was on the point of marrying a woman he adored, who saw an
honorable career opened before him, and who loses all in an instant--who
sees his prospects destroyed, and is ignorant of the fate of his
affianced wife, and whether his aged father be still living! Seventeen
months captivity to a sailor accustomed to the boundless ocean, is a
worse punishment than human crime ever merited. Have pity on me,
then, and ask for me, not intelligence, but a trial; not pardon, but a
verdict--a trial, sir, I ask only for a trial; that, surely, cannot be
denied to one who is accused!"

"We shall see," said the inspector; then, turning to the governor, "On
my word, the poor devil touches me. You must show me the proofs against
him."

"Certainly; but you will find terrible charges."

"Monsieur," continued Dantes, "I know it is not in your power to release
me; but you can plead for me--you can have me tried--and that is all
I ask. Let me know my crime, and the reason why I was condemned.
Uncertainty is worse than all."

"Go on with the lights," said the inspector.

"Monsieur," cried Dantes, "I can tell by your voice you are touched with
pity; tell me at least to hope."

"I cannot tell you that," replied the inspector; "I can only promise to
examine into your case."

"Oh, I am free--then I am saved!"

"Who arrested you?"

"M. Villefort. See him, and hear what he says."

"M. Villefort is no longer at Marseilles; he is now at Toulouse."

"I am no longer surprised at my detention," murmured Dantes, "since my
only protector is removed."

"Had M. de Villefort any cause of personal dislike to you?"

"None; on the contrary, he was very kind to me."

"I can, then, rely on the notes he has left concerning you?"

"Entirely."

"That is well; wait patiently, then." Dantes fell on his knees, and
prayed earnestly. The door closed; but this time a fresh inmate was left
with Dantes--hope.

"Will you see the register at once," asked the governor, "or proceed to
the other cell?"

"Let us visit them all," said the inspector. "If I once went up those
stairs. I should never have the courage to come down again."

"Ah, this one is not like the other, and his madness is less affecting
than this one's display of reason."

"What is his folly?"

"He fancies he possesses an immense treasure. The first year he offered
government a million of francs for his release; the second, two; the
third, three; and so on progressively. He is now in his fifth year of
captivity; he will ask to speak to you in private, and offer you five
millions."

"How curious!--what is his name?"

"The Abbe Faria."

"No. 27," said the inspector.

"It is here; unlock the door, Antoine." The turnkey obeyed, and the
inspector gazed curiously into the chamber of the "mad abbe."

In the centre of the cell, in a circle traced with a fragment of plaster
detached from the wall, sat a man whose tattered garments scarcely
covered him. He was drawing in this circle geometrical lines, and seemed
as much absorbed in his problem as Archimedes was when the soldier of
Marcellus slew him.

He did not move at the sound of the door, and continued his calculations
until the flash of the torches lighted up with an unwonted glare the
sombre walls of his cell; then, raising his head, he perceived with
astonishment the number of persons present. He hastily seized the
coverlet of his bed, and wrapped it round him.

"What is it you want?" said the inspector.

"I, monsieur," replied the abbe with an air of surprise--"I want
nothing."

"You do not understand," continued the inspector; "I am sent here by
government to visit the prison, and hear the requests of the prisoners."

"Oh, that is different," cried the abbe; "and we shall understand each
other, I hope."

"There, now," whispered the governor, "it is just as I told you."

"Monsieur," continued the prisoner, "I am the Abbe Faria, born at Rome.
I was for twenty years Cardinal Spada's secretary; I was arrested, why,
I know not, toward the beginning of the year 1811; since then I have
demanded my liberty from the Italian and French government."

"Why from the French government?"

"Because I was arrested at Piombino, and I presume that, like Milan and
Florence, Piombino has become the capital of some French department."

"Ah," said the inspector, "you have not the latest news from Italy?"

"My information dates from the day on which I was arrested," returned
the Abbe Faria; "and as the emperor had created the kingdom of Rome for
his infant son, I presume that he has realized the dream of Machiavelli
and Caesar Borgia, which was to make Italy a united kingdom."

"Monsieur," returned the inspector, "providence has changed this
gigantic plan you advocate so warmly."

"It is the only means of rendering Italy strong, happy, and
independent."

"Very possibly; only I am not come to discuss politics, but to inquire
if you have anything to ask or to complain of."

"The food is the same as in other prisons,--that is, very bad; the
lodging is very unhealthful, but, on the whole, passable for a dungeon;
but it is not that which I wish to speak of, but a secret I have to
reveal of the greatest importance."

"We are coming to the point," whispered the governor.

"It is for that reason I am delighted to see you," continued the abbe,
"although you have disturbed me in a most important calculation, which,
if it succeeded, would possibly change Newton's system. Could you allow
me a few words in private."

"What did I tell you?" said the governor.

"You knew him," returned the inspector with a smile.

"What you ask is impossible, monsieur," continued he, addressing Faria.

"But," said the abbe, "I would speak to you of a large sum, amounting to
five millions."

"The very sum you named," whispered the inspector in his turn.

"However," continued Faria, seeing that the inspector was about to
depart, "it is not absolutely necessary for us to be alone; the governor
can be present."

"Unfortunately," said the governor, "I know beforehand what you are
about to say; it concerns your treasures, does it not?" Faria fixed his
eyes on him with an expression that would have convinced any one else of
his sanity.

"Of course," said he; "of what else should I speak?"

"Mr. Inspector," continued the governor, "I can tell you the story as
well as he, for it has been dinned in my ears for the last four or five
years."

"That proves," returned the abbe, "that you are like those of Holy Writ,
who having ears hear not, and having eyes see not."

"My dear sir, the government is rich and does not want your treasures,"
replied the inspector; "keep them until you are liberated." The abbe's
eyes glistened; he seized the inspector's hand.

"But what if I am not liberated," cried he, "and am detained here until
my death? this treasure will be lost. Had not government better profit
by it? I will offer six millions, and I will content myself with the
rest, if they will only give me my liberty."

"On my word," said the inspector in a low tone, "had I not been told
beforehand that this man was mad, I should believe what he says."

"I am not mad," replied Faria, with that acuteness of hearing peculiar
to prisoners. "The treasure I speak of really exists, and I offer to
sign an agreement with you, in which I promise to lead you to the spot
where you shall dig; and if I deceive you, bring me here again,--I ask
no more."

The governor laughed. "Is the spot far from here?"

"A hundred leagues."

"It is not ill-planned," said the governor. "If all the prisoners took
it into their heads to travel a hundred leagues, and their guardians
consented to accompany them, they would have a capital chance of
escaping."

"The scheme is well known," said the inspector; "and the abbe's plan has
not even the merit of originality."

Then turning to Faria--"I inquired if you are well fed?" said he.

"Swear to me," replied Faria, "to free me if what I tell you prove true,
and I will stay here while you go to the spot."

"Are you well fed?" repeated the inspector.

"Monsieur, you run no risk, for, as I told you, I will stay here; so
there is no chance of my escaping."

"You do not reply to my question," replied the inspector impatiently.

"Nor you to mine," cried the abbe. "You will not accept my gold; I will
keep it for myself. You refuse me my liberty; God will give it me." And
the abbe, casting away his coverlet, resumed his place, and continued
his calculations.

"What is he doing there?" said the inspector.

"Counting his treasures," replied the governor.

Faria replied to this sarcasm with a glance of profound contempt. They
went out. The turnkey closed the door behind them.

"He was wealthy once, perhaps?" said the inspector.

"Or dreamed he was, and awoke mad."

"After all," said the inspector, "if he had been rich, he would not have
been here." So the matter ended for the Abbe Faria. He remained in his
cell, and this visit only increased the belief in his insanity.

Caligula or Nero, those treasure-seekers, those desirers of the
impossible, would have accorded to the poor wretch, in exchange for his
wealth, the liberty he so earnestly prayed for. But the kings of modern
times, restrained by the limits of mere probability, have neither
courage nor desire. They fear the ear that hears their orders, and the
eye that scrutinizes their actions. Formerly they believed themselves
sprung from Jupiter, and shielded by their birth; but nowadays they are
not inviolable.

It has always been against the policy of despotic governments to suffer
the victims of their persecutions to reappear. As the Inquisition rarely
allowed its victims to be seen with their limbs distorted and their
flesh lacerated by torture, so madness is always concealed in its cell,
from whence, should it depart, it is conveyed to some gloomy hospital,
where the doctor has no thought for man or mind in the mutilated being
the jailer delivers to him. The very madness of the Abbe Faria, gone mad
in prison, condemned him to perpetual captivity.

The inspector kept his word with Dantes; he examined the register, and
found the following note concerning him:--

Edmond Dantes:

Violent Bonapartist; took an active part in the return from Elba.

The greatest watchfulness and care to be exercised.

This note was in a different hand from the rest, which showed that it
had been added since his confinement. The inspector could not contend
against this accusation; he simply wrote,--"Nothing to be done."

This visit had infused new vigor into Dantes; he had, till then,
forgotten the date; but now, with a fragment of plaster, he wrote the
date, 30th July, 1816, and made a mark every day, in order not to lose
his reckoning again. Days and weeks passed away, then months--Dantes
still waited; he at first expected to be freed in a fortnight. This
fortnight expired, he decided that the inspector would do nothing until
his return to Paris, and that he would not reach there until his circuit
was finished, he therefore fixed three months; three months passed
away, then six more. Finally ten months and a half had gone by and
no favorable change had taken place, and Dantes began to fancy the
inspector's visit but a dream, an illusion of the brain.

At the expiration of a year the governor was transferred; he had
obtained charge of the fortress at Ham. He took with him several of his
subordinates, and amongst them Dantes' jailer. A new governor arrived;
it would have been too tedious to acquire the names of the prisoners;
he learned their numbers instead. This horrible place contained fifty
cells; their inhabitants were designated by the numbers of their cell,
and the unhappy young man was no longer called Edmond Dantes--he was now
number 34.

Chapter 15. Number 34 and Number 27.

Dantes passed through all the stages of torture natural to prisoners in
suspense. He was sustained at first by that pride of conscious innocence
which is the sequence to hope; then he began to doubt his own innocence,
which justified in some measure the governor's belief in his mental
alienation; and then, relaxing his sentiment of pride, he addressed his
supplications, not to God, but to man. God is always the last resource.
Unfortunates, who ought to begin with God, do not have any hope in him
till they have exhausted all other means of deliverance.

Dantes asked to be removed from his present dungeon into another; for
a change, however disadvantageous, was still a change, and would afford
him some amusement. He entreated to be allowed to walk about, to have
fresh air, books, and writing materials. His requests were not granted,
but he went on asking all the same. He accustomed himself to speaking to
the new jailer, although the latter was, if possible, more taciturn
than the old one; but still, to speak to a man, even though mute, was
something. Dantes spoke for the sake of hearing his own voice; he had
tried to speak when alone, but the sound of his voice terrified him.
Often, before his captivity, Dantes' mind had revolted at the idea of
assemblages of prisoners, made up of thieves, vagabonds, and murderers.
He now wished to be amongst them, in order to see some other face
besides that of his jailer; he sighed for the galleys, with the infamous
costume, the chain, and the brand on the shoulder. The galley-slaves
breathed the fresh air of heaven, and saw each other. They were very
happy. He besought the jailer one day to let him have a companion, were
it even the mad abbe.

The jailer, though rough and hardened by the constant sight of so much
suffering, was yet a man. At the bottom of his heart he had often had a
feeling of pity for this unhappy young man who suffered so; and he laid
the request of number 34 before the governor; but the latter sapiently
imagined that Dantes wished to conspire or attempt an escape, and
refused his request. Dantes had exhausted all human resources, and he
then turned to God.

All the pious ideas that had been so long forgotten, returned; he
recollected the prayers his mother had taught him, and discovered a new
meaning in every word; for in prosperity prayers seem but a mere
medley of words, until misfortune comes and the unhappy sufferer first
understands the meaning of the sublime language in which he invokes the
pity of heaven! He prayed, and prayed aloud, no longer terrified at
the sound of his own voice, for he fell into a sort of ecstasy. He
laid every action of his life before the Almighty, proposed tasks to
accomplish, and at the end of every prayer introduced the entreaty
oftener addressed to man than to God: "Forgive us our trespasses as
we forgive them that trespass against us." Yet in spite of his earnest
prayers, Dantes remained a prisoner.

Then gloom settled heavily upon him. Dantes was a man of great
simplicity of thought, and without education; he could not, therefore,
in the solitude of his dungeon, traverse in mental vision the history of
the ages, bring to life the nations that had perished, and rebuild the
ancient cities so vast and stupendous in the light of the imagination,
and that pass before the eye glowing with celestial colors in Martin's
Babylonian pictures. He could not do this, he whose past life was so
short, whose present so melancholy, and his future so doubtful. Nineteen
years of light to reflect upon in eternal darkness! No distraction could
come to his aid; his energetic spirit, that would have exalted in thus
revisiting the past, was imprisoned like an eagle in a cage. He clung to
one idea--that of his happiness, destroyed, without apparent cause,
by an unheard-of fatality; he considered and reconsidered this idea,
devoured it (so to speak), as the implacable Ugolino devours the skull
of Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of Dante.

Rage supplanted religious fervor. Dantes uttered blasphemies that made
his jailer recoil with horror, dashed himself furiously against the
walls of his prison, wreaked his anger upon everything, and chiefly upon
himself, so that the least thing,--a grain of sand, a straw, or a breath
of air that annoyed him, led to paroxysms of fury. Then the letter that
Villefort had showed to him recurred to his mind, and every line gleamed
forth in fiery letters on the wall like the mene tekel upharsin of
Belshazzar. He told himself that it was the enmity of man, and not the
vengeance of heaven, that had thus plunged him into the deepest misery.
He consigned his unknown persecutors to the most horrible tortures he
could imagine, and found them all insufficient, because after torture
came death, and after death, if not repose, at least the boon of
unconsciousness.

By dint of constantly dwelling on the idea that tranquillity was death,
and if punishment were the end in view other tortures than death must be
invented, he began to reflect on suicide. Unhappy he, who, on the brink
of misfortune, broods over ideas like these!

Before him is a dead sea that stretches in azure calm before the eye;
but he who unwarily ventures within its embrace finds himself struggling
with a monster that would drag him down to perdition. Once thus
ensnared, unless the protecting hand of God snatch him thence, all is
over, and his struggles but tend to hasten his destruction. This state
of mental anguish is, however, less terrible than the sufferings that
precede or the punishment that possibly will follow. There is a sort of
consolation at the contemplation of the yawning abyss, at the bottom of
which lie darkness and obscurity.

Edmond found some solace in these ideas. All his sorrows, all his
sufferings, with their train of gloomy spectres, fled from his cell when
the angel of death seemed about to enter. Dantes reviewed his past
life with composure, and, looking forward with terror to his future
existence, chose that middle line that seemed to afford him a refuge.

"Sometimes," said he, "in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded
other men, I have seen the heavens overcast, the sea rage and foam, the
storm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, beating the two horizons with
its wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge, that trembled
and shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sight
of the sharp rocks announced the approach of death, and death then
terrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and a
sailor to struggle against the wrath of God. But I did so because I was
happy, because I had not courted death, because to be cast upon a bed
of rocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a
creature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the gulls
and ravens. But now it is different; I have lost all that bound me to
life, death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own manner,
I die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I have paced
three thousand times round my cell."

No sooner had this idea taken possession of him than he became more
composed, arranged his couch to the best of his power, ate little and
slept less, and found existence almost supportable, because he felt that
he could throw it off at pleasure, like a worn-out garment. Two methods
of self-destruction were at his disposal. He could hang himself with his
handkerchief to the window bars, or refuse food and die of starvation.
But the first was repugnant to him. Dantes had always entertained the
greatest horror of pirates, who are hung up to the yard-arm; he would
not die by what seemed an infamous death. He resolved to adopt the
second, and began that day to carry out his resolve. Nearly four years
had passed away; at the end of the second he had ceased to mark the
lapse of time.

Dantes said, "I wish to die," and had chosen the manner of his death,
and fearful of changing his mind, he had taken an oath to die. "When my
morning and evening meals are brought," thought he, "I will cast them
out of the window, and they will think that I have eaten them."

He kept his word; twice a day he cast out, through the barred aperture,
the provisions his jailer brought him--at first gayly, then with
deliberation, and at last with regret. Nothing but the recollection
of his oath gave him strength to proceed. Hunger made viands once
repugnant, now acceptable; he held the plate in his hand for an hour
at a time, and gazed thoughtfully at the morsel of bad meat, of tainted
fish, of black and mouldy bread. It was the last yearning for life
contending with the resolution of despair; then his dungeon seemed less
sombre, his prospects less desperate. He was still young--he was
only four or five and twenty--he had nearly fifty years to live. What
unforseen events might not open his prison door, and restore him to
liberty? Then he raised to his lips the repast that, like a voluntary
Tantalus, he refused himself; but he thought of his oath, and he
would not break it. He persisted until, at last, he had not sufficient
strength to rise and cast his supper out of the loophole. The next
morning he could not see or hear; the jailer feared he was dangerously
ill. Edmond hoped he was dying.

Thus the day passed away. Edmond felt a sort of stupor creeping over him
which brought with it a feeling almost of content; the gnawing pain at
his stomach had ceased; his thirst had abated; when he closed his eyes
he saw myriads of lights dancing before them like the will-o'-the-wisps
that play about the marshes. It was the twilight of that mysterious
country called Death!

Suddenly, about nine o'clock in the evening, Edmond heard a hollow sound
in the wall against which he was lying.

So many loathsome animals inhabited the prison, that their noise did
not, in general, awake him; but whether abstinence had quickened his
faculties, or whether the noise was really louder than usual, Edmond
raised his head and listened. It was a continual scratching, as if made
by a huge claw, a powerful tooth, or some iron instrument attacking the
stones.

Although weakened, the young man's brain instantly responded to the idea
that haunts all prisoners--liberty! It seemed to him that heaven had
at length taken pity on him, and had sent this noise to warn him on the
very brink of the abyss. Perhaps one of those beloved ones he had so
often thought of was thinking of him, and striving to diminish the
distance that separated them.

No, no, doubtless he was deceived, and it was but one of those dreams
that forerun death!

Edmond still heard the sound. It lasted nearly three hours; he then
heard a noise of something falling, and all was silent.

Some hours afterwards it began again, nearer and more distinct. Edmond
was intensely interested. Suddenly the jailer entered.

For a week since he had resolved to die, and during the four days that
he had been carrying out his purpose, Edmond had not spoken to the
attendant, had not answered him when he inquired what was the matter
with him, and turned his face to the wall when he looked too curiously
at him; but now the jailer might hear the noise and put an end to
it, and so destroy a ray of something like hope that soothed his last
moments.

The jailer brought him his breakfast. Dantes raised himself up and began
to talk about everything; about the bad quality of the food, about the
coldness of his dungeon, grumbling and complaining, in order to have an
excuse for speaking louder, and wearying the patience of his jailer,
who out of kindness of heart had brought broth and white bread for his
prisoner.

Fortunately, he fancied that Dantes was delirious; and placing the food
on the rickety table, he withdrew. Edmond listened, and the sound became
more and more distinct.

"There can be no doubt about it," thought he; "it is some prisoner who
is striving to obtain his freedom. Oh, if I were only there to help
him!" Suddenly another idea took possession of his mind, so used to
misfortune, that it was scarcely capable of hope--the idea that the
noise was made by workmen the governor had ordered to repair the
neighboring dungeon.

It was easy to ascertain this; but how could he risk the question? It
was easy to call his jailer's attention to the noise, and watch his
countenance as he listened; but might he not by this means destroy
hopes far more important than the short-lived satisfaction of his own
curiosity? Unfortunately, Edmond's brain was still so feeble that he
could not bend his thoughts to anything in particular.

He saw but one means of restoring lucidity and clearness to his
judgment. He turned his eyes towards the soup which the jailer had
brought, rose, staggered towards it, raised the vessel to his lips, and
drank off the contents with a feeling of indescribable pleasure. He had
often heard that shipwrecked persons had died through having eagerly
devoured too much food. Edmond replaced on the table the bread he was
about to devour, and returned to his couch--he did not wish to die. He
soon felt that his ideas became again collected--he could think, and
strengthen his thoughts by reasoning. Then he said to himself, "I must
put this to the test, but without compromising anybody. If it is a
workman, I need but knock against the wall, and he will cease to work,
in order to find out who is knocking, and why he does so; but as his
occupation is sanctioned by the governor, he will soon resume it. If, on
the contrary, it is a prisoner, the noise I make will alarm him, he will
cease, and not begin again until he thinks every one is asleep."

Edmond rose again, but this time his legs did not tremble, and his sight
was clear; he went to a corner of his dungeon, detached a stone, and
with it knocked against the wall where the sound came. He struck thrice.
At the first blow the sound ceased, as if by magic.

Edmond listened intently; an hour passed, two hours passed, and no sound
was heard from the wall--all was silent there.

Full of hope, Edmond swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread and water,
and, thanks to the vigor of his constitution, found himself well-nigh
recovered.

The day passed away in utter silence--night came without recurrence of
the noise.

"It is a prisoner," said Edmond joyfully. The night passed in perfect
silence. Edmond did not close his eyes.

In the morning the jailer brought him fresh provisions--he had already
devoured those of the previous day; he ate these listening anxiously for
the sound, walking round and round his cell, shaking the iron bars of
the loophole, restoring vigor and agility to his limbs by exercise, and
so preparing himself for his future destiny. At intervals he listened
to learn if the noise had not begun again, and grew impatient at the
prudence of the prisoner, who did not guess he had been disturbed by a
captive as anxious for liberty as himself.

Three days passed--seventy-two long tedious hours which he counted off
by minutes!

At length one evening, as the jailer was visiting him for the last time
that night, Dantes, with his ear for the hundredth time at the wall,
fancied he heard an almost imperceptible movement among the stones. He
moved away, walked up and down his cell to collect his thoughts, and
then went back and listened.

The matter was no longer doubtful. Something was at work on the other
side of the wall; the prisoner had discovered the danger, and had
substituted a lever for a chisel.

Encouraged by this discovery, Edmond determined to assist the
indefatigable laborer. He began by moving his bed, and looked around
for anything with which he could pierce the wall, penetrate the moist
cement, and displace a stone.

He saw nothing, he had no knife or sharp instrument, the window grating
was of iron, but he had too often assured himself of its solidity. All
his furniture consisted of a bed, a chair, a table, a pail, and a jug.
The bed had iron clamps, but they were screwed to the wood, and it would
have required a screw-driver to take them off. The table and chair
had nothing, the pail had once possessed a handle, but that had been
removed.

Dantes had but one resource, which was to break the jug, and with one of
the sharp fragments attack the wall. He let the jug fall on the floor,
and it broke in pieces.

Dantes concealed two or three of the sharpest fragments in his bed,
leaving the rest on the floor. The breaking of his jug was too natural
an accident to excite suspicion. Edmond had all the night to work in,
but in the darkness he could not do much, and he soon felt that he was
working against something very hard; he pushed back his bed, and waited
for day.

All night he heard the subterranean workman, who continued to mine his
way. Day came, the jailer entered. Dantes told him that the jug had
fallen from his hands while he was drinking, and the jailer went
grumblingly to fetch another, without giving himself the trouble to
remove the fragments of the broken one. He returned speedily, advised
the prisoner to be more careful, and departed.

Dantes heard joyfully the key grate in the lock; he listened until the
sound of steps died away, and then, hastily displacing his bed, saw
by the faint light that penetrated into his cell, that he had labored
uselessly the previous evening in attacking the stone instead of
removing the plaster that surrounded it.

The damp had rendered it friable, and Dantes was able to break it
off--in small morsels, it is true, but at the end of half an hour he had
scraped off a handful; a mathematician might have calculated that in
two years, supposing that the rock was not encountered, a passage twenty
feet long and two feet broad, might be formed.

The prisoner reproached himself with not having thus employed the hours
he had passed in vain hopes, prayer, and despondency. During the six
years that he had been imprisoned, what might he not have accomplished?

In three days he had succeeded, with the utmost precaution, in removing
the cement, and exposing the stone-work. The wall was built of rough
stones, among which, to give strength to the structure, blocks of hewn
stone were at intervals imbedded. It was one of these he had uncovered,
and which he must remove from its socket.

Dantes strove to do this with his nails, but they were too weak. The
fragments of the jug broke, and after an hour of useless toil, he
paused.

Was he to be thus stopped at the beginning, and was he to wait inactive
until his fellow workman had completed his task? Suddenly an idea
occurred to him--he smiled, and the perspiration dried on his forehead.

The jailer always brought Dantes' soup in an iron saucepan; this
saucepan contained soup for both prisoners, for Dantes had noticed that
it was either quite full, or half empty, according as the turnkey gave
it to him or to his companion first.

The handle of this saucepan was of iron; Dantes would have given ten
years of his life in exchange for it.

The jailer was accustomed to pour the contents of the saucepan into
Dantes' plate, and Dantes, after eating his soup with a wooden spoon,
washed the plate, which thus served for every day. Now when evening
came Dantes put his plate on the ground near the door; the jailer, as he
entered, stepped on it and broke it.

This time he could not blame Dantes. He was wrong to leave it there, but
the jailer was wrong not to have looked before him.

The jailer, therefore, only grumbled. Then he looked about for something
to pour the soup into; Dantes' entire dinner service consisted of one
plate--there was no alternative.

"Leave the saucepan," said Dantes; "you can take it away when you bring
me my breakfast." This advice was to the jailer's taste, as it spared
him the necessity of making another trip. He left the saucepan.

Dantes was beside himself with joy. He rapidly devoured his food,
and after waiting an hour, lest the jailer should change his mind and
return, he removed his bed, took the handle of the saucepan, inserted
the point between the hewn stone and rough stones of the wall, and
employed it as a lever. A slight oscillation showed Dantes that all
went well. At the end of an hour the stone was extricated from the wall,
leaving a cavity a foot and a half in diameter.

Dantes carefully collected the plaster, carried it into the corner of
his cell, and covered it with earth. Then, wishing to make the best
use of his time while he had the means of labor, he continued to work
without ceasing. At the dawn of day he replaced the stone, pushed his
bed against the wall, and lay down. The breakfast consisted of a piece
of bread; the jailer entered and placed the bread on the table.

"Well, don't you intend to bring me another plate?" said Dantes.

"No," replied the turnkey; "you destroy everything. First you break your
jug, then you make me break your plate; if all the prisoners followed
your example, the government would be ruined. I shall leave you the
saucepan, and pour your soup into that. So for the future I hope you
will not be so destructive."

Dantes raised his eyes to heaven and clasped his hands beneath the
coverlet. He felt more gratitude for the possession of this piece of
iron than he had ever felt for anything. He had noticed, however, that
the prisoner on the other side had ceased to labor; no matter, this was
a greater reason for proceeding--if his neighbor would not come to him,
he would go to his neighbor. All day he toiled on untiringly, and by
the evening he had succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of plaster and
fragments of stone. When the hour for his jailer's visit arrived, Dantes
straightened the handle of the saucepan as well as he could, and placed
it in its accustomed place. The turnkey poured his ration of soup
into it, together with the fish--for thrice a week the prisoners were
deprived of meat. This would have been a method of reckoning time, had
not Dantes long ceased to do so. Having poured out the soup, the turnkey
retired. Dantes wished to ascertain whether his neighbor had really
ceased to work. He listened--all was silent, as it had been for the last
three days. Dantes sighed; it was evident that his neighbor distrusted
him. However, he toiled on all the night without being discouraged; but
after two or three hours he encountered an obstacle. The iron made no
impression, but met with a smooth surface; Dantes touched it, and found
that it was a beam. This beam crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole
Dantes had made; it was necessary, therefore, to dig above or under
it. The unhappy young man had not thought of this. "O my God, my God!"
murmured he, "I have so earnestly prayed to you, that I hoped my prayers
had been heard. After having deprived me of my liberty, after having
deprived me of death, after having recalled me to existence, my God,
have pity on me, and do not let me die in despair!"

"Who talks of God and despair at the same time?" said a voice that
seemed to come from beneath the earth, and, deadened by the distance,
sounded hollow and sepulchral in the young man's ears. Edmond's hair
stood on end, and he rose to his knees.

"Ah," said he, "I hear a human voice." Edmond had not heard any one
speak save his jailer for four or five years; and a jailer is no man
to a prisoner--he is a living door, a barrier of flesh and blood adding
strength to restraints of oak and iron.

"In the name of heaven," cried Dantes, "speak again, though the sound of
your voice terrifies me. Who are you?"

"Who are you?" said the voice.

"An unhappy prisoner," replied Dantes, who made no hesitation in
answering.

"Of what country?"

"A Frenchman."

"Your name?"

"Edmond Dantes."

"Your profession?"

"A sailor."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since the 28th of February, 1815."

"Your crime?"

"I am innocent."

"But of what are you accused?"

"Of having conspired to aid the emperor's return."

"What! For the emperor's return?--the emperor is no longer on the
throne, then?"

"He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814, and was sent to the Island
of Elba. But how long have you been here that you are ignorant of all
this?"

"Since 1811."

Dantes shuddered; this man had been four years longer than himself in
prison.

"Do not dig any more," said the voice; "only tell me how high up is your
excavation?"

"On a level with the floor."

"How is it concealed?"

"Behind my bed."

"Has your bed been moved since you have been a prisoner?"

"No."

"What does your chamber open on?"

"A corridor."

"And the corridor?"

"On a court."

"Alas!" murmured the voice.

"Oh, what is the matter?" cried Dantes.

"I have made a mistake owing to an error in my plans. I took the wrong
angle, and have come out fifteen feet from where I intended. I took the
wall you are mining for the outer wall of the fortress."

"But then you would be close to the sea?"

"That is what I hoped."

"And supposing you had succeeded?"

"I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the islands
near here--the Isle de Daume or the Isle de Tiboulen--and then I should
have been safe."

"Could you have swum so far?"

"Heaven would have given me strength; but now all is lost."

"All?"

"Yes; stop up your excavation carefully, do not work any more, and wait
until you hear from me."

"Tell me, at least, who you are?"

"I am--I am No. 27."

"You mistrust me, then," said Dantes. Edmond fancied he heard a bitter
laugh resounding from the depths.

"Oh, I am a Christian," cried Dantes, guessing instinctively that this
man meant to abandon him. "I swear to you by him who died for us that
naught shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my jailers; but I
conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you, for I have got
to the end of my strength, that I will dash my brains out against the
wall, and you will have my death to reproach yourself with."

"How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man."

"I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have been
here. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was arrested,
the 28th of February, 1815."

"Not quite twenty-six!" murmured the voice; "at that age he cannot be a
traitor."

"Oh, no, no," cried Dantes. "I swear to you again, rather than betray
you, I would allow myself to be hacked in pieces!"

"You have done well to speak to me, and ask for my assistance, for I was
about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age reassures me. I
will not forget you. Wait."

"How long?"

"I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal."

"But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let me come
to you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape we will talk; you
of those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You must love
somebody?"

"No, I am alone in the world."

"Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your comrade; if you
are old, I will be your son. I have a father who is seventy if he yet
lives; I only love him and a young girl called Mercedes. My father has
not yet forgotten me, I am sure, but God alone knows if she loves me
still; I shall love you as I loved my father."

"It is well," returned the voice; "to-morrow."

These few words were uttered with an accent that left no doubt of his
sincerity; Dantes rose, dispersed the fragments with the same precaution
as before, and pushed his bed back against the wall. He then gave
himself up to his happiness. He would no longer be alone. He was,
perhaps, about to regain his liberty; at the worst, he would have a
companion, and captivity that is shared is but half captivity. Plaints
made in common are almost prayers, and prayers where two or three are
gathered together invoke the mercy of heaven.

All day Dantes walked up and down his cell. He sat down occasionally
on his bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At the slightest noise he
bounded towards the door. Once or twice the thought crossed his mind
that he might be separated from this unknown, whom he loved already; and
then his mind was made up--when the jailer moved his bed and stooped to
examine the opening, he would kill him with his water jug. He would be
condemned to die, but he was about to die of grief and despair when this
miraculous noise recalled him to life.

The jailer came in the evening. Dantes was on his bed. It seemed to him
that thus he better guarded the unfinished opening. Doubtless there was
a strange expression in his eyes, for the jailer said, "Come, are you
going mad again?"

Dantes did not answer; he feared that the emotion of his voice would
betray him. The jailer went away shaking his head. Night came; Dantes
hoped that his neighbor would profit by the silence to address him, but
he was mistaken. The next morning, however, just as he removed his bed
from the wall, he heard three knocks; he threw himself on his knees.

"Is it you?" said he; "I am here."

"Is your jailer gone?"

"Yes," said Dantes; "he will not return until the evening; so that we
have twelve hours before us."

"I can work, then?" said the voice.

"Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat you."

In a moment that part of the floor on which Dantes was resting his two
hands, as he knelt with his head in the opening, suddenly gave way; he
drew back smartly, while a mass of stones and earth disappeared in a
hole that opened beneath the aperture he himself had formed. Then from
the bottom of this passage, the depth of which it was impossible to
measure, he saw appear, first the head, then the shoulders, and lastly
the body of a man, who sprang lightly into his cell.

Chapter 16. A Learned Italian.

Seizing in his arms the friend so long and ardently desired, Dantes
almost carried him towards the window, in order to obtain a better view
of his features by the aid of the imperfect light that struggled through
the grating.

He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by suffering
and sorrow than by age. He had a deep-set, penetrating eye, almost
buried beneath the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and still black)
beard reaching down to his breast. His thin face, deeply furrowed by
care, and the bold outline of his strongly marked features, betokened a
man more accustomed to exercise his mental faculties than his physical
strength. Large drops of perspiration were now standing on his brow,
while the garments that hung about him were so ragged that one could
only guess at the pattern upon which they had originally been fashioned.

The stranger might have numbered sixty or sixty-five years; but a
certain briskness and appearance of vigor in his movements made it
probable that he was aged more from captivity than the course of time.
He received the enthusiastic greeting of his young acquaintance with
evident pleasure, as though his chilled affections were rekindled and
invigorated by his contact with one so warm and ardent. He thanked him
with grateful cordiality for his kindly welcome, although he must at
that moment have been suffering bitterly to find another dungeon where
he had fondly reckoned on discovering a means of regaining his liberty.

"Let us first see," said he, "whether it is possible to remove the
traces of my entrance here--our future tranquillity depends upon our
jailers being entirely ignorant of it." Advancing to the opening,
he stooped and raised the stone easily in spite of its weight; then,
fitting it into its place, he said,--

"You removed this stone very carelessly; but I suppose you had no tools
to aid you."

"Why," exclaimed Dantes, with astonishment, "do you possess any?"

"I made myself some; and with the exception of a file, I have all that
are necessary,--a chisel, pincers, and lever."

"Oh, how I should like to see these products of your industry and
patience."

"Well, in the first place, here is my chisel." So saying, he displayed a
sharp strong blade, with a handle made of beechwood.

"And with what did you contrive to make that?" inquired Dantes.

"With one of the clamps of my bedstead; and this very tool has sufficed
me to hollow out the road by which I came hither, a distance of about
fifty feet."

"Fifty feet!" responded Dantes, almost terrified.

"Do not speak so loud, young man--don't speak so loud. It frequently
occurs in a state prison like this, that persons are stationed outside
the doors of the cells purposely to overhear the conversation of the
prisoners."

"But they believe I am shut up alone here."

"That makes no difference."

"And you say that you dug your way a distance of fifty feet to get
here?"

"I do; that is about the distance that separates your chamber from mine;
only, unfortunately, I did not curve aright; for want of the necessary
geometrical instruments to calculate my scale of proportion, instead of
taking an ellipsis of forty feet, I made it fifty. I expected, as I told
you, to reach the outer wall, pierce through it, and throw myself into
the sea; I have, however, kept along the corridor on which your chamber
opens, instead of going beneath it. My labor is all in vain, for I find
that the corridor looks into a courtyard filled with soldiers."

"That's true," said Dantes; "but the corridor you speak of only bounds
one side of my cell; there are three others--do you know anything of
their situation?"

"This one is built against the solid rock, and it would take ten
experienced miners, duly furnished with the requisite tools, as many
years to perforate it. This adjoins the lower part of the governor's
apartments, and were we to work our way through, we should only get
into some lock-up cellars, where we must necessarily be recaptured. The
fourth and last side of your cell faces on--faces on--stop a minute, now
where does it face?"

The wall of which he spoke was the one in which was fixed the loophole
by which light was admitted to the chamber. This loophole, which
gradually diminished in size as it approached the outside, to an opening
through which a child could not have passed, was, for better security,
furnished with three iron bars, so as to quiet all apprehensions even
in the mind of the most suspicious jailer as to the possibility of a
prisoner's escape. As the stranger asked the question, he dragged the
table beneath the window.

"Climb up," said he to Dantes. The young man obeyed, mounted on the
table, and, divining the wishes of his companion, placed his back
securely against the wall and held out both hands. The stranger, whom
as yet Dantes knew only by the number of his cell, sprang up with an
agility by no means to be expected in a person of his years, and, light
and steady on his feet as a cat or a lizard, climbed from the table to
the outstretched hands of Dantes, and from them to his shoulders;
then, bending double, for the ceiling of the dungeon prevented him from
holding himself erect, he managed to slip his head between the upper
bars of the window, so as to be able to command a perfect view from top
to bottom.

An instant afterwards he hastily drew back his head, saying, "I thought
so!" and sliding from the shoulders of Dantes as dextrously as he had
ascended, he nimbly leaped from the table to the ground.

"What was it that you thought?" asked the young man anxiously, in his
turn descending from the table.

The elder prisoner pondered the matter. "Yes," said he at length, "it
is so. This side of your chamber looks out upon a kind of open gallery,
where patrols are continually passing, and sentries keep watch day and
night."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

"Certain. I saw the soldier's shape and the top of his musket; that made
me draw in my head so quickly, for I was fearful he might also see me."

"Well?" inquired Dantes.

"You perceive then the utter impossibility of escaping through your
dungeon?"

"Then," pursued the young man eagerly--

"Then," answered the elder prisoner, "the will of God be done!" and
as the old man slowly pronounced those words, an air of profound
resignation spread itself over his careworn countenance. Dantes gazed on
the man who could thus philosophically resign hopes so long and ardently
nourished with an astonishment mingled with admiration.

"Tell me, I entreat of you, who and what you are?" said he at length;
"never have I met with so remarkable a person as yourself."

"Willingly," answered the stranger; "if, indeed, you feel any curiosity
respecting one, now, alas, powerless to aid you in any way."

"Say not so; you can console and support me by the strength of your own
powerful mind. Pray let me know who you really are?"

The stranger smiled a melancholy smile. "Then listen," said he. "I am
the Abbe Faria, and have been imprisoned as you know in this Chateau
d'If since the year 1811; previously to which I had been confined for
three years in the fortress of Fenestrelle. In the year 1811 I was
transferred to Piedmont in France. It was at this period I learned that
the destiny which seemed subservient to every wish formed by Napoleon,
had bestowed on him a son, named king of Rome even in his cradle. I was
very far then from expecting the change you have just informed me of;
namely, that four years afterwards, this colossus of power would be
overthrown. Then who reigns in France at this moment--Napoleon II.?"

"No, Louis XVIII."

"The brother of Louis XVII.! How inscrutable are the ways of
providence--for what great and mysterious purpose has it pleased heaven
to abase the man once so elevated, and raise up him who was so abased?"

Dantes' whole attention was riveted on a man who could thus forget his
own misfortunes while occupying himself with the destinies of others.

"Yes, yes," continued he, "'Twill be the same as it was in England.
After Charles I., Cromwell; after Cromwell, Charles II., and then James
II., and then some son-in-law or relation, some Prince of Orange, a
stadtholder who becomes a king. Then new concessions to the people, then
a constitution, then liberty. Ah, my friend!" said the abbe, turning
towards Dantes, and surveying him with the kindling gaze of a prophet,
"you are young, you will see all this come to pass."

"Probably, if ever I get out of prison!"

"True," replied Faria, "we are prisoners; but I forget this sometimes,
and there are even moments when my mental vision transports me beyond
these walls, and I fancy myself at liberty."

"But wherefore are you here?"

"Because in 1807 I dreamed of the very plan Napoleon tried to realize in
1811; because, like Machiavelli, I desired to alter the political face
of Italy, and instead of allowing it to be split up into a quantity
of petty principalities, each held by some weak or tyrannical ruler,
I sought to form one large, compact, and powerful empire; and, lastly,
because I fancied I had found my Caesar Borgia in a crowned simpleton,
who feigned to enter into my views only to betray me. It was the plan of
Alexander VI. and Clement VII., but it will never succeed now, for they
attempted it fruitlessly, and Napoleon was unable to complete his work.
Italy seems fated to misfortune." And the old man bowed his head.

Dantes could not understand a man risking his life for such matters.
Napoleon certainly he knew something of, inasmuch as he had seen and
spoken with him; but of Clement VII. and Alexander VI. he knew nothing.

"Are you not," he asked, "the priest who here in the Chateau d'If is
generally thought to be--ill?"

"Mad, you mean, don't you?"

"I did not like to say so," answered Dantes, smiling.

"Well, then," resumed Faria with a bitter smile, "let me answer your
question in full, by acknowledging that I am the poor mad prisoner
of the Chateau d'If, for many years permitted to amuse the different
visitors with what is said to be my insanity; and, in all probability,
I should be promoted to the honor of making sport for the children, if
such innocent beings could be found in an abode devoted like this to
suffering and despair."

Dantes remained for a short time mute and motionless; at length he
said,--"Then you abandon all hope of escape?"

"I perceive its utter impossibility; and I consider it impious to
attempt that which the Almighty evidently does not approve."

"Nay, be not discouraged. Would it not be expecting too much to hope to
succeed at your first attempt? Why not try to find an opening in another
direction from that which has so unfortunately failed?"

"Alas, it shows how little notion you can have of all it has cost me to
effect a purpose so unexpectedly frustrated, that you talk of beginning
over again. In the first place, I was four years making the tools I
possess, and have been two years scraping and digging out earth, hard
as granite itself; then what toil and fatigue has it not been to remove
huge stones I should once have deemed impossible to loosen. Whole days
have I passed in these Titanic efforts, considering my labor well repaid
if, by night-time I had contrived to carry away a square inch of this
hard-bound cement, changed by ages into a substance unyielding as the
stones themselves; then to conceal the mass of earth and rubbish I dug
up, I was compelled to break through a staircase, and throw the
fruits of my labor into the hollow part of it; but the well is now so
completely choked up, that I scarcely think it would be possible to add
another handful of dust without leading to discovery. Consider also that
I fully believed I had accomplished the end and aim of my undertaking,
for which I had so exactly husbanded my strength as to make it just hold
out to the termination of my enterprise; and now, at the moment when I
reckoned upon success, my hopes are forever dashed from me. No, I repeat
again, that nothing shall induce me to renew attempts evidently at
variance with the Almighty's pleasure."

Dantes held down his head, that the other might not see how joy at the
thought of having a companion outweighed the sympathy he felt for the
failure of the abbe's plans.

The abbe sank upon Edmond's bed, while Edmond himself remained standing.
Escape had never once occurred to him. There are, indeed, some things
which appear so impossible that the mind does not dwell on them for an
instant. To undermine the ground for fifty feet--to devote three years
to a labor which, if successful, would conduct you to a precipice
overhanging the sea--to plunge into the waves from the height of fifty,
sixty, perhaps a hundred feet, at the risk of being dashed to pieces
against the rocks, should you have been fortunate enough to have escaped
the fire of the sentinels; and even, supposing all these perils past,
then to have to swim for your life a distance of at least three miles
ere you could reach the shore--were difficulties so startling and
formidable that Dantes had never even dreamed of such a scheme,
resigning himself rather to death. But the sight of an old man clinging
to life with so desperate a courage, gave a fresh turn to his ideas, and
inspired him with new courage. Another, older and less strong than he,
had attempted what he had not had sufficient resolution to undertake,
and had failed only because of an error in calculation. This same
person, with almost incredible patience and perseverance, had contrived
to provide himself with tools requisite for so unparalleled an attempt.
Another had done all this; why, then, was it impossible to Dantes? Faria
had dug his way through fifty feet, Dantes would dig a hundred; Faria,
at the age of fifty, had devoted three years to the task; he, who was
but half as old, would sacrifice six; Faria, a priest and savant,
had not shrunk from the idea of risking his life by trying to swim a
distance of three miles to one of the islands--Daume, Rattonneau, or
Lemaire; should a hardy sailer, an experienced diver, like himself,
shrink from a similar task; should he, who had so often for mere
amusement's sake plunged to the bottom of the sea to fetch up the bright
coral branch, hesitate to entertain the same project? He could do it in
an hour, and how many times had he, for pure pastime, continued in the
water for more than twice as long! At once Dantes resolved to follow the
brave example of his energetic companion, and to remember that what has
once been done may be done again.

After continuing some time in profound meditation, the young man
suddenly exclaimed, "I have found what you were in search of!"

Faria started: "Have you, indeed?" cried he, raising his head with quick
anxiety; "pray, let me know what it is you have discovered?"

"The corridor through which you have bored your way from the cell you
occupy here, extends in the same direction as the outer gallery, does it
not?"

"It does."

"And is not above fifteen feet from it?"

"About that."

"Well, then, I will tell you what we must do. We must pierce through the
corridor by forming a side opening about the middle, as it were the top
part of a cross. This time you will lay your plans more accurately; we
shall get out into the gallery you have described; kill the sentinel
who guards it, and make our escape. All we require to insure success is
courage, and that you possess, and strength, which I am not deficient
in; as for patience, you have abundantly proved yours--you shall now see
me prove mine."

"One instant, my dear friend," replied the abbe; "it is clear you do not
understand the nature of the courage with which I am endowed, and what
use I intend making of my strength. As for patience, I consider that I
have abundantly exercised that in beginning every morning the task of
the night before, and every night renewing the task of the day. But
then, young man (and I pray of you to give me your full attention), then
I thought I could not be doing anything displeasing to the Almighty in
trying to set an innocent being at liberty--one who had committed no
offence, and merited not condemnation."

"And have your notions changed?" asked Dantes with much surprise; "do
you think yourself more guilty in making the attempt since you have
encountered me?"

"No; neither do I wish to incur guilt. Hitherto I have fancied myself
merely waging war against circumstances, not men. I have thought it
no sin to bore through a wall, or destroy a staircase; but I cannot so
easily persuade myself to pierce a heart or take away a life." A slight
movement of surprise escaped Dantes.

"Is it possible," said he, "that where your liberty is at stake you can
allow any such scruple to deter you from obtaining it?"

"Tell me," replied Faria, "what has hindered you from knocking down your
jailer with a piece of wood torn from your bedstead, dressing yourself
in his clothes, and endeavoring to escape?"

"Simply the fact that the idea never occurred to me," answered Dantes.

"Because," said the old man, "the natural repugnance to the commission
of such a crime prevented you from thinking of it; and so it ever is
because in simple and allowable things our natural instincts keep us
from deviating from the strict line of duty. The tiger, whose nature
teaches him to delight in shedding blood, needs but the sense of smell
to show him when his prey is within his reach, and by following this
instinct he is enabled to measure the leap necessary to permit him to
spring on his victim; but man, on the contrary, loathes the idea of
blood--it is not alone that the laws of social life inspire him with
a shrinking dread of taking life; his natural construction and
physiological formation"--

Dantes was confused and silent at this explanation of the thoughts which
had unconsciously been working in his mind, or rather soul; for there
are two distinct sorts of ideas, those that proceed from the head and
those that emanate from the heart.

"Since my imprisonment," said Faria, "I have thought over all the most
celebrated cases of escape on record. They have rarely been successful.
Those that have been crowned with full success have been long meditated
upon, and carefully arranged; such, for instance, as the escape of the
Duc de Beaufort from the Chateau de Vincennes, that of the Abbe Dubuquoi
from For l'Eveque; of Latude from the Bastille. Then there are those for
which chance sometimes affords opportunity, and those are the best of
all. Let us, therefore, wait patiently for some favorable moment, and
when it presents itself, profit by it."

"Ah," said Dantes, "you might well endure the tedious delay; you were
constantly employed in the task you set yourself, and when weary with
toil, you had your hopes to refresh and encourage you."

"I assure you," replied the old man, "I did not turn to that source for
recreation or support."

"What did you do then?"

"I wrote or studied."

"Were you then permitted the use of pens, ink, and paper?"

"Oh, no," answered the abbe; "I had none but what I made for myself."

"You made paper, pens and ink?"

"Yes."

Dantes gazed with admiration, but he had some difficulty in believing.
Faria saw this.

"When you pay me a visit in my cell, my young friend," said he, "I will
show you an entire work, the fruits of the thoughts and reflections of
my whole life; many of them meditated over in the shades of the Colosseum
at Rome, at the foot of St. Mark's column at Venice, and on the borders
of the Arno at Florence, little imagining at the time that they would be
arranged in order within the walls of the Chateau d'If. The work I speak
of is called 'A Treatise on the Possibility of a General Monarchy in
Italy,' and will make one large quarto volume."

"And on what have you written all this?"

"On two of my shirts. I invented a preparation that makes linen as
smooth and as easy to write on as parchment."

"You are, then, a chemist?"

"Somewhat; I know Lavoisier, and was the intimate friend of Cabanis."

"But for such a work you must have needed books--had you any?"

"I had nearly five thousand volumes in my library at Rome; but after
reading them over many times, I found out that with one hundred and
fifty well-chosen books a man possesses, if not a complete summary of
all human knowledge, at least all that a man need really know. I devoted
three years of my life to reading and studying these one hundred and
fifty volumes, till I knew them nearly by heart; so that since I have
been in prison, a very slight effort of memory has enabled me to recall
their contents as readily as though the pages were open before me. I
could recite you the whole of Thucydides, Xenophon, Plutarch, Titus
Livius, Tacitus, Strada, Jornandes, Dante, Montaigne, Shakespeare,
Spinoza, Machiavelli, and Bossuet. I name only the most important."

"You are, doubtless, acquainted with a variety of languages, so as to
have been able to read all these?"

"Yes, I speak five of the modern tongues--that is to say, German,
French, Italian, English, and Spanish; by the aid of ancient Greek I
learned modern Greek--I don't speak it so well as I could wish, but I am
still trying to improve myself."

"Improve yourself!" repeated Dantes; "why, how can you manage to do so?"

"Why, I made a vocabulary of the words I knew; turned, returned, and
arranged them, so as to enable me to express my thoughts through
their medium. I know nearly one thousand words, which is all that is
absolutely necessary, although I believe there are nearly one hundred
thousand in the dictionaries. I cannot hope to be very fluent, but I
certainly should have no difficulty in explaining my wants and wishes;
and that would be quite as much as I should ever require."

Stronger grew the wonder of Dantes, who almost fancied he had to do
with one gifted with supernatural powers; still hoping to find some
imperfection which might bring him down to a level with human beings, he
added, "Then if you were not furnished with pens, how did you manage to
write the work you speak of?"

"I made myself some excellent ones, which would be universally preferred
to all others if once known. You are aware what huge whitings are served
to us on maigre days. Well, I selected the cartilages of the heads of
these fishes, and you can scarcely imagine the delight with which
I welcomed the arrival of each Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, as
affording me the means of increasing my stock of pens; for I will freely
confess that my historical labors have been my greatest solace and
relief. While retracing the past, I forget the present; and traversing
at will the path of history I cease to remember that I am myself a
prisoner."

"But the ink," said Dantes; "of what did you make your ink?"

"There was formerly a fireplace in my dungeon," replied Faria, "but it
was closed up long ere I became an occupant of this prison. Still, it
must have been many years in use, for it was thickly covered with a
coating of soot; this soot I dissolved in a portion of the wine brought
to me every Sunday, and I assure you a better ink cannot be desired. For
very important notes, for which closer attention is required, I pricked
one of my fingers, and wrote with my own blood."

"And when," asked Dantes, "may I see all this?"

"Whenever you please," replied the abbe.

"Oh, then let it be directly!" exclaimed the young man.

"Follow me, then," said the abbe, as he re-entered the subterranean
passage, in which he soon disappeared, followed by Dantes.

Chapter 17. The Abbe's Chamber.

After having passed with tolerable ease through the subterranean
passage, which, however, did not admit of their holding themselves
erect, the two friends reached the further end of the corridor, into
which the abbe's cell opened; from that point the passage became much
narrower, and barely permitted one to creep through on hands and knees.
The floor of the abbe's cell was paved, and it had been by raising one
of the stones in the most obscure corner that Faria had to been able
to commence the laborious task of which Dantes had witnessed the
completion.

As he entered the chamber of his friend, Dantes cast around one eager
and searching glance in quest of the expected marvels, but nothing more
than common met his view.

"It is well," said the abbe; "we have some hours before us--it is now
just a quarter past twelve o'clock." Instinctively Dantes turned round
to observe by what watch or clock the abbe had been able so accurately
to specify the hour.

"Look at this ray of light which enters by my window," said the abbe,
"and then observe the lines traced on the wall. Well, by means of these
lines, which are in accordance with the double motion of the earth, and
the ellipse it describes round the sun, I am enabled to ascertain the
precise hour with more minuteness than if I possessed a watch; for that
might be broken or deranged in its movements, while the sun and earth
never vary in their appointed paths."

This last explanation was wholly lost upon Dantes, who had always
imagined, from seeing the sun rise from behind the mountains and set in
the Mediterranean, that it moved, and not the earth. A double movement
of the globe he inhabited, and of which he could feel nothing, appeared
to him perfectly impossible. Each word that fell from his companion's
lips seemed fraught with the mysteries of science, as worthy of digging
out as the gold and diamonds in the mines of Guzerat and Golconda,
which he could just recollect having visited during a voyage made in his
earliest youth.

"Come," said he to the abbe, "I am anxious to see your treasures."

The abbe smiled, and, proceeding to the disused fireplace, raised,
by the help of his chisel, a long stone, which had doubtless been the
hearth, beneath which was a cavity of considerable depth, serving as a
safe depository of the articles mentioned to Dantes.

"What do you wish to see first?" asked the abbe.

"Oh, your great work on the monarchy of Italy!"

Faria then drew forth from his hiding-place three or four rolls of
linen, laid one over the other, like folds of papyrus. These rolls
consisted of slips of cloth about four inches wide and eighteen long;
they were all carefully numbered and closely covered with writing,
so legible that Dantes could easily read it, as well as make out the
sense--it being in Italian, a language he, as a Provencal, perfectly
understood.

"There," said he, "there is the work complete. I wrote the word finis at
the end of the sixty-eighth strip about a week ago. I have torn up two
of my shirts, and as many handkerchiefs as I was master of, to complete
the precious pages. Should I ever get out of prison and find in all
Italy a printer courageous enough to publish what I have composed, my
literary reputation is forever secured."

"I see," answered Dantes. "Now let me behold the curious pens with which
you have written your work."

"Look!" said Faria, showing to the young man a slender stick about
six inches long, and much resembling the size of the handle of a fine
painting-brush, to the end of which was tied, by a piece of thread, one
of those cartilages of which the abbe had before spoken to Dantes;
it was pointed, and divided at the nib like an ordinary pen. Dantes
examined it with intense admiration, then looked around to see the
instrument with which it had been shaped so correctly into form.

"Ah, yes," said Faria; "the penknife. That's my masterpiece. I made
it, as well as this larger knife, out of an old iron candlestick." The
penknife was sharp and keen as a razor; as for the other knife, it would
serve a double purpose, and with it one could cut and thrust.

Dantes examined the various articles shown to him with the same
attention that he had bestowed on the curiosities and strange tools
exhibited in the shops at Marseilles as the works of the savages in the
South Seas from whence they had been brought by the different trading
vessels.

"As for the ink," said Faria, "I told you how I managed to obtain
that--and I only just make it from time to time, as I require it."

"One thing still puzzles me," observed Dantes, "and that is how you
managed to do all this by daylight?"

"I worked at night also," replied Faria.

"Night!--why, for heaven's sake, are your eyes like cats', that you can
see to work in the dark?"

"Indeed they are not; but God has supplied man with the intelligence
that enables him to overcome the limitations of natural conditions. I
furnished myself with a light."

"You did? Pray tell me how."

"I separated the fat from the meat served to me, melted it, and so made
oil--here is my lamp." So saying, the abbe exhibited a sort of torch
very similar to those used in public illuminations.

"But light?"

"Here are two flints and a piece of burnt linen."

"And matches?"

"I pretended that I had a disorder of the skin, and asked for a little
sulphur, which was readily supplied." Dantes laid the different things
he had been looking at on the table, and stood with his head drooping
on his breast, as though overwhelmed by the perseverance and strength of
Faria's mind.

"You have not seen all yet," continued Faria, "for I did not think it
wise to trust all my treasures in the same hiding-place. Let us shut
this one up." They put the stone back in its place; the abbe sprinkled
a little dust over it to conceal the traces of its having been removed,
rubbed his foot well on it to make it assume the same appearance as the
other, and then, going towards his bed, he removed it from the spot it
stood in. Behind the head of the bed, and concealed by a stone fitting
in so closely as to defy all suspicion, was a hollow space, and in this
space a ladder of cords between twenty-five and thirty feet in length.
Dantes closely and eagerly examined it; he found it firm, solid, and
compact enough to bear any weight.

"Who supplied you with the materials for making this wonderful work?"

"I tore up several of my shirts, and ripped out the seams in the sheets
of my bed, during my three years' imprisonment at Fenestrelle; and when
I was removed to the Chateau d'If, I managed to bring the ravellings
with me, so that I have been able to finish my work here."

"And was it not discovered that your sheets were unhemmed?"

"Oh, no, for when I had taken out the thread I required, I hemmed the
edges over again."

"With what?"

"With this needle," said the abbe, as, opening his ragged vestments, he
showed Dantes a long, sharp fish-bone, with a small perforated eye
for the thread, a small portion of which still remained in it. "I once
thought," continued Faria, "of removing these iron bars, and letting
myself down from the window, which, as you see, is somewhat wider than
yours, although I should have enlarged it still more preparatory to my
flight; however, I discovered that I should merely have dropped into a
sort of inner court, and I therefore renounced the project altogether
as too full of risk and danger. Nevertheless, I carefully preserved my
ladder against one of those unforeseen opportunities of which I spoke
just now, and which sudden chance frequently brings about." While
affecting to be deeply engaged in examining the ladder, the mind of
Dantes was, in fact, busily occupied by the idea that a person so
intelligent, ingenious, and clear-sighted as the abbe might probably be
able to solve the dark mystery of his own misfortunes, where he himself
could see nothing.

"What are you thinking of?" asked the abbe smilingly, imputing the deep
abstraction in which his visitor was plunged to the excess of his awe
and wonder.

"I was reflecting, in the first place," replied Dantes, "upon the
enormous degree of intelligence and ability you must have employed to
reach the high perfection to which you have attained. What would you not
have accomplished if you had been free?"

"Possibly nothing at all; the overflow of my brain would probably, in a
state of freedom, have evaporated in a thousand follies; misfortune
is needed to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect.
Compression is needed to explode gunpowder. Captivity has brought
my mental faculties to a focus; and you are well aware that from
the collision of clouds electricity is produced--from electricity,
lightning, from lightning, illumination."

"No," replied Dantes. "I know nothing. Some of your words are to me
quite empty of meaning. You must be blessed indeed to possess the
knowledge you have."

The abbe smiled. "Well," said he, "but you had another subject for your
thoughts; did you not say so just now?"

"I did!"

"You have told me as yet but one of them--let me hear the other."

"It was this,--that while you had related to me all the particulars of
your past life, you were perfectly unacquainted with mine."

"Your life, my young friend, has not been of sufficient length to admit
of your having passed through any very important events."

"It has been long enough to inflict on me a great and undeserved
misfortune. I would fain fix the source of it on man that I may no
longer vent reproaches upon heaven."

"Then you profess ignorance of the crime with which you are charged?"

"I do, indeed; and this I swear by the two beings most dear to me upon
earth,--my father and Mercedes."

"Come," said the abbe, closing his hiding-place, and pushing the bed
back to its original situation, "let me hear your story."

Dantes obeyed, and commenced what he called his history, but which
consisted only of the account of a voyage to India, and two or three
voyages to the Levant until he arrived at the recital of his last
cruise, with the death of Captain Leclere, and the receipt of a packet
to be delivered by himself to the grand marshal; his interview with that
personage, and his receiving, in place of the packet brought, a letter
addressed to a Monsieur Noirtier--his arrival at Marseilles, and
interview with his father--his affection for Mercedes, and their nuptual
feast--his arrest and subsequent examination, his temporary detention at
the Palais de Justice, and his final imprisonment in the Chateau d'If.
From this point everything was a blank to Dantes--he knew nothing
more, not even the length of time he had been imprisoned. His recital
finished, the abbe reflected long and earnestly.

"There is," said he, at the end of his meditations, "a clever maxim,
which bears upon what I was saying to you some little while ago, and
that is, that unless wicked ideas take root in a naturally depraved
mind, human nature, in a right and wholesome state, revolts at crime.
Still, from an artificial civilization have originated wants, vices, and
false tastes, which occasionally become so powerful as to stifle
within us all good feelings, and ultimately to lead us into guilt and
wickedness. From this view of things, then, comes the axiom that if you
visit to discover the author of any bad action, seek first to discover
the person to whom the perpetration of that bad action could be in any
way advantageous. Now, to apply it in your case,--to whom could your
disappearance have been serviceable?"

"To no one, by heaven! I was a very insignificant person."

"Do not speak thus, for your reply evinces neither logic nor philosophy;
everything is relative, my dear young friend, from the king who stands
in the way of his successor, to the employee who keeps his rival out of
a place. Now, in the event of the king's death, his successor inherits a
crown,--when the employee dies, the supernumerary steps into his shoes,
and receives his salary of twelve thousand livres. Well, these twelve
thousand livres are his civil list, and are as essential to him as the
twelve millions of a king. Every one, from the highest to the lowest
degree, has his place on the social ladder, and is beset by stormy
passions and conflicting interests, as in Descartes' theory of pressure
and impulsion. But these forces increase as we go higher, so that we
have a spiral which in defiance of reason rests upon the apex and not on
the base. Now let us return to your particular world. You say you were
on the point of being made captain of the Pharaon?"

"Yes."

"And about to become the husband of a young and lovely girl?"

"Yes."

"Now, could any one have had any interest in preventing the
accomplishment of these two things? But let us first settle the question
as to its being the interest of any one to hinder you from being captain
of the Pharaon. What say you?"

"I cannot believe such was the case. I was generally liked on board, and
had the sailors possessed the right of selecting a captain themselves, I
feel convinced their choice would have fallen on me. There was only one
person among the crew who had any feeling of ill-will towards me. I had
quarelled with him some time previously, and had even challenged him to
fight me; but he refused."

"Now we are getting on. And what was this man's name?"

"Danglars."

"What rank did he hold on board?"

"He was supercargo."

"And had you been captain, should you have retained him in his
employment?"

"Not if the choice had remained with me, for I had frequently observed
inaccuracies in his accounts."

"Good again! Now then, tell me, was any person present during your last
conversation with Captain Leclere?"

"No; we were quite alone."

"Could your conversation have been overheard by any one?"

"It might, for the cabin door was open--and--stay; now I
recollect,--Danglars himself passed by just as Captain Leclere was
giving me the packet for the grand marshal."

"That's better," cried the abbe; "now we are on the right scent. Did you
take anybody with you when you put into the port of Elba?"

"Nobody."

"Somebody there received your packet, and gave you a letter in place of
it, I think?"

"Yes; the grand marshal did."

"And what did you do with that letter?"

"Put it into my portfolio."

"You had your portfolio with you, then? Now, how could a sailor find
room in his pocket for a portfolio large enough to contain an official
letter?"

"You are right; it was left on board."

"Then it was not till your return to the ship that you put the letter in
the portfolio?"

"No."

"And what did you do with this same letter while returning from
Porto-Ferrajo to the vessel?"

"I carried it in my hand."

"So that when you went on board the Pharaon, everybody could see that
you held a letter in your hand?"

"Yes."

"Danglars, as well as the rest?"

"Danglars, as well as others."

"Now, listen to me, and try to recall every circumstance attending your
arrest. Do you recollect the words in which the information against you
was formulated?"

"Oh yes, I read it over three times, and the words sank deeply into my
memory."

"Repeat it to me."

Dantes paused a moment, then said, "This is it, word for word: 'The
king's attorney is informed by a friend to the throne and religion,
that one Edmond Dantes, mate on board the Pharaon, this day arrived
from Smyrna, after having touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, has been
intrusted by Murat with a packet for the usurper; again, by the usurper,
with a letter for the Bonapartist Club in Paris. This proof of his guilt
may be procured by his immediate arrest, as the letter will be found
either about his person, at his father's residence, or in his cabin
on board the Pharaon.'" The abbe shrugged his shoulders. "The thing is
clear as day," said he; "and you must have had a very confiding nature,
as well as a good heart, not to have suspected the origin of the whole
affair."

"Do you really think so? Ah, that would indeed be infamous."

"How did Danglars usually write?"

"In a handsome, running hand."

"And how was the anonymous letter written?"

"Backhanded." Again the abbe smiled. "Disguised."

"It was very boldly written, if disguised."

"Stop a bit," said the abbe, taking up what he called his pen, and,
after dipping it into the ink, he wrote on a piece of prepared linen,
with his left hand, the first two or three words of the accusation.
Dantes drew back, and gazed on the abbe with a sensation almost
amounting to terror.

"How very astonishing!" cried he at length. "Why your writing exactly
resembles that of the accusation."

"Simply because that accusation had been written with the left hand; and
I have noticed that"--

"What?"

"That while the writing of different persons done with the right hand
varies, that performed with the left hand is invariably uniform."

"You have evidently seen and observed everything."

"Let us proceed."

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"Now as regards the second question."

"I am listening."

"Was there any person whose interest it was to prevent your marriage
with Mercedes?"

"Yes; a young man who loved her."

"And his name was"--

"Fernand."

"That is a Spanish name, I think?"

"He was a Catalan."

"You imagine him capable of writing the letter?"

"Oh, no; he would more likely have got rid of me by sticking a knife
into me."

"That is in strict accordance with the Spanish character; an
assassination they will unhesitatingly commit, but an act of cowardice,
never."

"Besides," said Dantes, "the various circumstances mentioned in the
letter were wholly unknown to him."

"You had never spoken of them yourself to any one?"

"To no one."

"Not even to your mistress?"

"No, not even to my betrothed."

"Then it is Danglars."

"I feel quite sure of it now."

"Wait a little. Pray, was Danglars acquainted with Fernand?"

"No--yes, he was. Now I recollect"--

"What?"

"To have seen them both sitting at table together under an arbor at Pere
Pamphile's the evening before the day fixed for my wedding. They were in
earnest conversation. Danglars was joking in a friendly way, but Fernand
looked pale and agitated."

"Were they alone?"

"There was a third person with them whom I knew perfectly well, and who
had, in all probability made their acquaintance; he was a tailor named
Caderousse, but he was very drunk. Stay!--stay!--How strange that it
should not have occurred to me before! Now I remember quite well, that
on the table round which they were sitting were pens, ink, and paper.
Oh, the heartless, treacherous scoundrels!" exclaimed Dantes, pressing
his hand to his throbbing brows.

"Is there anything else I can assist you in discovering, besides the
villany of your friends?" inquired the abbe with a laugh.

"Yes, yes," replied Dantes eagerly; "I would beg of you, who see so
completely to the depths of things, and to whom the greatest mystery
seems but an easy riddle, to explain to me how it was that I underwent
no second examination, was never brought to trial, and, above all, was
condemned without ever having had sentence passed on me?"

"That is altogether a different and more serious matter," responded the
abbe. "The ways of justice are frequently too dark and mysterious to
be easily penetrated. All we have hitherto done in the matter has been
child's play. If you wish me to enter upon the more difficult part of
the business, you must assist me by the most minute information on every
point."

"Pray ask me whatever questions you please; for, in good truth, you see
more clearly into my life than I do myself."

"In the first place, then, who examined you,--the king's attorney, his
deputy, or a magistrate?"

"The deputy."

"Was he young or old?"

"About six or seven and twenty years of age, I should say."

"So," answered the abbe. "Old enough to be ambitions, but too young to
be corrupt. And how did he treat you?"

"With more of mildness than severity."

"Did you tell him your whole story?"

"I did."

"And did his conduct change at all in the course of your examination?"

"He did appear much disturbed when he read the letter that had brought
me into this scrape. He seemed quite overcome by my misfortune."

"By your misfortune?"

"Yes."

"Then you feel quite sure that it was your misfortune he deplored?"

"He gave me one great proof of his sympathy, at any rate."

"And that?"

"He burnt the sole evidence that could at all have criminated me."

"What? the accusation?"

"No; the letter."

"Are you sure?"

"I saw it done."

"That alters the case. This man might, after all, be a greater scoundrel
than you have thought possible."

"Upon my word," said Dantes, "you make me shudder. Is the world filled
with tigers and crocodiles?"

"Yes; and remember that two-legged tigers and crocodiles are more
dangerous than the others."

"Never mind; let us go on."

"With all my heart! You tell me he burned the letter?"

"He did; saying at the same time, 'You see I thus destroy the only proof
existing against you.'"

"This action is somewhat too sublime to be natural."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it. To whom was this letter addressed?"

"To M. Noirtier, No. 13 Coq-Heron, Paris."

"Now can you conceive of any interest that your heroic deputy could
possibly have had in the destruction of that letter?"

"Why, it is not altogether impossible he might have had, for he made me
promise several times never to speak of that letter to any one, assuring
me he so advised me for my own interest; and, more than this, he
insisted on my taking a solemn oath never to utter the name mentioned in
the address."

"Noirtier!" repeated the abbe; "Noirtier!--I knew a person of that
name at the court of the Queen of Etruria,--a Noirtier, who had been a
Girondin during the Revolution! What was your deputy called?"

"De Villefort!" The abbe burst into a fit of laughter, while Dantes
gazed on him in utter astonishment.

"What ails you?" said he at length.

"Do you see that ray of sunlight?"

"I do."

"Well, the whole thing is more clear to me than that sunbeam is to you.
Poor fellow! poor young man! And you tell me this magistrate expressed
great sympathy and commiseration for you?"

"He did."

"And the worthy man destroyed your compromising letter?"

"Yes."

"And then made you swear never to utter the name of Noirtier?"

"Yes."

"Why, you poor short-sighted simpleton, can you not guess who this
Noirtier was, whose very name he was so careful to keep concealed?
Noirtier was his father."

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of Dantes, or hell opened its
yawning gulf before him, he could not have been more completely
transfixed with horror than he was at the sound of these unexpected
words. Starting up, he clasped his hands around his head as though to
prevent his very brain from bursting, and exclaimed, "His father! his
father!"

"Yes, his father," replied the abbe; "his right name was Noirtier de
Villefort." At this instant a bright light shot through the mind of
Dantes, and cleared up all that had been dark and obscure before.
The change that had come over Villefort during the examination, the
destruction of the letter, the exacted promise, the almost supplicating
tones of the magistrate, who seemed rather to implore mercy than to
pronounce punishment,--all returned with a stunning force to his memory.
He cried out, and staggered against the wall like a drunken man, then
he hurried to the opening that led from the abbe's cell to his own, and
said, "I must be alone, to think over all this."

When he regained his dungeon, he threw himself on his bed, where the
turnkey found him in the evening visit, sitting with fixed gaze and
contracted features, dumb and motionless as a statue. During these hours
of profound meditation, which to him had seemed only minutes, he had
formed a fearful resolution, and bound himself to its fulfilment by a
solemn oath.

Dantes was at length roused from his revery by the voice of Faria,
who, having also been visited by his jailer, had come to invite his
fellow-sufferer to share his supper. The reputation of being out of his
mind, though harmlessly and even amusingly so, had procured for the
abbe unusual privileges. He was supplied with bread of a finer, whiter
quality than the usual prison fare, and even regaled each Sunday with a
small quantity of wine. Now this was a Sunday, and the abbe had come to
ask his young companion to share the luxuries with him. Dantes followed;
his features were no longer contracted, and now wore their usual
expression, but there was that in his whole appearance that bespoke one
who had come to a fixed and desperate resolve. Faria bent on him his
penetrating eye: "I regret now," said he, "having helped you in your
late inquiries, or having given you the information I did."

"Why so?" inquired Dantes.

"Because it has instilled a new passion in your heart--that of
vengeance."

Dantes smiled. "Let us talk of something else," said he.

Again the abbe looked at him, then mournfully shook his head; but in
accordance with Dantes' request, he began to speak of other matters. The
elder prisoner was one of those persons whose conversation, like that
of all who have experienced many trials, contained many useful
and important hints as well as sound information; but it was never
egotistical, for the unfortunate man never alluded to his own sorrows.
Dantes listened with admiring attention to all he said; some of his
remarks corresponded with what he already knew, or applied to the sort
of knowledge his nautical life had enabled him to acquire. A part of the
good abbe's words, however, were wholly incomprehensible to him; but,
like the aurora which guides the navigator in northern latitudes, opened
new vistas to the inquiring mind of the listener, and gave fantastic
glimpses of new horizons, enabling him justly to estimate the delight an
intellectual mind would have in following one so richly gifted as Faria
along the heights of truth, where he was so much at home.

"You must teach me a small part of what you know," said Dantes, "if only
to prevent your growing weary of me. I can well believe that so learned
a person as yourself would prefer absolute solitude to being tormented
with the company of one as ignorant and uninformed as myself. If you
will only agree to my request, I promise you never to mention another
word about escaping." The abbe smiled. "Alas, my boy," said he, "human
knowledge is confined within very narrow limits; and when I have
taught you mathematics, physics, history, and the three or four modern
languages with which I am acquainted, you will know as much as I do
myself. Now, it will scarcely require two years for me to communicate to
you the stock of learning I possess."

"Two years!" exclaimed Dantes; "do you really believe I can acquire all
these things in so short a time?"

"Not their application, certainly, but their principles you may; to
learn is not to know; there are the learners and the learned. Memory
makes the one, philosophy the other."

"But cannot one learn philosophy?"

"Philosophy cannot be taught; it is the application of the sciences to
truth; it is like the golden cloud in which the Messiah went up into
heaven."

"Well, then," said Dantes, "What shall you teach me first? I am in a
hurry to begin. I want to learn."

"Everything," said the abbe. And that very evening the prisoners
sketched a plan of education, to be entered upon the following day.
Dantes possessed a prodigious memory, combined with an astonishing
quickness and readiness of conception; the mathematical turn of his
mind rendered him apt at all kinds of calculation, while his naturally
poetical feelings threw a light and pleasing veil over the dry reality
of arithmetical computation, or the rigid severity of geometry. He
already knew Italian, and had also picked up a little of the Romaic
dialect during voyages to the East; and by the aid of these two
languages he easily comprehended the construction of all the others, so
that at the end of six months he began to speak Spanish, English, and
German. In strict accordance with the promise made to the abbe, Dantes
spoke no more of escape. Perhaps the delight his studies afforded him
left no room for such thoughts; perhaps the recollection that he had
pledged his word (on which his sense of honor was keen) kept him from
referring in any way to the possibilities of flight. Days, even months,
passed by unheeded in one rapid and instructive course. At the end of
a year Dantes was a new man. Dantes observed, however, that Faria, in
spite of the relief his society afforded, daily grew sadder; one thought
seemed incessantly to harass and distract his mind. Sometimes he would
fall into long reveries, sigh heavily and involuntarily, then suddenly
rise, and, with folded arms, begin pacing the confined space of his
dungeon. One day he stopped all at once, and exclaimed, "Ah, if there
were no sentinel!"

"There shall not be one a minute longer than you please," said Dantes,
who had followed the working of his thoughts as accurately as though
his brain were enclosed in crystal so clear as to display its minutest
operations.

"I have already told you," answered the abbe, "that I loathe the idea of
shedding blood."

"And yet the murder, if you choose to call it so, would be simply a
measure of self-preservation."

"No matter! I could never agree to it."

"Still, you have thought of it?"

"Incessantly, alas!" cried the abbe.

"And you have discovered a means of regaining our freedom, have you
not?" asked Dantes eagerly.

"I have; if it were only possible to place a deaf and blind sentinel in
the gallery beyond us."

"He shall be both blind and deaf," replied the young man, with an air of
determination that made his companion shudder.

"No, no," cried the abbe; "impossible!" Dantes endeavored to renew the
subject; the abbe shook his head in token of disapproval, and refused to
make any further response. Three months passed away.

"Are you strong?" the abbe asked one day of Dantes. The young man, in
reply, took up the chisel, bent it into the form of a horseshoe, and
then as readily straightened it.

"And will you engage not to do any harm to the sentry, except as a last
resort?"

"I promise on my honor."

"Then," said the abbe, "we may hope to put our design into execution."

"And how long shall we be in accomplishing the necessary work?"

"At least a year."

"And shall we begin at once?"

"At once."

"We have lost a year to no purpose!" cried Dantes.

"Do you consider the last twelve months to have been wasted?" asked the
abbe.

"Forgive me!" cried Edmond, blushing deeply.

"Tut, tut!" answered the abbe, "man is but man after all, and you are
about the best specimen of the genus I have ever known. Come, let me
show you my plan." The abbe then showed Dantes the sketch he had made
for their escape. It consisted of a plan of his own cell and that of
Dantes, with the passage which united them. In this passage he proposed
to drive a level as they do in mines; this level would bring the two
prisoners immediately beneath the gallery where the sentry kept watch;
once there, a large excavation would be made, and one of the flag-stones
with which the gallery was paved be so completely loosened that at the
desired moment it would give way beneath the feet of the soldier, who,
stunned by his fall, would be immediately bound and gagged by Dantes
before he had power to offer any resistance. The prisoners were then to
make their way through one of the gallery windows, and to let themselves
down from the outer walls by means of the abbe's ladder of cords.
Dantes' eyes sparkled with joy, and he rubbed his hands with delight at
the idea of a plan so simple, yet apparently so certain to succeed.

That very day the miners began their labors, with a vigor and alacrity
proportionate to their long rest from fatigue and their hopes of
ultimate success. Nothing interrupted the progress of the work
except the necessity that each was under of returning to his cell in
anticipation of the turnkey's visits. They had learned to distinguish
the almost imperceptible sound of his footsteps as he descended towards
their dungeons, and happily, never failed of being prepared for his
coming. The fresh earth excavated during their present work, and which
would have entirely blocked up the old passage, was thrown, by degrees
and with the utmost precaution, out of the window in either Faria's
or Dantes' cell, the rubbish being first pulverized so finely that the
night wind carried it far away without permitting the smallest trace to
remain. More than a year had been consumed in this undertaking, the only
tools for which had been a chisel, a knife, and a wooden lever; Faria
still continuing to instruct Dantes by conversing with him, sometimes
in one language, sometimes in another; at others, relating to him the
history of nations and great men who from time to time have risen to
fame and trodden the path of glory.

The abbe was a man of the world, and had, moreover, mixed in the first
society of the day; he wore an air of melancholy dignity which Dantes,
thanks to the imitative powers bestowed on him by nature, easily
acquired, as well as that outward polish and politeness he had before
been wanting in, and which is seldom possessed except by those who
have been placed in constant intercourse with persons of high birth and
breeding. At the end of fifteen months the level was finished, and the
excavation completed beneath the gallery, and the two workmen could
distinctly hear the measured tread of the sentinel as he paced to and
fro over their heads.

Compelled, as they were, to await a night sufficiently dark to favor
their flight, they were obliged to defer their final attempt till that
auspicious moment should arrive; their greatest dread now was lest the
stone through which the sentry was doomed to fall should give way before
its right time, and this they had in some measure provided against by
propping it up with a small beam which they had discovered in the
walls through which they had worked their way. Dantes was occupied in
arranging this piece of wood when he heard Faria, who had remained
in Edmond's cell for the purpose of cutting a peg to secure their
rope-ladder, call to him in a tone indicative of great suffering. Dantes
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 clinched tightly together.

"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed Dantes, "what is the matter? what has
happened?"

"Quick! quick!" returned the abbe, "listen to what I have to say."
Dantes 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 Dantes, letting his
chisel fall to the floor.

"Alas," faltered out the abbe, "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, Dantes 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 abbe's
chamber, when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed.

"Thanks," said the poor abbe, 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 Dantes in grief-stricken tones.

"Help! help!" cried the abbe, "I--I--die--I"--

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, Dantes
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. Dantes 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 Dantes in a paroxysm of delight.

The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident
anxiety towards the door. Dantes 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, Dantes, whose restless anxiety
concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the food brought him,
hurried back to the abbe'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.

"I did not expect to see you again," said he feebly, to Dantes.

"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 Dantes.

"Without you? Did you really think me capable of that?"

"At least," said the abbe, "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 Dantes; "your strength will return." And
as he spoke he seated himself near the bed beside Faria, and took his
hands. The abbe 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 Dantes; "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 abbe, "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 abbe. "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."

"The physician may be mistaken!" exclaimed Dantes. "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 abbe, "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 Dantes. "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 to-morrow
till after the jailer his visited me. I shall have something of the
greatest importance to communicate to you."

Dantes took the hand of the abbe 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 Dantes 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 Dantes.

"What is that?" he inquired.

"Look at it," said the abbe with a smile.

"I have looked at it with all possible attention," said Dantes, "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 Dantes brow. Until this day and for how
long a time!--he had refrained from talking of the treasure, which had
brought upon the abbe 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 Dantes. 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, Dantes, 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?
To-morrow, if you will, I will hear your narrative; but to-day I wish
to nurse you carefully. Besides," he said, "a treasure is not a thing we
need hurry about."

"On the contrary, it is a matter of the utmost importance, Edmond!"
replied the old man. "Who knows if to-morrow, or the next day after,
the third attack may not come on? and then must not all be over? Yes,
indeed, I have often thought with a bitter joy that these riches, which
would make the wealth of a dozen families, will be forever lost to those
men who persecute me. This idea was one of vengeance to me, and I tasted
it slowly in the night of my dungeon and the despair of my captivity.
But now I have forgiven the world for the love of you; now that I see
you, young and with a promising future,--now that I think of all that
may result to you in the good fortune of such a disclosure, I shudder
at any delay, and tremble lest I should not assure to one as worthy as
yourself the possession of so vast an amount of hidden wealth." Edmond
turned away his head with a sigh.

"You persist in your incredulity, Edmond," continued Faria. "My words
have not convinced you. I see you require proofs. Well, then, read this
paper, which I have never shown to any one."

"To-morrow, my dear friend," said Edmond, desirous of not yielding to
the old man's madness. "I thought it was understood that we should not
talk of that until to-morrow."

"Then we will not talk of it until to-morrow; but read this paper
to-day."

"I will not irritate him," thought Edmond, and taking the paper,
of which half was wanting,--having been burnt, no doubt, by some
accident,--he read:--

"This treasure, which may amount to two... of Roman crowns in the most
distant a... of the second opening wh... declare to belong to him alo...
heir. "25th April, 149-"

"Well!" said Faria, when the young man had finished reading it.

"Why," replied Dantes, "I see nothing but broken lines and unconnected
words, which are rendered illegible by fire."

"Yes, to you, my friend, who read them for the first time; but not
for me, who have grown pale over them by many nights' study, and have
reconstructed every phrase, completed every thought."

"And do you believe you have discovered the hidden meaning?"

"I am sure I have, and you shall judge for yourself; but first listen to
the history of this paper."

"Silence!" exclaimed Dantes. "Steps approach--I go--adieu."

And Dantes, happy to escape the history and explanation which would be
sure to confirm his belief in his friend's mental instability, glided
like a snake along the narrow passage; while Faria, restored by his
alarm to a certain amount of activity, pushed the stone into place with
his foot, and covered it with a mat in order the more effectually to
avoid discovery.

It was the governor, who, hearing of Faria's illness from the jailer,
had come in person to see him.

Faria sat up to receive him, avoiding all gestures in order that he
might conceal from the governor the paralysis that had already half
stricken him with death. His fear was lest the governor, touched
with pity, might order him to be removed to better quarters, and thus
separate him from his young companion. But fortunately this was not the
case, and the governor left him, convinced that the poor madman, for
whom in his heart he felt a kind of affection, was only troubled with a
slight indisposition.

During this time, Edmond, seated on his bed with his head in his hands,
tried to collect his scattered thoughts. Faria, since their first
acquaintance, had been on all points so rational and logical, so
wonderfully sagacious, in fact, that he could not understand how so much
wisdom on all points could be allied with madness. Was Faria deceived as
to his treasure, or was all the world deceived as to Faria?

Dantes remained in his cell all day, not daring to return to his friend,
thinking thus to defer the moment when he should be convinced, once for
all, that the abbe was mad--such a conviction would be so terrible!

But, towards the evening after the hour for the customary visit had gone
by, Faria, not seeing the young man appear, tried to move and get over
the distance which separated them. Edmond shuddered when he heard the
painful efforts which the old man made to drag himself along; his
leg was inert, and he could no longer make use of one arm. Edmond was
obliged to assist him, for otherwise he would not have been able to
enter by the small aperture which led to Dantes' chamber.

"Here I am, pursuing you remorselessly," he said with a benignant smile.
"You thought to escape my munificence, but it is in vain. Listen to me."

Edmond saw there was no escape, and placing the old man on his bed, he
seated himself on the stool beside him.

"You know," said the abbe, "that I was the secretary and intimate friend
of Cardinal Spada, the last of the princes of that name. I owe to this
worthy lord all the happiness I ever knew. He was not rich, although the
wealth of his family had passed into a proverb, and I heard the phrase
very often, 'As rich as a Spada.' But he, like public rumor, lived on
this reputation for wealth; his palace was my paradise. I was tutor to
his nephews, who are dead; and when he was alone in the world, I tried
by absolute devotion to his will, to make up to him all he had done for
me during ten years of unremitting kindness. The cardinal's house had
no secrets for me. I had often seen my noble patron annotating ancient
volumes, and eagerly searching amongst dusty family manuscripts. One day
when I was reproaching him for his unavailing searches, and deploring
the prostration of mind that followed them, he looked at me, and,
smiling bitterly, opened a volume relating to the History of the City of
Rome. There, in the twentieth chapter of the Life of Pope Alexander VI.,
were the following lines, which I can never forget:--

"'The great wars of Romagna had ended; Caesar Borgia, who had completed
his conquest, had need of money to purchase all Italy. The pope had also
need of money to bring matters to an end with Louis XII. King of France,
who was formidable still in spite of his recent reverses; and it was
necessary, therefore, to have recourse to some profitable scheme,
which was a matter of great difficulty in the impoverished condition
of exhausted Italy. His holiness had an idea. He determined to make two
cardinals.'

"By choosing two of the greatest personages of Rome, especially rich
men--this was the return the holy father looked for. In the first place,
he could sell the great appointments and splendid offices which the
cardinals already held; and then he had the two hats to sell besides.
There was a third point in view, which will appear hereafter. The
pope and Caesar Borgia first found the two future cardinals; they were
Giovanni Rospigliosi, who held four of the highest dignities of the
Holy See, and Caesar Spada, one of the noblest and richest of the Roman
nobility; both felt the high honor of such a favor from the pope.
They were ambitious, and Caesar Borgia soon found purchasers for their
appointments. The result was, that Rospigliosi and Spada paid for being
cardinals, and eight other persons paid for the offices the cardinals
held before their elevation, and thus eight hundred thousand crowns
entered into the coffers of the speculators.

"It is time now to proceed to the last part of the speculation. The pope
heaped attentions upon Rospigliosi and Spada, conferred upon them the
insignia of the cardinalate, and induced them to arrange their affairs
and take up their residence at Rome. Then the pope and Caesar Borgia
invited the two cardinals to dinner. This was a matter of dispute
between the holy father and his son. Caesar thought they could make use
of one of the means which he always had ready for his friends, that is
to say, in the first place, the famous key which was given to certain
persons with the request that they go and open a designated cupboard.
This key was furnished with a small iron point,--a negligence on the
part of the locksmith. When this was pressed to effect the opening of
the cupboard, of which the lock was difficult, the person was pricked
by this small point, and died next day. Then there was the ring with the
lion's head, which Caesar wore when he wanted to greet his friends with
a clasp of the hand. The lion bit the hand thus favored, and at the
end of twenty-four hours, the bite was mortal. Caesar proposed to his
father, that they should either ask the cardinals to open the cupboard,
or shake hands with them; but Alexander VI., replied: 'Now as to the
worthy cardinals, Spada and Rospigliosi, let us ask both of them to
dinner, something tells me that we shall get that money back. Besides,
you forget, Caesar, an indigestion declares itself immediately, while
a prick or a bite occasions a delay of a day or two.' Caesar gave
way before such cogent reasoning, and the cardinals were consequently
invited to dinner.

"The table was laid in a vineyard belonging to the pope, near San
Pierdarena, a charming retreat which the cardinals knew very well by
report. Rospigliosi, quite set up with his new dignities, went with a
good appetite and his most ingratiating manner. Spada, a prudent man,
and greatly attached to his only nephew, a young captain of the highest
promise, took paper and pen, and made his will. He then sent word to his
nephew to wait for him near the vineyard; but it appeared the servant
did not find him.

"Spada knew what these invitations meant; since Christianity, so
eminently civilizing, had made progress in Rome, it was no longer a
centurion who came from the tyrant with a message, 'Caesar wills that
you die.' but it was a legate a latere, who came with a smile on his
lips to say from the pope, 'His holiness requests you to dine with him.'

"Spada set out about two o'clock to San Pierdarena. The pope awaited
him. The first sight that attracted the eyes of Spada was that of
his nephew, in full costume, and Caesar Borgia paying him most marked
attentions. Spada turned pale, as Caesar looked at him with an ironical
air, which proved that he had anticipated all, and that the snare was
well spread. They began dinner and Spada was only able to inquire of his
nephew if he had received his message. The nephew replied no; perfectly
comprehending the meaning of the question. It was too late, for he had
already drunk a glass of excellent wine, placed for him expressly by the
pope's butler. Spada at the same moment saw another bottle approach him,
which he was pressed to taste. An hour afterwards a physician declared
they were both poisoned through eating mushrooms. Spada died on the
threshold of the vineyard; the nephew expired at his own door, making
signs which his wife could not comprehend.

"Then Caesar and the pope hastened to lay hands on the heritage, under
presence of seeking for the papers of the dead man. But the inheritance
consisted in this only, a scrap of paper on which Spada had written:--'I
bequeath to my beloved nephew my coffers, my books, and, amongst others,
my breviary with the gold corners, which I beg he will preserve in
remembrance of his affectionate uncle.'

"The heirs sought everywhere, admired the breviary, laid hands on the
furniture, and were greatly astonished that Spada, the rich man, was
really the most miserable of uncles--no treasures--unless they were
those of science, contained in the library and laboratories. That was
all. Caesar and his father searched, examined, scrutinized, but found
nothing, or at least very little; not exceeding a few thousand crowns in
plate, and about the same in ready money; but the nephew had time to say
to his wife before he expired: 'Look well among my uncle's papers; there
is a will.'

"They sought even more thoroughly than the august heirs had done, but it
was fruitless. There were two palaces and a vineyard behind the Palatine
Hill; but in these days landed property had not much value, and the two
palaces and the vineyard remained to the family since they were beneath
the rapacity of the pope and his son. Months and years rolled on.
Alexander VI. died, poisoned,--you know by what mistake. Caesar,
poisoned at the same time, escaped by shedding his skin like a snake;
but the new skin was spotted by the poison till it looked like a
tiger's. Then, compelled to quit Rome, he went and got himself obscurely
killed in a night skirmish, scarcely noticed in history. After the
pope's death and his son's exile, it was supposed that the Spada family
would resume the splendid position they had held before the cardinal's
time; but this was not the case. The Spadas remained in doubtful ease,
a mystery hung over this dark affair, and the public rumor was, that
Caesar, a better politician than his father, had carried off from the
pope the fortune of the two cardinals. I say the two, because Cardinal
Rospigliosi, who had not taken any precaution, was completely despoiled.

"Up to this point," said Faria, interrupting the thread of his
narrative, "this seems to you very meaningless, no doubt, eh?"

"Oh, my friend," cried Dantes, "on the contrary, it seems as if I were
reading a most interesting narrative; go on, I beg of you."

"I will."

"The family began to get accustomed to their obscurity. Years rolled
on, and amongst the descendants some were soldiers, others diplomatists;
some churchmen, some bankers; some grew rich, and some were ruined. I
come now to the last of the family, whose secretary I was--the Count of
Spada. I had often heard him complain of the disproportion of his rank
with his fortune; and I advised him to invest all he had in an annuity.
He did so, and thus doubled his income. The celebrated breviary remained
in the family, and was in the count's possession. It had been handed
down from father to son; for the singular clause of the only will
that had been found, had caused it to be regarded as a genuine relic,
preserved in the family with superstitious veneration. It was an
illuminated book, with beautiful Gothic characters, and so weighty with
gold, that a servant always carried it before the cardinal on days of
great solemnity.

"At the sight of papers of all sorts,--titles, contracts, parchments,
which were kept in the archives of the family, all descending from
the poisoned cardinal, I in my turn examined the immense bundles of
documents, like twenty servitors, stewards, secretaries before me; but
in spite of the most exhaustive researches, I found--nothing. Yet I had
read, I had even written a precise history of the Borgia family, for
the sole purpose of assuring myself whether any increase of fortune had
occurred to them on the death of the Cardinal Caesar Spada; but could
only trace the acquisition of the property of the Cardinal Rospigliosi,
his companion in misfortune.

"I was then almost assured that the inheritance had neither profited the
Borgias nor the family, but had remained unpossessed like the treasures
of the Arabian Nights, which slept in the bosom of the earth under the
eyes of the genie. I searched, ransacked, counted, calculated a thousand
and a thousand times the income and expenditure of the family for three
hundred years. It was useless. I remained in my ignorance, and the
Count of Spada in his poverty. My patron died. He had reserved from
his annuity his family papers, his library, composed of five thousand
volumes, and his famous breviary. All these he bequeathed to me, with a
thousand Roman crowns, which he had in ready money, on condition that I
would have anniversary masses said for the repose of his soul, and that
I would draw up a genealogical tree and history of his house. All this I
did scrupulously. Be easy, my dear Edmond, we are near the conclusion.

"In 1807, a month before I was arrested, and a fortnight after the death
of the Count of Spada, on the 25th of December (you will see presently
how the date became fixed in my memory), I was reading, for the
thousandth time, the papers I was arranging, for the palace was sold
to a stranger, and I was going to leave Rome and settle at Florence,
intending to take with me twelve thousand francs I possessed, my
library, and the famous breviary, when, tired with my constant labor
at the same thing, and overcome by a heavy dinner I had eaten, my
head dropped on my hands, and I fell asleep about three o'clock in the
afternoon. I awoke as the clock was striking six. I raised my head;
I was in utter darkness. I rang for a light, but as no one came, I
determined to find one for myself. It was indeed but anticipating the
simple manners which I should soon be under the necessity of adopting.
I took a wax-candle in one hand, and with the other groped about for a
piece of paper (my match-box being empty), with which I proposed to
get a light from the small flame still playing on the embers. Fearing,
however, to make use of any valuable piece of paper, I hesitated for a
moment, then recollected that I had seen in the famous breviary, which
was on the table beside me, an old paper quite yellow with age, and
which had served as a marker for centuries, kept there by the request of
the heirs. I felt for it, found it, twisted it up together, and putting
it into the expiring flame, set light to it.

"But beneath my fingers, as if by magic, in proportion as the fire
ascended, I saw yellowish characters appear on the paper. I grasped it
in my hand, put out the flame as quickly as I could, lighted my taper
in the fire itself, and opened the crumpled paper with inexpressible
emotion, recognizing, when I had done so, that these characters had been
traced in mysterious and sympathetic ink, only appearing when exposed to
the fire; nearly one-third of the paper had been consumed by the flame.
It was that paper you read this morning; read it again, Dantes, and then
I will complete for you the incomplete words and unconnected sense."

Faria, with an air of triumph, offered the paper to Dantes, who this
time read the following words, traced with an ink of a reddish color
resembling rust:--

"This 25th day of April, 1498, be...
Alexander VI., and fearing that not...
he may desire to become my heir, and re...
and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned,...
my sole heir, that I have bu...
and has visited with me, that is, in...
Island of Monte Cristo, all I poss...
jewels, diamonds, gems; that I alone...
may amount to nearly two mil...
will find on raising the twentieth ro...
creek to the east in a right line. Two open...
in these caves; the treasure is in the furthest a...
which treasure I bequeath and leave en...
as my sole heir.
"25th April, 1498.
"Caes...

"And now," said the abbe, "read this other paper;" and he presented to
Dantes a second leaf with fragments of lines written on it, which Edmond
read as follows:--

"...ing invited to dine by his Holiness
...content with making me pay for my hat,
...serves for me the fate of Cardinals Caprara
...I declare to my nephew, Guido Spada
...ried in a place he knows
...the caves of the small
...essed of ingots, gold, money,
...know of the existence of this treasure, which
...lions of Roman crowns, and which he
...ck from the small
...ings have been made
...ngle in the second;
...tire to him
...ar Spada."

Faria followed him with an excited look, "and now," he said, when he saw
that Dantes had read the last line, "put the two fragments together, and
judge for yourself." Dantes obeyed, and the conjointed pieces gave the
following:--

"This 25th day of April, 1498, be...ing invited to dine by his Holiness
Alexander VI., and fearing that not...content with making me pay for my
hat, he may desire to become my heir, and re...serves for me the fate of
Cardinals Caprara and Bentivoglio, who were poisoned...I declare to my
nephew, Guido Spada, my sole heir, that I have bu...ried in a place
he knows and has visited with me, that is, in...the caves of the small
Island of Monte Cristo all I poss...ssed of ingots, gold, money, jewels,
diamonds, gems; that I alone...know of the existence of this treasure,
which may amount to nearly two mil...lions of Roman crowns, and which he
will find on raising the twentieth ro...ck from the small creek to the
east in a right line. Two open...ings have been made in these caves;
the treasure is in the furthest a...ngle in the second; which treasure I
bequeath and leave en...tire to him as my sole heir. "25th April, 1498.
"Caes...ar Spada."

"Well, do you comprehend now?" inquired Faria.

"It is the declaration of Cardinal Spada, and the will so long sought
for," replied Edmond, still incredulous.

"Yes; a thousand times, yes!"

"And who completed it as it now is?"

"I did. Aided by the remaining fragment, I guessed the rest; measuring
the length of the lines by those of the paper, and divining the hidden
meaning by means of what was in part revealed, as we are guided in a
cavern by the small ray of light above us."

"And what did you do when you arrived at this conclusion?"

"I resolved to set out, and did set out at that very instant, carrying
with me the beginning of my great work, the unity of the Italian
kingdom; but for some time the imperial police (who at this period,
quite contrary to what Napoleon desired so soon as he had a son born to
him, wished for a partition of provinces) had their eyes on me; and my
hasty departure, the cause of which they were unable to guess, having
aroused their suspicions, I was arrested at the very moment I was
leaving Piombino.

"Now," continued Faria, addressing Dantes with an almost paternal
expression, "now, my dear fellow, you know as much as I do myself. If
we ever escape together, half this treasure is yours; if I die here, and
you escape alone, the whole belongs to you."

"But," inquired Dantes hesitating, "has this treasure no more legitimate
possessor in the world than ourselves?"

"No, no, be easy on that score; the family is extinct. The last Count
of Spada, moreover, made me his heir, bequeathing to me this symbolic
breviary, he bequeathed to me all it contained; no, no, make your mind
satisfied on that point. If we lay hands on this fortune, we may enjoy
it without remorse."

"And you say this treasure amounts to"--

"Two millions of Roman crowns; nearly thirteen millions of our
money." [*]

* $2,600,000 in 1894.

"Impossible!" said Dantes, staggered at the enormous amount.

"Impossible? and why?" asked the old man. "The Spada family was one of
the oldest and most powerful families of the fifteenth century; and in
those times, when other opportunities for investment were wanting, such
accumulations of gold and jewels were by no means rare; there are at
this day Roman families perishing of hunger, though possessed of nearly
a million in diamonds and jewels, handed down by entail, and which they
cannot touch." Edmond thought he was in a dream--he wavered between
incredulity and joy.

"I have only kept this secret so long from you," continued Faria, "that
I might test your character, and then surprise you. Had we escaped
before my attack of catalepsy, I should have conducted you to Monte
Cristo; now," he added, with a sigh, "it is you who will conduct me
thither. Well, Dantes, you do not thank me?"

"This treasure belongs to you, my dear friend," replied Dantes, "and to
you only. I have no right to it. I am no relation of yours."

"You are my son, Dantes," 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 abbe'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 Dantes all the good which, with
thirteen or fourteen millions of francs, a man could do in these days to
his friends; and then Dantes' 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 abbe did not know the Island of Monte Cristo; but Dantes 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. Dantes
drew a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave Dantes advice as to
the means he should employ to recover the treasure. But Dantes 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
Dantes 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 Dantes had
partly filled in. But for this precaution, which, it will be remembered,
the abbe 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 Caesar 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 Dantes to learn it by heart;
and Dantes 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 Dantes,--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; Dantes, 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 some one 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, Dantes
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 Dantes; "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 Dantes, 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 abbe, 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." A violent
convulsion attacked the old man. Dantes 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,
Dantes! 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.

Dantes 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.

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, Dantes 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 Dantes' 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.

Dantes 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 Dantes' 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 Chateau d'If are not
dear!"

"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 every one 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 Dantes indignant, for he felt that all
the world should have for the poor abbe 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 Dantes, 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 Dantes 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 Dantes 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.

"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 abbe.

"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."

"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 Dantes' 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 chateau
came to me yesterday to beg for leave of absence, in order to take a
trip to Hyeres for a week. I told him I would attend to the prisoners
in his absence. If the poor abbe 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 Dantes. Then he raised the flag-stone cautiously with
his head, and looked carefully around the chamber. It was empty, and
Dantes emerged from the tunnel.

Chapter 20. The Cemetery of the Chateau 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
Dantes 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 revery.

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
not Faria's fate the better, after all--to solve the problem of life at
its source, even at the risk of horrible suffering? The idea of suicide,
which his friend had driven away and kept away by his cheerful presence,
now hovered like a phantom over the abbe's dead body.

"If I could die," he said, "I should go where he goes, and should
assuredly find him again. But how to die? It is very easy," he went on
with a smile; "I will remain here, rush on the first person that opens
the door, strangle him, and then they will guillotine me." But excessive
grief is like a storm at sea, where the frail bark is tossed from the
depths to the top of the wave. Dantes recoiled from the idea of so
infamous a death, and passed suddenly from despair to an ardent desire
for life and liberty.

"Die? oh, no," he exclaimed--"not die now, after having lived and
suffered so long and so much! Die? yes, had I died years ago; but now to
die would be, indeed, to give way to the sarcasm of destiny. No, I want
to live; I shall struggle to the very last; I will yet win back the
happiness of which I have been deprived. Before I die I must not forget
that I have my executioners to punish, and perhaps, too, who knows, some
friends to reward. Yet they will forget me here, and I shall die in
my dungeon like Faria." As he said this, he became silent and gazed
straight before him like one overwhelmed with a strange and amazing
thought. Suddenly he arose, lifted his hand to his brow as if his brain
were giddy, paced twice or thrice round the dungeon, and then paused
abruptly by the bed.

"Just God!" he muttered, "whence comes this thought? Is it from thee?
Since none but the dead pass freely from this dungeon, let me take
the place of the dead!" Without giving himself time to reconsider
his decision, and, indeed, that he might not allow his thoughts to be
distracted from his desperate resolution, he bent over the appalling
shroud, opened it with the knife which Faria had made, drew the corpse
from the sack, and bore it along the tunnel to his own chamber, laid it
on his couch, tied around its head the rag he wore at night around his
own, covered it with his counterpane, once again kissed the ice-cold
brow, and tried vainly to close the resisting eyes, which glared
horribly, turned the head towards the wall, so that the jailer might,
when he brought the evening meal, believe that he was asleep, as was
his frequent custom; entered the tunnel again, drew the bed against the
wall, returned to the other cell, took from the hiding-place the needle
and thread, flung off his rags, that they might feel only naked flesh
beneath the coarse canvas, and getting inside the sack, placed himself
in the posture in which the dead body had been laid, and sewed up the
mouth of the sack from the inside.

He would have been discovered by the beating of his heart, if by any
mischance the jailers had entered at that moment. Dantes might have
waited until the evening visit was over, but he was afraid that the
governor would change his mind, and order the dead body to be removed
earlier. In that case his last hope would have been destroyed. Now his
plans were fully made, and this is what he intended to do. If while he
was being carried out the grave-diggers should discover that they were
bearing a live instead of a dead body, Dantes did not intend to give
them time to recognize him, but with a sudden cut of the knife, he meant
to open the sack from top to bottom, and, profiting by their alarm,
escape; if they tried to catch him, he would use his knife to better
purpose.

If they took him to the cemetery and laid him in a grave, he would
allow himself to be covered with earth, and then, as it was night, the
grave-diggers could scarcely have turned their backs before he would
have worked his way through the yielding soil and escaped. He hoped that
the weight of earth would not be so great that he could not overcome it.
If he was detected in this and the earth proved too heavy, he would be
stifled, and then--so much the better, all would be over. Dantes had not
eaten since the preceding evening, but he had not thought of hunger, nor
did he think of it now. His situation was too precarious to allow him
even time to reflect on any thought but one.

The first risk that Dantes ran was, that the jailer, when he brought
him his supper at seven o'clock, might perceive the change that had been
made; fortunately, twenty times at least, from misanthropy or fatigue,
Dantes had received his jailer in bed, and then the man placed his bread
and soup on the table, and went away without saying a word. This time
the jailer might not be as silent as usual, but speak to Dantes, and
seeing that he received no reply, go to the bed, and thus discover all.

When seven o'clock came, Dantes' agony really began. His hand placed
upon his heart was unable to redress its throbbings, while, with the
other he wiped the perspiration from his temples. From time to time
chills ran through his whole body, and clutched his heart in a grasp
of ice. Then he thought he was going to die. Yet the hours passed on
without any unusual disturbance, and Dantes knew that he had escaped
the first peril. It was a good augury. At length, about the hour the
governor had appointed, footsteps were heard on the stairs. Edmond
felt that the moment had arrived, summoned up all his courage, held
his breath, and would have been happy if at the same time he could
have repressed the throbbing of his veins. The footsteps--they
were double--paused at the door--and Dantes guessed that the two
grave-diggers had come to seek him--this idea was soon converted
into certainty, when he heard the noise they made in putting down the
hand-bier. The door opened, and a dim light reached Dantes' eyes through
the coarse sack that covered him; he saw two shadows approach his bed,
a third remaining at the door with a torch in its hand. The two men,
approaching the ends of the bed, took the sack by its extremities.

"He's heavy though for an old and thin man," said one, as he raised the
head.

"They say every year adds half a pound to the weight of the bones," said
another, lifting the feet.

"Have you tied the knot?" inquired the first speaker.

"What would be the use of carrying so much more weight?" was the reply,
"I can do that when we get there."

"Yes, you're right," replied the companion.

"What's the knot for?" thought Dantes.

They deposited the supposed corpse on the bier. Edmond stiffened himself
in order to play the part of a dead man, and then the party, lighted by
the man with the torch, who went first, ascended the stairs. Suddenly he
felt the fresh and sharp night air, and Dantes knew that the mistral was
blowing. It was a sensation in which pleasure and pain were strangely
mingled. The bearers went on for twenty paces, then stopped, putting
the bier down on the ground. One of them went away, and Dantes heard his
shoes striking on the pavement.

"Where am I?" he asked himself.

"Really, he is by no means a light load!" said the other bearer, sitting
on the edge of the hand-barrow. Dantes' first impulse was to escape, but
fortunately he did not attempt it.

"Give us a light," said the other bearer, "or I shall never find what I
am looking for." The man with the torch complied, although not asked in
the most polite terms.

"What can he be looking for?" thought Edmond. "The spade, perhaps." An
exclamation of satisfaction indicated that the grave-digger had found
the object of his search. "Here it is at last," he said, "not without
some trouble though."

"Yes," was the answer, "but it has lost nothing by waiting."

As he said this, the man came towards Edmond, who heard a heavy metallic
substance laid down beside him, and at the same moment a cord was
fastened round his feet with sudden and painful violence.

"Well, have you tied the knot?" inquired the grave-digger, who was
looking on.

"Yes, and pretty tight too, I can tell you," was the answer.

"Move on, then." And the bier was lifted once more, and they proceeded.

They advanced fifty paces farther, and then stopped to open a door, then
went forward again. The noise of the waves dashing against the rocks on
which the chateau is built, reached Dantes' ear distinctly as they went
forward.

"Bad weather!" observed one of the bearers; "not a pleasant night for a
dip in the sea."

"Why, yes, the abbe runs a chance of being wet," said the other; and
then there was a burst of brutal laughter. Dantes did not comprehend the
jest, but his hair stood erect on his head.

"Well, here we are at last," said one of them. "A little farther--a
little farther," said the other. "You know very well that the last was
stopped on his way, dashed on the rocks, and the governor told us next
day that we were careless fellows."

They ascended five or six more steps, and then Dantes felt that they
took him, one by the head and the other by the heels, and swung him to
and fro. "One!" said the grave-diggers, "two! three!" And at the same
instant Dantes felt himself flung into the air like a wounded bird,
falling, falling, with a rapidity that made his blood curdle. Although
drawn downwards by the heavy weight which hastened his rapid descent, it
seemed to him as if the fall lasted for a century.

At last, with a horrible splash, he darted like an arrow into the
ice-cold water, and as he did so he uttered a shrill cry, stifled in a
moment by his immersion beneath the waves.

Dantes had been flung into the sea, and was dragged into its depths by
a thirty-six pound shot tied to his feet. The sea is the cemetery of the
Chateau d'If.

Chapter 21. The Island of Tiboulen.

Dantes, although stunned and almost suffocated, had sufficient presence
of mind to hold his breath, and as his right hand (prepared as he was
for every chance) held his knife open, he rapidly ripped up the sack,
extricated his arm, and then his body; but in spite of all his efforts
to free himself from the shot, he felt it dragging him down still lower.
He then bent his body, and by a desperate effort severed the cord that
bound his legs, at the moment when it seemed as if he were actually
strangled. With a mighty leap he rose to the surface of the sea, while
the shot dragged down to the depths the sack that had so nearly become
his shroud.

Dantes waited only to get breath, and then dived, in order to avoid
being seen. When he arose a second time, he was fifty paces from where
he had first sunk. He saw overhead a black and tempestuous sky, across
which the wind was driving clouds that occasionally suffered a twinkling
star to appear; before him was the vast expanse of waters, sombre and
terrible, whose waves foamed and roared as if before the approach of
a storm. Behind him, blacker than the sea, blacker than the sky, rose
phantom-like the vast stone structure, whose projecting crags seemed
like arms extended to seize their prey, and on the highest rock was a
torch lighting two figures. He fancied that these two forms were looking
at the sea; doubtless these strange grave-diggers had heard his cry.
Dantes dived again, and remained a long time beneath the water. This was
an easy feat to him, for he usually attracted a crowd of spectators in
the bay before the lighthouse at Marseilles when he swam there, and was
unanimously declared to be the best swimmer in the port. When he came up
again the light had disappeared.

He must now get his bearings. Ratonneau and Pomegue are the nearest
islands of all those that surround the Chateau d'If, but Ratonneau
and Pomegue are inhabited, as is also the islet of Daume. Tiboulen and
Lemaire were therefore the safest for Dantes' venture. The islands
of Tiboulen and Lemaire are a league from the Chateau d'If; Dantes,
nevertheless, determined to make for them. But how could he find his
way in the darkness of the night? At this moment he saw the light of
Planier, gleaming in front of him like a star. By leaving this light
on the right, he kept the Island of Tiboulen a little on the left; by
turning to the left, therefore, he would find it. But, as we have said,
it was at least a league from the Chateau d'If to this island. Often
in prison Faria had said to him, when he saw him idle and inactive,
"Dantes, you must not give way to this listlessness; you will be drowned
if you seek to escape, and your strength has not been properly exercised
and prepared for exertion." These words rang in Dantes' ears, even
beneath the waves; he hastened to cleave his way through them to see if
he had not lost his strength. He found with pleasure that his captivity
had taken away nothing of his power, and that he was still master of
that element on whose bosom he had so often sported as a boy.

Fear, that relentless pursuer, clogged Dantes' efforts. He listened for
any sound that might be audible, and every time that he rose to the top
of a wave he scanned the horizon, and strove to penetrate the darkness.
He fancied that every wave behind him was a pursuing boat, and he
redoubled his exertions, increasing rapidly his distance from the
chateau, but exhausting his strength. He swam on still, and already the
terrible chateau had disappeared in the darkness. He could not see it,
but he felt its presence. An hour passed, during which Dantes, excited
by the feeling of freedom, continued to cleave the waves. "Let us see,"
said he, "I have swum above an hour, but as the wind is against me, that
has retarded my speed; however, if I am not mistaken, I must be close
to Tiboulen. But what if I were mistaken?" A shudder passed over him.
He sought to tread water, in order to rest himself; but the sea was
too violent, and he felt that he could not make use of this means of
recuperation.

"Well," said he, "I will swim on until I am worn out, or the cramp
seizes me, and then I shall sink;" and he struck out with the energy of
despair.

Suddenly the sky seemed to him to become still darker and more dense,
and heavy clouds seemed to sweep down towards him; at the same time he
felt a sharp pain in his knee. He fancied for a moment that he had been
shot, and listened for the report; but he heard nothing. Then he put out
his hand, and encountered an obstacle and with another stroke knew that
he had gained the shore.

Before him rose a grotesque mass of rocks, that resembled nothing
so much as a vast fire petrified at the moment of its most fervent
combustion. It was the Island of Tiboulen. Dantes rose, advanced a few
steps, and, with a fervent prayer of gratitude, stretched himself on
the granite, which seemed to him softer than down. Then, in spite of the
wind and rain, he fell into the deep, sweet sleep of utter exhaustion.
At the expiration of an hour Edmond was awakened by the roar of thunder.
The tempest was let loose and beating the atmosphere with its mighty
wings; from time to time a flash of lightning stretched across the
heavens like a fiery serpent, lighting up the clouds that rolled on in
vast chaotic waves.

Dantes had not been deceived--he had reached the first of the two
islands, which was, in fact, Tiboulen. He knew that it was barren and
without shelter; but when the sea became more calm, he resolved to
plunge into its waves again, and swim to Lemaire, equally arid, but
larger, and consequently better adapted for concealment.

An overhanging rock offered him a temporary shelter, and scarcely had
he availed himself of it when the tempest burst forth in all its fury.
Edmond felt the trembling of the rock beneath which he lay; the waves,
dashing themselves against it, wetted him with their spray. He was
safely sheltered, and yet he felt dizzy in the midst of the warring of
the elements and the dazzling brightness of the lightning. It seemed
to him that the island trembled to its base, and that it would, like a
vessel at anchor, break moorings, and bear him off into the centre
of the storm. He then recollected that he had not eaten or drunk for
four-and-twenty hours. He extended his hands, and drank greedily of the
rainwater that had lodged in a hollow of the rock.

As he rose, a flash of lightning, that seemed to rive the remotest
heights of heaven, illumined the darkness. By its light, between the
Island of Lemaire and Cape Croiselle, a quarter of a league distant,
Dantes saw a fishing-boat driven rapidly like a spectre before the power
of winds and waves. A second after, he saw it again, approaching with
frightful rapidity. Dantes cried at the top of his voice to warn them of
their danger, but they saw it themselves. Another flash showed him four
men clinging to the shattered mast and the rigging, while a fifth clung
to the broken rudder.

The men he beheld saw him undoubtedly, for their cries were carried to
his ears by the wind. Above the splintered mast a sail rent to tatters
was waving; suddenly the ropes that still held it gave way, and it
disappeared in the darkness of the night like a vast sea-bird. At the
same moment a violent crash was heard, and cries of distress. Dantes
from his rocky perch saw the shattered vessel, and among the fragments
the floating forms of the hapless sailors. Then all was dark again.

Dantes ran down the rocks at the risk of being himself dashed to pieces;
he listened, he groped about, but he heard and saw nothing--the cries
had ceased, and the tempest continued to rage. By degrees the wind
abated, vast gray clouds rolled towards the west, and the blue firmament
appeared studded with bright stars. Soon a red streak became visible in
the horizon, the waves whitened, a light played over them, and gilded
their foaming crests with gold. It was day.

Dantes stood mute and motionless before this majestic spectacle, as if
he now beheld it for the first time; and indeed since his captivity
in the Chateau d'If he had forgotten that such scenes were ever to be
witnessed. He turned towards the fortress, and looked at both sea and
land. The gloomy building rose from the bosom of the ocean with imposing
majesty and seemed to dominate the scene. It was about five o'clock. The
sea continued to get calmer.

"In two or three hours," thought Dantes, "the turnkey will enter my
chamber, find the body of my poor friend, recognize it, seek for me in
vain, and give the alarm. Then the tunnel will be discovered; the men
who cast me into the sea and who must have heard the cry I uttered, will
be questioned. Then boats filled with armed soldiers will pursue the
wretched fugitive. The cannon will warn every one to refuse shelter to a
man wandering about naked and famished. The police of Marseilles will be
on the alert by land, whilst the governor pursues me by sea. I am cold,
I am hungry. I have lost even the knife that saved me. O my God, I have
suffered enough surely! Have pity on me, and do for me what I am unable
to do for myself."

As Dantes (his eyes turned in the direction of the Chateau d'If) uttered
this prayer, he saw off the farther point of the Island of Pomegue a
small vessel with lateen sail skimming the sea like a gull in search of
prey; and with his sailor's eye he knew it to be a Genoese tartan.
She was coming out of Marseilles harbor, and was standing out to sea
rapidly, her sharp prow cleaving through the waves. "Oh," cried Edmond,
"to think that in half an hour I could join her, did I not fear being
questioned, detected, and conveyed back to Marseilles! What can I do?
What story can I invent? under pretext of trading along the coast, these
men, who are in reality smugglers, will prefer selling me to doing a
good action. I must wait. But I cannot---- I am starving. In a few hours
my strength will be utterly exhausted; besides, perhaps I have not been
missed at the fortress. I can pass as one of the sailors wrecked last
night. My story will be accepted, for there is no one left to contradict
me."

As he spoke, Dantes looked toward the spot where the fishing-vessel had
been wrecked, and started. The red cap of one of the sailors hung to a
point of the rock and some timbers that had formed part of the vessel's
keel, floated at the foot of the crag. In an instant Dantes' plan was
formed. He swam to the cap, placed it on his head, seized one of the
timbers, and struck out so as to cut across the course the vessel was
taking.

"I am saved!" murmured he. And this conviction restored his strength.

He soon saw that the vessel, with the wind dead ahead, was tacking
between the Chateau d'If and the tower of Planier. For an instant he
feared lest, instead of keeping in shore, she should stand out to sea;
but he soon saw that she would pass, like most vessels bound for Italy,
between the islands of Jaros and Calaseraigne. However, the vessel and
the swimmer insensibly neared one another, and in one of its tacks
the tartan bore down within a quarter of a mile of him. He rose on the
waves, making signs of distress; but no one on board saw him, and the
vessel stood on another tack. Dantes would have shouted, but he knew
that the wind would drown his voice.

It was then he rejoiced at his precaution in taking the timber,
for without it he would have been unable, perhaps, to reach the
vessel--certainly to return to shore, should he be unsuccessful in
attracting attention.

Dantes, though almost sure as to what course the vessel would take, had
yet watched it anxiously until it tacked and stood towards him. Then
he advanced; but before they could meet, the vessel again changed her
course. By a violent effort he rose half out of the water, waving his
cap, and uttering a loud shout peculiar to sailers. This time he was
both seen and heard, and the tartan instantly steered towards him. At
the same time, he saw they were about to lower the boat.

An instant after, the boat, rowed by two men, advanced rapidly towards
him. Dantes let go of the timber, which he now thought to be useless,
and swam vigorously to meet them. But he had reckoned too much upon his
strength, and then he realized how serviceable the timber had been to
him. His arms became stiff, his legs lost their flexibility, and he was
almost breathless.

He shouted again. The two sailors redoubled their efforts, and one of
them cried in Italian, "Courage!"

The word reached his ear as a wave which he no longer had the strength
to surmount passed over his head. He rose again to the surface,
struggled with the last desperate effort of a drowning man, uttered a
third cry, and felt himself sinking, as if the fatal cannon shot were
again tied to his feet. The water passed over his head, and the sky
turned gray. A convulsive movement again brought him to the surface. He
felt himself seized by the hair, then he saw and heard nothing. He had
fainted.

When he opened his eyes Dantes found himself on the deck of the tartan.
His first care was to see what course they were taking. They were
rapidly leaving the Chateau d'If behind. Dantes was so exhausted that
the exclamation of joy he uttered was mistaken for a sigh.

As we have said, he was lying on the deck. A sailor was rubbing his
limbs with a woollen cloth; another, whom he recognized as the one who
had cried out "Courage!" held a gourd full of rum to his mouth; while
the third, an old sailer, at once the pilot and captain, looked on with
that egotistical pity men feel for a misfortune that they have escaped
yesterday, and which may overtake them to-morrow.

A few drops of the rum restored suspended animation, while the friction
of his limbs restored their elasticity.

"Who are you?" said the pilot in bad French.

"I am," replied Dantes, in bad Italian, "a Maltese sailor. We were
coming from Syracuse laden with grain. The storm of last night overtook
us at Cape Morgion, and we were wrecked on these rocks."

"Where do you come from?"

"From these rocks that I had the good luck to cling to while our captain
and the rest of the crew were all lost. I saw your vessel, and fearful
of being left to perish on the desolate island, I swam off on a piece of
wreckage to try and intercept your course. You have saved my life, and
I thank you," continued Dantes. "I was lost when one of your sailors
caught hold of my hair."

"It was I," said a sailor of a frank and manly appearance; "and it was
time, for you were sinking."

"Yes," returned Dantes, holding out his hand, "I thank you again."

"I almost hesitated, though," replied the sailor; "you looked more like
a brigand than an honest man, with your beard six inches, and your hair
a foot long." Dantes recollected that his hair and beard had not been
cut all the time he was at the Chateau d'If.

"Yes," said he, "I made a vow, to our Lady of the Grotto not to cut my
hair or beard for ten years if I were saved in a moment of danger; but
to-day the vow expires."

"Now what are we to do with you?" said the captain.

"Alas, anything you please. My captain is dead; I have barely escaped;
but I am a good sailor. Leave me at the first port you make; I shall be
sure to find employment."

"Do you know the Mediterranean?"

"I have sailed over it since my childhood."

"You know the best harbors?"

"There are few ports that I could not enter or leave with a bandage over
my eyes."

"I say, captain," said the sailor who had cried "Courage!" to Dantes,
"if what he says is true, what hinders his staying with us?"

"If he says true," said the captain doubtingly. "But in his present
condition he will promise anything, and take his chance of keeping it
afterwards."

"I will do more than I promise," said Dantes.

"We shall see," returned the other, smiling.

"Where are you going?" asked Dantes.

"To Leghorn."

"Then why, instead of tacking so frequently, do you not sail nearer the
wind?"

"Because we should run straight on to the Island of Rion."

"You shall pass it by twenty fathoms."

"Take the helm, and let us see what you know." The young man took the
helm, felt to see if the vessel answered the rudder promptly and
seeing that, without being a first-rate sailer, she yet was tolerably
obedient,--

"To the sheets," said he. The four seamen, who composed the crew,
obeyed, while the pilot looked on. "Haul taut."--They obeyed.

"Belay." This order was also executed; and the vessel passed, as Dantes
had predicted, twenty fathoms to windward.

"Bravo!" said the captain.

"Bravo!" repeated the sailors. And they all looked with astonishment at
this man whose eye now disclosed an intelligence and his body a vigor
they had not thought him capable of showing.

"You see," said Dantes, quitting the helm, "I shall be of some use to
you, at least during the voyage. If you do not want me at Leghorn, you
can leave me there, and I will pay you out of the first wages I get, for
my food and the clothes you lend me."

"Ah," said the captain, "we can agree very well, if you are reasonable."

"Give me what you give the others, and it will be all right," returned
Dantes.

"That's not fair," said the seaman who had saved Dantes; "for you know
more than we do."

"What is that to you, Jacopo?" returned the Captain. "Every one is free
to ask what he pleases."

"That's true," replied Jacopo; "I only make a remark."

"Well, you would do much better to find him a jacket and a pair of
trousers, if you have them."

"No," said Jacopo; "but I have a shirt and a pair of trousers."

"That is all I want," interrupted Dantes. Jacopo dived into the hold and
soon returned with what Edmond wanted.

"Now, then, do you wish for anything else?" said the patron.

"A piece of bread and another glass of the capital rum I tasted, for
I have not eaten or drunk for a long time." He had not tasted food for
forty hours. A piece of bread was brought, and Jacopo offered him the
gourd.

"Larboard your helm," cried the captain to the steersman. Dantes glanced
that way as he lifted the gourd to his mouth; then paused with hand in
mid-air.

"Hollo! what's the matter at the Chateau d'If?" said the captain.

A small white cloud, which had attracted Dantes' attention, crowned the
summit of the bastion of the Chateau d'If. At the same moment the faint
report of a gun was heard. The sailors looked at one another.

"What is this?" asked the captain.

"A prisoner has escaped from the Chateau d'If, and they are firing
the alarm gun," replied Dantes. The captain glanced at him, but he had
lifted the rum to his lips and was drinking it with so much composure,
that suspicions, if the captain had any, died away.

"At any rate," murmured he, "if it be, so much the better, for I have
made a rare acquisition." Under pretence of being fatigued, Dantes asked
to take the helm; the steersman, glad to be relieved, looked at the
captain, and the latter by a sign indicated that he might abandon it to
his new comrade. Dantes could thus keep his eyes on Marseilles.

"What is the day of the month?" asked he of Jacopo, who sat down beside
him.

"The 28th of February."

"In what year?"

"In what year--you ask me in what year?"

"Yes," replied the young man, "I ask you in what year!"

"You have forgotten then?"

"I got such a fright last night," replied Dantes, smiling, "that I have
almost lost my memory. I ask you what year is it?"

"The year 1829," returned Jacopo. It was fourteen years day for day
since Dantes' arrest. He was nineteen when he entered the Chateau d'If;
he was thirty-three when he escaped. A sorrowful smile passed over his
face; he asked himself what had become of Mercedes, who must believe him
dead. Then his eyes lighted up with hatred as he thought of the three
men who had caused him so long and wretched a captivity. He renewed
against Danglars, Fernand, and Villefort the oath of implacable
vengeance he had made in his dungeon. This oath was no longer a vain
menace; for the fastest sailer in the Mediterranean would have been
unable to overtake the little tartan, that with every stitch of canvas
set was flying before the wind to Leghorn.

Chapter 22. The Smugglers.

Dantes had not been a day on board before he had a very clear idea of
the men with whom his lot had been cast. Without having been in the
school of the Abbe Faria, the worthy master of The Young Amelia (the
name of the Genoese tartan) knew a smattering of all the tongues spoken
on the shores of that large lake called the Mediterranean, from the
Arabic to the Provencal, and this, while it spared him interpreters,
persons always troublesome and frequently indiscreet, gave him great
facilities of communication, either with the vessels he met at sea,
with the small boats sailing along the coast, or with the people without
name, country, or occupation, who are always seen on the quays of
seaports, and who live by hidden and mysterious means which we must
suppose to be a direct gift of providence, as they have no visible means
of support. It is fair to assume that Dantes was on board a smuggler.

At first the captain had received Dantes on board with a certain degree
of distrust. He was very well known to the customs officers of the
coast; and as there was between these worthies and himself a perpetual
battle of wits, he had at first thought that Dantes might be an emissary
of these industrious guardians of rights and duties, who perhaps
employed this ingenious means of learning some of the secrets of his
trade. But the skilful manner in which Dantes had handled the lugger had
entirely reassured him; and then, when he saw the light plume of smoke
floating above the bastion of the Chateau d'If, and heard the distant
report, he was instantly struck with the idea that he had on board his
vessel one whose coming and going, like that of kings, was accompanied
with salutes of artillery. This made him less uneasy, it must be owned,
than if the new-comer had proved to be a customs officer; but this
supposition also disappeared like the first, when he beheld the perfect
tranquillity of his recruit.

Edmond thus had the advantage of knowing what the owner was, without the
owner knowing who he was; and however the old sailor and his crew tried
to "pump" him, they extracted nothing more from him; he gave accurate
descriptions of Naples and Malta, which he knew as well as Marseilles,
and held stoutly to his first story. Thus the Genoese, subtle as he
was, was duped by Edmond, in whose favor his mild demeanor, his nautical
skill, and his admirable dissimulation, pleaded. Moreover, it is
possible that the Genoese was one of those shrewd persons who know
nothing but what they should know, and believe nothing but what they
should believe.

In this state of mutual understanding, they reached Leghorn. Here
Edmond was to undergo another trial; he was to find out whether he could
recognize himself, as he had not seen his own face for fourteen years.
He had preserved a tolerably good remembrance of what the youth had
been, and was now to find out what the man had become. His comrades
believed that his vow was fulfilled. As he had twenty times touched at
Leghorn, he remembered a barber in St. Ferdinand Street; he went there
to have his beard and hair cut. The barber gazed in amazement at this
man with the long, thick and black hair and beard, which gave his head
the appearance of one of Titian's portraits. At this period it was not
the fashion to wear so large a beard and hair so long; now a barber
would only be surprised if a man gifted with such advantages should
consent voluntarily to deprive himself of them. The Leghorn barber said
nothing and went to work.

When the operation was concluded, and Edmond felt that his chin was
completely smooth, and his hair reduced to its usual length, he asked
for a hand-glass. He was now, as we have said, three-and-thirty years
of age, and his fourteen years' imprisonment had produced a great
transformation in his appearance. Dantes had entered the Chateau d'If
with the round, open, smiling face of a young and happy man, with whom
the early paths of life have been smooth, and who anticipates a future
corresponding with his past. This was now all changed. The oval face
was lengthened, his smiling mouth had assumed the firm and marked
lines which betoken resolution; his eyebrows were arched beneath a brow
furrowed with thought; his eyes were full of melancholy, and from their
depths occasionally sparkled gloomy fires of misanthropy and hatred;
his complexion, so long kept from the sun, had now that pale color
which produces, when the features are encircled with black hair, the
aristocratic beauty of the man of the north; the profound learning
he had acquired had besides diffused over his features a refined
intellectual expression; and he had also acquired, being naturally of
a goodly stature, that vigor which a frame possesses which has so long
concentrated all its force within itself.

To the elegance of a nervous and slight form had succeeded the solidity
of a rounded and muscular figure. As to his voice, prayers, sobs, and
imprecations had changed it so that at times it was of a singularly
penetrating sweetness, and at others rough and almost hoarse. Moreover,
from being so long in twilight or darkness, his eyes had acquired the
faculty of distinguishing objects in the night, common to the hyena and
the wolf. Edmond smiled when he beheld himself: it was impossible that
his best friend--if, indeed, he had any friend left--could recognize
him; he could not recognize himself.

The master of The Young Amelia, who was very desirous of retaining
amongst his crew a man of Edmond's value, had offered to advance him
funds out of his future profits, which Edmond had accepted. His next
care on leaving the barber's who had achieved his first metamorphosis
was to enter a shop and buy a complete sailor's suit--a garb, as we all
know, very simple, and consisting of white trousers, a striped shirt,
and a cap. It was in this costume, and bringing back to Jacopo the shirt
and trousers he had lent him, that Edmond reappeared before the captain
of the lugger, who had made him tell his story over and over again
before he could believe him, or recognize in the neat and trim sailor
the man with thick and matted beard, hair tangled with seaweed, and body
soaking in seabrine, whom he had picked up naked and nearly drowned.
Attracted by his prepossessing appearance, he renewed his offers of an
engagement to Dantes; but Dantes, who had his own projects, would not
agree for a longer time than three months.

The Young Amelia had a very active crew, very obedient to their captain,
who lost as little time as possible. He had scarcely been a week at
Leghorn before the hold of his vessel was filled with printed muslins,
contraband cottons, English powder, and tobacco on which the excise had
forgotten to put its mark. The master was to get all this out of Leghorn
free of duties, and land it on the shores of Corsica, where certain
speculators undertook to forward the cargo to France. They sailed;
Edmond was again cleaving the azure sea which had been the first horizon
of his youth, and which he had so often dreamed of in prison. He left
Gorgone on his right and La Pianosa on his left, and went towards the
country of Paoli and Napoleon. The next morning going on deck, as he
always did at an early hour, the patron found Dantes leaning against
the bulwarks gazing with intense earnestness at a pile of granite rocks,
which the rising sun tinged with rosy light. It was the Island of Monte
Cristo. The Young Amelia left it three-quarters of a league to the
larboard, and kept on for Corsica.

Dantes thought, as they passed so closely to the island whose name was
so interesting to him, that he had only to leap into the sea and in
half an hour be at the promised land. But then what could he do without
instruments to discover his treasure, without arms to defend himself?
Besides, what would the sailors say? What would the patron think? He
must wait.

Fortunately, Dantes had learned how to wait; he had waited fourteen
years for his liberty, and now he was free he could wait at least six
months or a year for wealth. Would he not have accepted liberty without
riches if it had been offered to him? Besides, were not those riches
chimerical?--offspring of the brain of the poor Abbe Faria, had they
not died with him? It is true, the letter of the Cardinal Spada was
singularly circumstantial, and Dantes repeated it to himself, from one
end to the other, for he had not forgotten a word.

Evening came, and Edmond saw the island tinged with the shades of
twilight, and then disappear in the darkness from all eyes but his own,
for he, with vision accustomed to the gloom of a prison, continued to
behold it last of all, for he remained alone upon deck. The next morn
broke off the coast of Aleria; all day they coasted, and in the evening
saw fires lighted on land; the position of these was no doubt a signal
for landing, for a ship's lantern was hung up at the mast-head instead
of the streamer, and they came to within a gunshot of the shore. Dantes
noticed that the captain of The Young Amelia had, as he neared the land,
mounted two small culverins, which, without making much noise, can throw
a four ounce ball a thousand paces or so.

But on this occasion the precaution was superfluous, and everything
proceeded with the utmost smoothness and politeness. Four shallops came
off with very little noise alongside the lugger, which, no doubt, in
acknowledgement of the compliment, lowered her own shallop into the sea,
and the five boats worked so well that by two o'clock in the morning
all the cargo was out of The Young Amelia and on terra firma. The same
night, such a man of regularity was the patron of The Young Amelia, the
profits were divided, and each man had a hundred Tuscan livres, or about
eighty francs. But the voyage was not ended. They turned the bowsprit
towards Sardinia, where they intended to take in a cargo, which was to
replace what had been discharged. The second operation was as successful
as the first, The Young Amelia was in luck. This new cargo was destined
for the coast of the Duchy of Lucca, and consisted almost entirely of
Havana cigars, sherry, and Malaga wines.

There they had a bit of a skirmish in getting rid of the duties; the
excise was, in truth, the everlasting enemy of the patron of The Young
Amelia. A customs officer was laid low, and two sailors wounded; Dantes
was one of the latter, a ball having touched him in the left shoulder.
Dantes was almost glad of this affray, and almost pleased at being
wounded, for they were rude lessons which taught him with what eye he
could view danger, and with what endurance he could bear suffering. He
had contemplated danger with a smile, and when wounded had exclaimed
with the great philosopher, "Pain, thou art not an evil." He had,
moreover, looked upon the customs officer wounded to death, and, whether
from heat of blood produced by the encounter, or the chill of human
sentiment, this sight had made but slight impression upon him. Dantes
was on the way he desired to follow, and was moving towards the end
he wished to achieve; his heart was in a fair way of petrifying in his
bosom. Jacopo, seeing him fall, had believed him killed, and rushing
towards him raised him up, and then attended to him with all the
kindness of a devoted comrade.

This world was not then so good as Doctor Pangloss believed it, neither
was it so wicked as Dantes thought it, since this man, who had nothing
to expect from his comrade but the inheritance of his share of
the prize-money, manifested so much sorrow when he saw him fall.
Fortunately, as we have said, Edmond was only wounded, and with certain
herbs gathered at certain seasons, and sold to the smugglers by the
old Sardinian women, the wound soon closed. Edmond then resolved to
try Jacopo, and offered him in return for his attention a share of his
prize-money, but Jacopo refused it indignantly.

As a result of the sympathetic devotion which Jacopo had from the
first bestowed on Edmond, the latter was moved to a certain degree of
affection. But this sufficed for Jacopo, who instinctively felt that
Edmond had a right to superiority of position--a superiority which
Edmond had concealed from all others. And from this time the kindness
which Edmond showed him was enough for the brave seaman.

Then in the long days on board ship, when the vessel, gliding on with
security over the azure sea, required no care but the hand of the
helmsman, thanks to the favorable winds that swelled her sails, Edmond,
with a chart in his hand, became the instructor of Jacopo, as the poor
Abbe Faria had been his tutor. He pointed out to him the bearings of the
coast, explained to him the variations of the compass, and taught him to
read in that vast book opened over our heads which they call heaven,
and where God writes in azure with letters of diamonds. And when Jacopo
inquired of him, "What is the use of teaching all these things to a
poor sailor like me?" Edmond replied, "Who knows? You may one day be the
captain of a vessel. Your fellow-countryman, Bonaparte, became emperor."
We had forgotten to say that Jacopo was a Corsican.

Two months and a half elapsed in these trips, and Edmond had become
as skilful a coaster as he had been a hardy seaman; he had formed an
acquaintance with all the smugglers on the coast, and learned all the
Masonic signs by which these half pirates recognize each other. He had
passed and re-passed his Island of Monte Cristo twenty times, but not
once had he found an opportunity of landing there. He then formed a
resolution. As soon as his engagement with the patron of The Young
Amelia ended, he would hire a small vessel on his own account--for in
his several voyages he had amassed a hundred piastres--and under some
pretext land at the Island of Monte Cristo. Then he would be free to
make his researches, not perhaps entirely at liberty, for he would be
doubtless watched by those who accompanied him. But in this world we
must risk something. Prison had made Edmond prudent, and he was desirous
of running no risk whatever. But in vain did he rack his imagination;
fertile as it was, he could not devise any plan for reaching the island
without companionship.

Dantes was tossed about on these doubts and wishes, when the patron, who
had great confidence in him, and was very desirous of retaining him in
his service, took him by the arm one evening and led him to a tavern
on the Via del' Oglio, where the leading smugglers of Leghorn used
to congregate and discuss affairs connected with their trade. Already
Dantes had visited this maritime Bourse two or three times, and seeing
all these hardy free-traders, who supplied the whole coast for nearly
two hundred leagues in extent, he had asked himself what power might
not that man attain who should give the impulse of his will to all these
contrary and diverging minds. This time it was a great matter that was
under discussion, connected with a vessel laden with Turkey carpets,
stuffs of the Levant, and cashmeres. It was necessary to find some
neutral ground on which an exchange could be made, and then to try and
land these goods on the coast of France. If the venture was successful
the profit would be enormous, there would be a gain of fifty or sixty
piastres each for the crew.

The patron of The Young Amelia proposed as a place of landing the Island
of Monte Cristo, which being completely deserted, and having neither
soldiers nor revenue officers, seemed to have been placed in the midst
of the ocean since the time of the heathen Olympus by Mercury, the god
of merchants and robbers, classes of mankind which we in modern times
have separated if not made distinct, but which antiquity appears to have
included in the same category. At the mention of Monte Cristo Dantes
started with joy; he rose to conceal his emotion, and took a turn
around the smoky tavern, where all the languages of the known world were
jumbled in a lingua franca. When he again joined the two persons who had
been discussing the matter, it had been decided that they should touch
at Monte Cristo and set out on the following night. Edmond, being
consulted, was of opinion that the island afforded every possible
security, and that great enterprises to be well done should be done
quickly. Nothing then was altered in the plan, and orders were given to
get under weigh next night, and, wind and weather permitting, to make
the neutral island by the following day.

Chapter 23. The Island of Monte Cristo.

Thus, at length, by one of the unexpected strokes of fortune which
sometimes befall those who have for a long time been the victims of an
evil destiny, Dantes was about to secure the opportunity he wished for,
by simple and natural means, and land on the island without incurring
any suspicion. One night more and he would be on his way.

The night was one of feverish distraction, and in its progress visions
good and evil passed through Dantes' mind. If he closed his eyes, he saw
Cardinal Spada's letter written on the wall in characters of flame--if
he slept for a moment the wildest dreams haunted his brain. He ascended
into grottos paved with emeralds, with panels of rubies, and the
roof glowing with diamond stalactites. Pearls fell drop by drop, as
subterranean waters filter in their caves. Edmond, amazed, wonderstruck,
filled his pockets with the radiant gems and then returned to daylight,
when he discovered that his prizes had all changed into common pebbles.
He then endeavored to re-enter the marvellous grottos, but they had
suddenly receded, and now the path became a labyrinth, and then the
entrance vanished, and in vain did he tax his memory for the magic and
mysterious word which opened the splendid caverns of Ali Baba to the
Arabian fisherman. All was useless, the treasure disappeared, and had
again reverted to the genii from whom for a moment he had hoped to carry
it off. The day came at length, and was almost as feverish as the night
had been, but it brought reason to the aid of imagination, and Dantes
was then enabled to arrange a plan which had hitherto been vague and
unsettled in his brain. Night came, and with it the preparation for
departure, and these preparations served to conceal Dantes' agitation.
He had by degrees assumed such authority over his companions that he was
almost like a commander on board; and as his orders were always clear,
distinct, and easy of execution, his comrades obeyed him with celerity
and pleasure.

The old patron did not interfere, for he too had recognized the
superiority of Dantes over the crew and himself. He saw in the young man
his natural successor, and regretted that he had not a daughter, that
he might have bound Edmond to him by a more secure alliance. At seven
o'clock in the evening all was ready, and at ten minutes past seven they
doubled the lighthouse just as the beacon was kindled. The sea was calm,
and, with a fresh breeze from the south-east, they sailed beneath a
bright blue sky, in which God also lighted up in turn his beacon lights,
each of which is a world. Dantes told them that all hands might turn in,
and he would take the helm. When the Maltese (for so they called
Dantes) had said this, it was sufficient, and all went to their bunks
contentedly. This frequently happened. Dantes, cast from solitude into
the world, frequently experienced an imperious desire for solitude; and
what solitude is more complete, or more poetical, than that of a ship
floating in isolation on the sea during the obscurity of the night, in
the silence of immensity, and under the eye of heaven?

Now this solitude was peopled with his thoughts, the night lighted up by
his illusions, and the silence animated by his anticipations. When the
patron awoke, the vessel was hurrying on with every sail set, and every
sail full with the breeze. They were making nearly ten knots an hour.
The Island of Monte Cristo loomed large in the horizon. Edmond resigned
the lugger to the master's care, and went and lay down in his hammock;
but, in spite of a sleepless night, he could not close his eyes for a
moment. Two hours afterwards he came on deck, as the boat was about
to double the Island of Elba. They were just abreast of Mareciana, and
beyond the flat but verdant Island of La Pianosa. The peak of Monte
Cristo reddened by the burning sun, was seen against the azure sky.
Dantes ordered the helmsman to put down his helm, in order to leave La
Pianosa to starboard, as he knew that he should shorten his course by
two or three knots. About five o'clock in the evening the island was
distinct, and everything on it was plainly perceptible, owing to that
clearness of the atmosphere peculiar to the light which the rays of the
sun cast at its setting.

Edmond gazed very earnestly at the mass of rocks which gave out all the
variety of twilight colors, from the brightest pink to the deepest blue;
and from time to time his cheeks flushed, his brow darkened, and a mist
passed over his eyes. Never did a gamester, whose whole fortune is staked
on one cast of the die, experience the anguish which Edmond felt in his
paroxysms of hope. Night came, and at ten o'clock they anchored. The
Young Amelia was first at the rendezvous. In spite of his usual command
over himself, Dantes could not restrain his impetuosity. He was the
first to jump on shore; and had he dared, he would, like Lucius Brutus,
have "kissed his mother earth." It was dark, but at eleven o'clock the
moon rose in the midst of the ocean, whose every wave she silvered,
and then, "ascending high," played in floods of pale light on the rocky
hills of this second Pelion.

The island was familiar to the crew of The Young Amelia,--it was one of
her regular haunts. As to Dantes, he had passed it on his voyage to and
from the Levant, but never touched at it. He questioned Jacopo. "Where
shall we pass the night?" he inquired.

"Why, on board the tartan," replied the sailor.

"Should we not do better in the grottos?"

"What grottos?"

"Why, the grottos--caves of the island."

"I do not know of any grottos," replied Jacopo. The cold sweat sprang
forth on Dantes' brow.

"What, are there no grottos at Monte Cristo?" he asked.

"None."

For a moment Dantes was speechless; then he remembered that these caves
might have been filled up by some accident, or even stopped up, for the
sake of greater security, by Cardinal Spada. The point was, then, to
discover the hidden entrance. It was useless to search at night, and
Dantes therefore delayed all investigation until the morning. Besides,
a signal made half a league out at sea, and to which The Young Amelia
replied by a similar signal, indicated that the moment for business had
come. The boat that now arrived, assured by the answering signal that
all was well, soon came in sight, white and silent as a phantom, and
cast anchor within a cable's length of shore.

Then the landing began. Dantes reflected, as he worked, on the shout of
joy which, with a single word, he could evoke from all these men, if he
gave utterance to the one unchanging thought that pervaded his heart;
but, far from disclosing this precious secret, he almost feared that
he had already said too much, and by his restlessness and continual
questions, his minute observations and evident pre-occupation, aroused
suspicions. Fortunately, as regarded this circumstance at least, his
painful past gave to his countenance an indelible sadness, and
the glimmerings of gayety seen beneath this cloud were indeed but
transitory.

No one had the slightest suspicion; and when next day, taking a
fowling-piece, powder, and shot, Dantes declared his intention to go and
kill some of the wild goats that were seen springing from rock to rock,
his wish was construed into a love of sport, or a desire for solitude.
However, Jacopo insisted on following him, and Dantes did not oppose
this, fearing if he did so that he might incur distrust. Scarcely,
however, had they gone a quarter of a league when, having killed a kid,
he begged Jacopo to take it to his comrades, and request them to cook
it, and when ready to let him know by firing a gun. This and some dried
fruits and a flask of Monte Pulciano, was the bill of fare. Dantes
went on, looking from time to time behind and around about him. Having
reached the summit of a rock, he saw, a thousand feet beneath him, his
companions, whom Jacopo had rejoined, and who were all busy preparing
the repast which Edmond's skill as a marksman had augmented with a
capital dish.

Edmond looked at them for a moment with the sad and gentle smile of
a man superior to his fellows. "In two hours' time," said he, "these
persons will depart richer by fifty piastres each, to go and risk their
lives again by endeavoring to gain fifty more; then they will return
with a fortune of six hundred francs, and waste this treasure in some
city with the pride of sultans and the insolence of nabobs. At
this moment hope makes me despise their riches, which seem to me
contemptible. Yet perchance to-morrow deception will so act on me, that
I shall, on compulsion, consider such a contemptible possession as the
utmost happiness. Oh, no!" exclaimed Edmond, "that will not be. The
wise, unerring Faria could not be mistaken in this one thing. Besides,
it were better to die than to continue to lead this low and wretched
life." Thus Dantes, who but three months before had no desire but
liberty had now not liberty enough, and panted for wealth. The cause was
not in Dantes, but in providence, who, while limiting the power of man,
has filled him with boundless desires.

Meanwhile, by a cleft between two walls of rock, following a path worn
by a torrent, and which, in all human probability, human foot had never
before trod, Dantes approached the spot where he supposed the grottos
must have existed. Keeping along the shore, and examining the smallest
object with serious attention, he thought he could trace, on certain
rocks, marks made by the hand of man.

Time, which encrusts all physical substances with its mossy mantle, as
it invests all things of the mind with forgetfulness, seemed to have
respected these signs, which apparently had been made with some degree
of regularity, and probably with a definite purpose. Occasionally the
marks were hidden under tufts of myrtle, which spread into large bushes
laden with blossoms, or beneath parasitical lichen. So Edmond had
to separate the branches or brush away the moss to know where the
guide-marks were. The sight of marks renewed Edmond fondest hopes. Might
it not have been the cardinal himself who had first traced them, in
order that they might serve as a guide for his nephew in the event of
a catastrophe, which he could not foresee would have been so complete.
This solitary place was precisely suited to the requirements of a man
desirous of burying treasure. Only, might not these betraying marks have
attracted other eyes than those for whom they were made? and had the
dark and wondrous island indeed faithfully guarded its precious secret?

It seemed, however, to Edmond, who was hidden from his comrades by the
inequalities of the ground, that at sixty paces from the harbor the
marks ceased; nor did they terminate at any grotto. A large round rock,
placed solidly on its base, was the only spot to which they seemed to
lead. Edmond concluded that perhaps instead of having reached the end
of the route he had only explored its beginning, and he therefore turned
round and retraced his steps.

Meanwhile his comrades had prepared the repast, had got some water from
a spring, spread out the fruit and bread, and cooked the kid. Just at
the moment when they were taking the dainty animal from the spit, they
saw Edmond springing with the boldness of a chamois from rock to rock,
and they fired the signal agreed upon. The sportsman instantly changed
his direction, and ran quickly towards them. But even while they watched
his daring progress, Edmond's foot slipped, and they saw him stagger on
the edge of a rock and disappear. They all rushed towards him, for all
loved Edmond in spite of his superiority; yet Jacopo reached him first.

He found Edmond lying prone, bleeding, and almost senseless. He had
rolled down a declivity of twelve or fifteen feet. They poured a little
rum down his throat, and this remedy which had before been so beneficial
to him, produced the same effect as formerly. Edmond opened his eyes,
complained of great pain in his knee, a feeling of heaviness in his
head, and severe pains in his loins. They wished to carry him to the
shore; but when they touched him, although under Jacopo's directions, he
declared, with heavy groans, that he could not bear to be moved.

It may be supposed that Dantes did not now think of his dinner, but he
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, Dantes' 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 Frejus, urged Dantes 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." Dantes 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. Dantes 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 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 Dantes.

"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 Dantes, "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 any one 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 Dantes' 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 Dantes 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.

Dantes, 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 Abbe Faria, had
been so skilfully used to guide him through the Daedalian 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 Dantes 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.

Dantes 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. Dantes
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 any one man, were
he Hercules himself. Dantes 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, Dantes, 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 Dantes had previously formed, and
a huge snake, like the guardian demon of the treasure, rolled himself
along in darkening coils, and disappeared.

Dantes 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. Dantes 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. Dantes 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. Any one else would have rushed on with a cry of
joy. Dantes 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, Caesar 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 curiosity."
And he remained again motionless and thoughtful.

"Yes, yes; this is an adventure worthy a place in the varied career of
that royal bandit. This fabulous event formed but a link in a long chain
of marvels. Yes, Borgia has been here, a torch in one hand, a sword in
the other, and within twenty paces, at the foot of this rock, perhaps
two guards kept watch on land and sea, while their master descended, as
I am about to descend, dispelling the darkness before his awe-inspiring
progress."

"But what was the fate of the guards who thus possessed his secret?"
asked Dantes of himself.

"The fate," replied he, smiling, "of those who buried Alaric."

"Yet, had he come," thought Dantes, "he would have found the treasure,
and Borgia, he who compared Italy to an artichoke, which he could devour
leaf by leaf, knew too well the value of time to waste it in replacing
this rock. I will go down."

Then he descended, a smile on his lips, and murmuring that last word of
human philosophy, "Perhaps!" But instead of the darkness, and the thick
and mephitic atmosphere he had expected to find, Dantes saw a dim and
bluish light, which, as well as the air, entered, not merely by the
aperture he had just formed, but by the interstices and crevices of
the rock which were visible from without, and through which he could
distinguish the blue sky and the waving branches of the evergreen oaks,
and the tendrils of the creepers that grew from the rocks. After having
stood a few minutes in the cavern, the atmosphere of which was rather
warm than damp, Dantes' eye, habituated as it was to darkness, could
pierce even to the remotest angles of the cavern, which was of granite
that sparkled like diamonds. "Alas," said Edmond, smiling, "these are
the treasures the cardinal has left; and the good abbe, seeing in a
dream these glittering walls, has indulged in fallacious hopes."

But he called to mind the words of the will, which he knew by heart. "In
the farthest angle of the second opening," said the cardinal's will. He
had only found the first grotto; he had now to seek the second.
Dantes continued his search. He reflected that this second grotto must
penetrate deeper into the island; he examined the stones, and sounded
one part of the wall where he fancied the opening existed, masked for
precaution's sake. The pickaxe struck for a moment with a dull sound
that drew out of Dantes' forehead large drops of perspiration. At last
it seemed to him that one part of the wall gave forth a more hollow and
deeper echo; he eagerly advanced, and with the quickness of perception
that no one but a prisoner possesses, saw that there, in all
probability, the opening must be.

However, he, like Caesar Borgia, knew the value of time; and, in
order to avoid fruitless toil, he sounded all the other walls with his
pickaxe, struck the earth with the butt of his gun, and finding nothing
that appeared suspicious, returned to that part of the wall whence
issued the consoling sound he had before heard. He again struck it, and
with greater force. Then a singular thing occurred. As he struck the
wall, pieces of stucco similar to that used in the ground work of
arabesques broke off, and fell to the ground in flakes, exposing a large
white stone. The aperture of the rock had been closed with stones, then
this stucco had been applied, and painted to imitate granite. Dantes
struck with the sharp end of his pickaxe, which entered someway between
the interstices. It was there he must dig. But by some strange play of
emotion, in proportion as the proofs that Faria, had not been
deceived became stronger, so did his heart give way, and a feeling of
discouragement stole over him. This last proof, instead of giving him
fresh strength, deprived him of it; the pickaxe descended, or rather
fell; he placed it on the ground, passed his hand over his brow, and
remounted the stairs, alleging to himself, as an excuse, a desire to
be assured that no one was watching him, but in reality because he felt
that he was about to faint. The island was deserted, and the sun seemed
to cover it with its fiery glance; afar off, a few small fishing boats
studded the bosom of the blue ocean.

Dantes had tasted nothing, but he thought not of hunger at such a
moment; he hastily swallowed a few drops of rum, and again entered the
cavern. The pickaxe that had seemed so heavy, was now like a feather in
his grasp; he seized it, and attacked the wall. After several blows he
perceived that the stones were not cemented, but had been merely placed
one upon the other, and covered with stucco; he inserted the point of
his pickaxe, and using the handle as a lever, with joy soon saw the
stone turn as if on hinges, and fall at his feet. He had nothing more
to do now, but with the iron tooth of the pickaxe to draw the stones
towards him one by one. The aperture was already sufficiently large for
him to enter, but by waiting, he could still cling to hope, and retard
the certainty of deception. At last, after renewed hesitation, Dantes
entered the second grotto. The second grotto was lower and more gloomy
than the first; the air that could only enter by the newly formed
opening had the mephitic smell Dantes was surprised not to find in the
outer cavern. He waited in order to allow pure air to displace the foul
atmosphere, and then went on. At the left of the opening was a dark and
deep angle. But to Dantes' eye there was no darkness. He glanced around
this second grotto; it was, like the first, empty.

The treasure, if it existed, was buried in this corner. The time had
at length arrived; two feet of earth removed, and Dantes' fate would
be decided. He advanced towards the angle, and summoning all his
resolution, attacked the ground with the pickaxe. At the fifth or sixth
blow the pickaxe struck against an iron substance. Never did funeral
knell, never did alarm-bell, produce a greater effect on the hearer.
Had Dantes found nothing he could not have become more ghastly pale.
He again struck his pickaxe into the earth, and encountered the same
resistance, but not the same sound. "It is a casket of wood bound with
iron," thought he. At this moment a shadow passed rapidly before the
opening; Dantes seized his gun, sprang through the opening, and mounted
the stair. A wild goat had passed before the mouth of the cave, and was
feeding at a little distance. This would have been a favorable occasion
to secure his dinner; but Dantes feared lest the report of his gun
should attract attention.

He thought a moment, cut a branch of a resinous tree, lighted it at the
fire at which the smugglers had prepared their breakfast, and descended
with this torch. He wished to see everything. He approached the hole he
had dug, and now, with the aid of the torch, saw that his pickaxe had in
reality struck against iron and wood. He planted his torch in the ground
and resumed his labor. In an instant a space three feet long by two feet
broad was cleared, and Dantes could see an oaken coffer, bound with cut
steel; in the middle of the lid he saw engraved on a silver plate, which
was still untarnished, the arms of the Spada family--viz., a sword,
pale, on an oval shield, like all the Italian armorial bearings, and
surmounted by a cardinal's hat; Dantes easily recognized them, Faria had
so often drawn them for him. There was no longer any doubt: the treasure
was there--no one would have been at such pains to conceal an empty
casket. In an instant he had cleared every obstacle away, and he saw
successively the lock, placed between two padlocks, and the two handles
at each end, all carved as things were carved at that epoch, when art
rendered the commonest metals precious. Dantes seized the handles, and
strove to lift the coffer; it was impossible. He sought to open it; lock
and padlock were fastened; these faithful guardians seemed unwilling
to surrender their trust. Dantes inserted the sharp end of the pickaxe
between the coffer and the lid, and pressing with all his force on the
handle, burst open the fastenings. The hinges yielded in their turn and
fell, still holding in their grasp fragments of the wood, and the chest
was open.

Edmond was seized with vertigo; he cocked his gun and laid it beside
him. He then closed his eyes as children do in order that they may see
in the resplendent night of their own imagination more stars than are
visible in the firmament; then he re-opened them, and stood motionless
with amazement. Three compartments divided the coffer. In the first,
blazed piles of golden coin; in the second, were ranged bars of
unpolished gold, which possessed nothing attractive save their value;
in the third, Edmond grasped handfuls of diamonds, pearls, and rubies,
which, as they fell on one another, sounded like hail against glass.
After having touched, felt, examined these treasures, Edmond rushed
through the caverns like a man seized with frenzy; he leaped on a rock,
from whence he could behold the sea. He was alone--alone with these
countless, these unheard-of treasures! was he awake, or was it but a
dream?

He would fain have gazed upon his gold, and yet he had not strength
enough; for an instant he leaned his head in his hands as if to prevent
his senses from leaving him, and then rushed madly about the rocks of
Monte Cristo, terrifying the wild goats and scaring the sea-fowls with
his wild cries and gestures; then he returned, and, still unable to
believe the evidence of his senses, rushed into the grotto, and found
himself before this mine of gold and jewels. This time he fell on
his knees, and, clasping his hands convulsively, uttered a prayer
intelligible to God alone. He soon became calmer and more happy, for
only now did he begin to realize his felicity. He then set himself to
work to count his fortune. There were a thousand ingots of gold, each
weighing from two to three pounds; then he piled up twenty-five thousand
crowns, each worth about eighty francs of our money, and bearing the
effigies of Alexander VI. and his predecessors; and he saw that the
complement was not half empty. And he measured ten double handfuls of
pearls, diamonds, and other gems, many of which, mounted by the most
famous workmen, were valuable beyond their intrinsic worth. Dantes
saw the light gradually disappear, and fearing to be surprised in the
cavern, left it, his gun in his hand. A piece of biscuit and a small
quantity of rum formed his supper, and he snatched a few hours' sleep,
lying over the mouth of the cave.

It was a night of joy and terror, such as this man of stupendous
emotions had already experienced twice or thrice in his lifetime.

Chapter 25. The Unknown.

Day, for which Dantes had so eagerly and impatiently waited with open
eyes, again dawned. With the first light Dantes resumed his search.
Again he climbed the rocky height he had ascended the previous evening,
and strained his view to catch every peculiarity of the landscape;
but it wore the same wild, barren aspect when seen by the rays of the
morning sun which it had done when surveyed by the fading glimmer of
eve. Descending into the grotto, he lifted the stone, filled his pockets
with gems, put the box together as well and securely as he could,
sprinkled fresh sand over the spot from which it had been taken, and
then carefully trod down the earth to give it everywhere a uniform
appearance; then, quitting the grotto, he replaced the stone, heaping
on it broken masses of rocks and rough fragments of crumbling granite,
filling the interstices with earth, into which he deftly inserted
rapidly growing plants, such as the wild myrtle and flowering thorn,
then carefully watering these new plantations, he scrupulously effaced
every trace of footsteps, leaving the approach to the cavern as
savage-looking and untrodden as he had found it. This done, he
impatiently awaited the return of his companions. To wait at Monte
Cristo for the purpose of watching like a dragon over the almost
incalculable riches that had thus fallen into his possession satisfied
not the cravings of his heart, which yearned to return to dwell among
mankind, and to assume the rank, power, and influence which are always
accorded to wealth--that first and greatest of all the forces within the
grasp of man.

On the sixth day, the smugglers returned. From a distance Dantes
recognized the rig and handling of The Young Amelia, and dragging
himself with affected difficulty towards the landing-place, he met his
companions with an assurance that, although considerably better than
when they quitted him, he still suffered acutely from his late accident.
He then inquired how they had fared in their trip. To this question the
smugglers replied that, although successful in landing their cargo in
safety, they had scarcely done so when they received intelligence that a
guard-ship had just quitted the port of Toulon and was crowding all
sail towards them. This obliged them to make all the speed they could to
evade the enemy, when they could but lament the absence of Dantes, whose
superior skill in the management of a vessel would have availed them so
materially. In fact, the pursuing vessel had almost overtaken them
when, fortunately, night came on, and enabled them to double the Cape of
Corsica, and so elude all further pursuit. Upon the whole, however, the
trip had been sufficiently successful to satisfy all concerned; while
the crew, and particularly Jacopo, expressed great regrets that Dantes
had not been an equal sharer with themselves in the profits, which
amounted to no less a sum than fifty piastres each.

Edmond preserved the most admirable self-command, not suffering the
faintest indication of a smile to escape him at the enumeration of all
the benefits he would have reaped had he been able to quit the island;
but as The Young Amelia had merely come to Monte Cristo to fetch him
away, he embarked that same evening, and proceeded with the captain to
Leghorn. Arrived at Leghorn, he repaired to the house of a Jew, a dealer
in precious stones, to whom he disposed of four of his smallest diamonds
for five thousand francs each. Dantes half feared that such valuable
jewels in the hands of a poor sailor like himself might excite
suspicion; but the cunning purchaser asked no troublesome questions
concerning a bargain by which he gained a round profit of at least
eighty per cent.

The following day Dantes presented Jacopo with an entirely new vessel,
accompanying the gift by a donation of one hundred piastres, that he
might provide himself with a suitable crew and other requisites for his
outfit, upon condition that he would go at once to Marseilles for the
purpose of inquiring after an old man named Louis Dantes, residing
in the Allees de Meillan, and also a young woman called Mercedes, an
inhabitant of the Catalan village. Jacopo could scarcely believe his
senses at receiving this magnificent present, which Dantes hastened to
account for by saying that he had merely been a sailor from whim and a
desire to spite his family, who did not allow him as much money as he
liked to spend; but that on his arrival at Leghorn he had come into
possession of a large fortune, left him by an uncle, whose sole heir
he was. The superior education of Dantes gave an air of such extreme
probability to this statement that it never once occurred to Jacopo to
doubt its accuracy. The term for which Edmond had engaged to serve on
board The Young Amelia having expired, Dantes took leave of the captain,
who at first tried all his powers of persuasion to induce him to remain
as one of the crew, but having been told the history of the legacy, he
ceased to importune him further. The following morning Jacopo set sail
for Marseilles, with directions from Dantes to join him at the Island of
Monte Cristo.

Having seen Jacopo fairly out of the harbor, Dantes proceeded to make
his final adieus on board The Young Amelia, distributing so liberal a
gratuity among her crew as to secure for him the good wishes of all,
and expressions of cordial interest in all that concerned him. To the
captain he promised to write when he had made up his mind as to his
future plans. Then Dantes departed for Genoa. At the moment of his
arrival a small yacht was under trial in the bay; this yacht had been
built by order of an Englishman, who, having heard that the Genoese
excelled all other builders along the shores of the Mediterranean in
the construction of fast-sailing vessels, was desirous of possessing a
specimen of their skill; the price agreed upon between the Englishman
and the Genoese builder was forty thousand francs. Dantes, struck with
the beauty and capability of the little vessel, applied to its owner to
transfer it to him, offering sixty thousand francs, upon condition that
he should be allowed to take immediate possession. The proposal was too
advantageous to be refused, the more so as the person for whom the
yacht was intended had gone upon a tour through Switzerland, and was
not expected back in less than three weeks or a month, by which time
the builder reckoned upon being able to complete another. A bargain was
therefore struck. Dantes led the owner of the yacht to the dwelling of
a Jew; retired with the latter for a few minutes to a small back parlor,
and upon their return the Jew counted out to the shipbuilder the sum of
sixty thousand francs in bright gold pieces.

The delighted builder then offered his services in providing a suitable
crew for the little vessel, but this Dantes declined with many thanks,
saying he was accustomed to cruise about quite alone, and his principal
pleasure consisted in managing his yacht himself; the only thing the
builder could oblige him in would be to contrive a sort of secret closet
in the cabin at his bed's head, the closet to contain three divisions,
so constructed as to be concealed from all but himself. The builder
cheerfully undertook the commission, and promised to have these secret
places completed by the next day, Dantes furnishing the dimensions and
plan in accordance with which they were to be constructed.

The following day Dantes sailed with his yacht from Genoa, under the
inspection of an immense crowd drawn together by curiosity to see the
rich Spanish nobleman who preferred managing his own yacht. But their
wonder was soon changed to admiration at seeing the perfect skill with
which Dantes handled the helm. The boat, indeed, seemed to be animated
with almost human intelligence, so promptly did it obey the slightest
touch; and Dantes required but a short trial of his beautiful craft to
acknowledge that the Genoese had not without reason attained their
high reputation in the art of shipbuilding. The spectators followed the
little vessel with their eyes as long as it remained visible; they then
turned their conjectures upon her probable destination. Some insisted
she was making for Corsica, others the Island of Elba; bets were offered
to any amount that she was bound for Spain; while Africa was positively
reported by many persons as her intended course; but no one thought of
Monte Cristo. Yet thither it was that Dantes guided his vessel, and at
Monte Cristo he arrived at the close of the second day; his boat had
proved herself a first-class sailer, and had come the distance from
Genoa in thirty-five hours. Dantes had carefully noted the general
appearance of the shore, and, instead of landing at the usual place, he
dropped anchor in the little creek. The island was utterly deserted, and
bore no evidence of having been visited since he went away; his treasure
was just as he had left it. Early on the following morning he commenced
the removal of his riches, and ere nightfall the whole of his immense
wealth was safely deposited in the compartments of the secret locker.