The Count of Monte Cristo

he count departed with a sad heart from the house in which he had left
Mercédès, probably never to behold her again. Since the death of little
Edward a great change had taken place in Monte Cristo. Having reached
the summit of his vengeance by a long and tortuous path, he saw an
abyss of doubt yawning before him. More than this, the conversation
which had just taken place between Mercédès and himself had awakened so
many recollections in his heart that he felt it necessary to combat
with them. A man of the count’s temperament could not long indulge in
that melancholy which can exist in common minds, but which destroys
superior ones. He thought he must have made an error in his
calculations if he now found cause to blame himself.

“I cannot have deceived myself,” he said; “I must look upon the past in
a false light. What!” he continued, “can I have been following a false
path?—can the end which I proposed be a mistaken end?—can one hour have
sufficed to prove to an architect that the work upon which he founded
all his hopes was an impossible, if not a sacrilegious, undertaking? I
cannot reconcile myself to this idea—it would madden me. The reason why
I am now dissatisfied is that I have not a clear appreciation of the
past. The past, like the country through which we walk, becomes
indistinct as we advance. My position is like that of a person wounded
in a dream; he feels the wound, though he cannot recollect when he
received it.

“Come, then, thou regenerate man, thou extravagant prodigal, thou
awakened sleeper, thou all-powerful visionary, thou invincible
millionaire,—once again review thy past life of starvation and
wretchedness, revisit the scenes where fate and misfortune conducted,
and where despair received thee. Too many diamonds, too much gold and
splendor, are now reflected by the mirror in which Monte Cristo seeks
to behold Dantès. Hide thy diamonds, bury thy gold, shroud thy
splendor, exchange riches for poverty, liberty for a prison, a living
body for a corpse!”

As he thus reasoned, Monte Cristo walked down the Rue de la Caisserie.
It was the same through which, twenty-four years ago, he had been
conducted by a silent and nocturnal guard; the houses, today so smiling
and animated, were on that night dark, mute, and closed.

“And yet they were the same,” murmured Monte Cristo, “only now it is
broad daylight instead of night; it is the sun which brightens the
place, and makes it appear so cheerful.”

He proceeded towards the quay by the Rue Saint-Laurent, and advanced to
the Consigne; it was the point where he had embarked. A pleasure-boat
with striped awning was going by. Monte Cristo called the owner, who
immediately rowed up to him with the eagerness of a boatman hoping for
a good fare.

The weather was magnificent, and the excursion a treat. The sun, red
and flaming, was sinking into the embrace of the welcoming ocean. The
sea, smooth as crystal, was now and then disturbed by the leaping of
fish, which were pursued by some unseen enemy and sought for safety in
another element; while on the extreme verge of the horizon might be
seen the fishermen’s boats, white and graceful as the sea-gull, or the
merchant vessels bound for Corsica or Spain.

But notwithstanding the serene sky, the gracefully formed boats, and
the golden light in which the whole scene was bathed, the Count of
Monte Cristo, wrapped in his cloak, could think only of this terrible
voyage, the details of which were one by one recalled to his memory.
The solitary light burning at the Catalans; that first sight of the
Château d’If, which told him whither they were leading him; the
struggle with the gendarmes when he wished to throw himself overboard;
his despair when he found himself vanquished, and the sensation when
the muzzle of the carbine touched his forehead—all these were brought
before him in vivid and frightful reality.

Like the streams which the heat of the summer has dried up, and which
after the autumnal storms gradually begin oozing drop by drop, so did
the count feel his heart gradually fill with the bitterness which
formerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantès. Clear sky, swift-flitting
boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the heavens were hung with
black, and the gigantic structure of the Château d’If seemed like the
phantom of a mortal enemy. As they reached the shore, the count
instinctively shrunk to the extreme end of the boat, and the owner was
obliged to call out, in his sweetest tone of voice:

“Sir, we are at the landing.”

Monte Cristo remembered that on that very spot, on the same rock, he
had been violently dragged by the guards, who forced him to ascend the
slope at the points of their bayonets. The journey had seemed very long
to Dantès, but Monte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the
oar seemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up with the
flying spray of the sea.

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There had been no prisoners confined in the Château d’If since the
revolution of July; it was only inhabited by a guard, kept there for
the prevention of smuggling. A concierge waited at the door to exhibit
to visitors this monument of curiosity, once a scene of terror.

The count inquired whether any of the ancient jailers were still there;
but they had all been pensioned, or had passed on to some other
employment. The concierge who attended him had only been there since
1830. He visited his own dungeon. He again beheld the dull light vainly
endeavoring to penetrate the narrow opening. His eyes rested upon the
spot where had stood his bed, since then removed, and behind the bed
the new stones indicated where the breach made by the Abbé Faria had
been. Monte Cristo felt his limbs tremble; he seated himself upon a log
of wood.

“Are there any stories connected with this prison besides the one
relating to the poisoning of Mirabeau?” asked the count; “are there any
traditions respecting these dismal abodes,—in which it is difficult to
believe men can ever have imprisoned their fellow-creatures?”

“Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine told me one connected with this
very dungeon.”

Monte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had been his jailer. He had almost
forgotten his name and face, but at the mention of the name he recalled
his person as he used to see it, the face encircled by a beard, wearing
the brown jacket, the bunch of keys, the jingling of which he still
seemed to hear. The count turned around, and fancied he saw him in the
corridor, rendered still darker by the torch carried by the concierge.

“Would you like to hear the story, sir?”

“Yes; relate it,” said Monte Cristo, pressing his hand to his heart to
still its violent beatings; he felt afraid of hearing his own history.

“This dungeon,” said the concierge, “was, it appears, some time ago
occupied by a very dangerous prisoner, the more so since he was full of
industry. Another person was confined in the Château at the same time,
but he was not wicked, he was only a poor mad priest.”

“Ah, indeed?—mad!” repeated Monte Cristo; “and what was his mania?”

“He offered millions to anyone who would set him at liberty.”

Monte Cristo raised his eyes, but he could not see the heavens; there
was a stone veil between him and the firmament. He thought that there
had been no less thick a veil before the eyes of those to whom Faria
offered the treasures.

“Could the prisoners see each other?” he asked.

“Oh, no, sir, it was expressly forbidden; but they eluded the vigilance
of the guards, and made a passage from one dungeon to the other.”

“And which of them made this passage?”

“Oh, it must have been the young man, certainly, for he was strong and
industrious, while the abbé was aged and weak; besides, his mind was
too vacillating to allow him to carry out an idea.”

“Blind fools!” murmured the count.

“However, be that as it may, the young man made a tunnel, how or by
what means no one knows; but he made it, and there is the evidence yet
remaining of his work. Do you see it?” and the man held the torch to
the wall.

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“Ah, yes; I see,” said the count, in a voice hoarse from emotion.

“The result was that the two men communicated with one another; how
long they did so, nobody knows. One day the old man fell ill and died.
Now guess what the young one did?”

“Tell me.”

“He carried off the corpse, which he placed in his own bed with its
face to the wall; then he entered the empty dungeon, closed the
entrance, and slipped into the sack which had contained the dead body.
Did you ever hear of such an idea?”

Monte Cristo closed his eyes, and seemed again to experience all the
sensations he had felt when the coarse canvas, yet moist with the cold
dews of death, had touched his face.

The jailer continued:

“Now this was his project. He fancied that they buried the dead at the
Château d’If, and imagining they would not expend much labor on the
grave of a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with his
shoulders, but unfortunately their arrangements at the Château
frustrated his projects. They never buried the dead; they merely
attached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, and then threw them into the
sea. This is what was done. The young man was thrown from the top of
the rock; the corpse was found on the bed next day, and the whole truth
was guessed, for the men who performed the office then mentioned what
they had not dared to speak of before, that at the moment the corpse
was thrown into the deep, they heard a shriek, which was almost
immediately stifled by the water in which it disappeared.”

The count breathed with difficulty; the cold drops ran down his
forehead, and his heart was full of anguish.

“No,” he muttered, “the doubt I felt was but the commencement of
forgetfulness; but here the wound reopens, and the heart again thirsts
for vengeance. And the prisoner,” he continued aloud, “was he ever
heard of afterwards?”

“Oh, no; of course not. You can understand that one of two things must
have happened; he must either have fallen flat, in which case the blow,
from a height of ninety feet, must have killed him instantly, or he
must have fallen upright, and then the weight would have dragged him to
the bottom, where he remained—poor fellow!”

“Then you pity him?” said the count.

“Ma foi, yes; though he was in his own element.”

“What do you mean?”

“The report was that he had been a naval officer, who had been confined
for plotting with the Bonapartists.”

“Great is truth,” muttered the count, “fire cannot burn, nor water
drown it! Thus the poor sailor lives in the recollection of those who
narrate his history; his terrible story is recited in the
chimney-corner, and a shudder is felt at the description of his transit
through the air to be swallowed by the deep.” Then, the count added
aloud, “Was his name ever known?”

“Oh, yes; but only as No. 34.”

“Oh, Villefort, Villefort,” murmured the count, “this scene must often
have haunted thy sleepless hours!”

“Do you wish to see anything more, sir?” said the concierge.

“Yes, especially if you will show me the poor abbé’s room.”

“Ah! No. 27.”

“Yes; No. 27.” repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the
abbé answering him in those very words through the wall when asked his
name.

“Come, sir.”

“Wait,” said Monte Cristo, “I wish to take one final glance around this
room.”

“This is fortunate,” said the guide; “I have forgotten the other key.”

“Go and fetch it.”

“I will leave you the torch, sir.”

“No, take it away; I can see in the dark.”

“Why, you are like No. 34. They said he was so accustomed to darkness
that he could see a pin in the darkest corner of his dungeon.”

“He spent fourteen years to arrive at that,” muttered the count.

The guide carried away the torch. The count had spoken correctly.
Scarcely had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw everything as distinctly
as by daylight. Then he looked around him, and really recognized his
dungeon.

“Yes,” he said, “there is the stone upon which I used to sit; there is
the impression made by my shoulders on the wall; there is the mark of
my blood made when one day I dashed my head against the wall. Oh, those
figures, how well I remember them! I made them one day to calculate the
age of my father, that I might know whether I should find him still
living, and that of Mercédès, to know if I should find her still free.
After finishing that calculation, I had a minute’s hope. I did not
reckon upon hunger and infidelity!” and a bitter laugh escaped the
count.

He saw in fancy the burial of his father, and the marriage of Mercédès.
On the other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, the white
letters of which were still visible on the green wall:

“‘Oh, God!’” he read, “‘preserve my memory!’”

“Oh, yes,” he cried, “that was my only prayer at last; I no longer
begged for liberty, but memory; I dreaded to become mad and forgetful.
Oh, God, thou hast preserved my memory; I thank thee, I thank thee!”

At this moment the light of the torch was reflected on the wall; the
guide was coming; Monte Cristo went to meet him.

“Follow me, sir;” and without ascending the stairs the guide conducted
him by a subterraneous passage to another entrance. There, again, Monte
Cristo was assailed by a multitude of thoughts. The first thing that
met his eye was the meridian, drawn by the abbé on the wall, by which
he calculated the time; then he saw the remains of the bed on which the
poor prisoner had died. The sight of this, instead of exciting the
anguish experienced by the count in the dungeon, filled his heart with
a soft and grateful sentiment, and tears fell from his eyes.

“This is where the mad abbé was kept, sir, and that is where the young
man entered;” and the guide pointed to the opening, which had remained
unclosed. “From the appearance of the stone,” he continued, “a learned
gentleman discovered that the prisoners might have communicated
together for ten years. Poor things! Those must have been ten weary
years.”

Dantès took some louis from his pocket, and gave them to the man who
had twice unconsciously pitied him. The guide took them, thinking them
merely a few pieces of little value; but the light of the torch
revealed their true worth.

“Sir,” he said, “you have made a mistake; you have given me gold.”

“I know it.”

The concierge looked upon the count with surprise.

“Sir,” he cried, scarcely able to believe his good fortune—“sir, I
cannot understand your generosity!”

“Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been a sailor, and your
story touched me more than it would others.”

“Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I ought to offer you something.”

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“What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank
you!”

“No, sir, neither of those; something connected with this story.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Listen,” said the guide; “I said to myself, ‘Something is always left
in a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen years,’ so I began to
sound the wall.”

“Ah,” cried Monte Cristo, remembering the abbé’s two hiding-places.

“After some search, I found that the floor gave a hollow sound near the
head of the bed, and at the hearth.”

“Yes,” said the count, “yes.”

“I raised the stones, and found——”

“A rope-ladder and some tools?”

“How do you know that?” asked the guide in astonishment.

“I do not know—I only guess it, because that sort of thing is generally
found in prisoners’ cells.”

“Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools.”

“And have you them yet?”

“No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great
curiosities; but I have still something left.”

“What is it?” asked the count, impatiently.

“A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth.”

“Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if it be what I hope, you will do
well.”

“I will run for it, sir;” and the guide went out.

Then the count knelt down by the side of the bed, which death had
converted into an altar.

“Oh, second father,” he exclaimed, “thou who hast given me liberty,
knowledge, riches; thou who, like beings of a superior order to
ourselves, couldst understand the science of good and evil; if in the
depths of the tomb there still remain something within us which can
respond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if after death the
soul ever revisit the places where we have lived and suffered,—then,
noble heart, sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the paternal love
thou didst bear me, by the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me
some sign, some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which,
if it change not to conviction, must become remorse!” The count bowed
his head, and clasped his hands together.

“Here, sir,” said a voice behind him.

Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The concierge held out the strips of
cloth upon which the Abbé Faria had spread the riches of his mind. The
manuscript was the great work by the Abbé Faria upon the kingdoms of
Italy. The count seized it hastily, his eyes immediately fell upon the
epigraph, and he read:

“Thou shalt tear out the dragons’ teeth, and shall trample the lions
under foot, saith the Lord.”

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “here is my answer. Thanks, father, thanks.” And
feeling in his pocket, he took thence a small pocket-book, which
contained ten bank-notes, each of 1,000 francs.

“Here,” he said, “take this pocket-book.”

“Do you give it to me?”

“Yes; but only on condition that you will not open it till I am gone;”
and placing in his breast the treasure he had just found, which was
more valuable to him than the richest jewel, he rushed out of the
corridor, and reaching his boat, cried, “To Marseilles!”

Then, as he departed, he fixed his eyes upon the gloomy prison.

“Woe,” he cried, “to those who confined me in that wretched prison; and
woe to those who forgot that I was there!”

50229m

As he repassed the Catalans, the count turned around and burying his
head in his cloak murmured the name of a woman. The victory was
complete; twice he had overcome his doubts. The name he pronounced, in
a voice of tenderness, amounting almost to love, was that of Haydée.

On landing, the count turned towards the cemetery, where he felt sure
of finding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, had piously sought out a
tomb, and sought it vainly. He, who returned to France with millions,
had been unable to find the grave of his father, who had perished from
hunger. Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it had
fallen down and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all the old
wood in the churchyard.

The worthy merchant had been more fortunate. Dying in the arms of his
children, he had been by them laid by the side of his wife, who had
preceded him in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of marble, on
which were inscribed their names, were placed on either side of a
little enclosure, railed in, and shaded by four cypress-trees. Morrel
was leaning against one of these, mechanically fixing his eyes on the
graves. His grief was so profound that he was nearly unconscious.

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“Maximilian,” said the count, “you should not look on the graves, but
there;” and he pointed upwards.

“The dead are everywhere,” said Morrel; “did you not yourself tell me
so as we left Paris?”

“Maximilian,” said the count, “you asked me during the journey to allow
you to remain some days at Marseilles. Do you still wish to do so?”

“I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the time less
painfully here than anywhere else.”

“So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your word with
me, do I not?”

“Ah, count, I shall forget it.”

“No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor, Morrel,
because you have taken an oath, and are about to do so again.”

“Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so unhappy.”

“I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel.”

“Impossible!”

“Alas,” said Monte Cristo, “it is the infirmity of our nature always to
believe ourselves much more unhappy than those who groan by our sides!”

“What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all he loved and
desired in the world?”

“Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to tell you. I
knew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes of happiness upon a
woman. He was young, he had an old father whom he loved, a betrothed
bride whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when one of the
caprices of fate,—which would almost make us doubt the goodness of
Providence, if that Providence did not afterwards reveal itself by
proving that all is but a means of conducting to an end,—one of those
caprices deprived him of his mistress, of the future of which he had
dreamed (for in his blindness he forgot he could only read the
present), and cast him into a dungeon.”

“Ah,” said Morrel, “one quits a dungeon in a week, a month, or a year.”

“He remained there fourteen years, Morrel,” said the count, placing his
hand on the young man’s shoulder. Maximilian shuddered.

“Fourteen years!” he muttered.

“Fourteen years!” repeated the count. “During that time he had many
moments of despair. He also, Morrel, like you, considered himself the
unhappiest of men.”

“Well?” asked Morrel.

“Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him through human
means. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize the infinite mercy of
the Lord, but at last he took patience and waited. One day he
miraculously left the prison, transformed, rich, powerful. His first
cry was for his father; but that father was dead.”

“My father, too, is dead,” said Morrel.

“Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected, rich, and
full of years; his father died poor, despairing, almost doubtful of
Providence; and when his son sought his grave ten years afterwards, his
tomb had disappeared, and no one could say, ‘There sleeps the father
you so well loved.’”

“Oh!” exclaimed Morrel.

“He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for he could not
even find his father’s grave.”

“But then he had the woman he loved still remaining?”

“You are deceived, Morrel, that woman——”

“She was dead?”

“Worse than that, she was faithless, and had married one of the
persecutors of her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel, that he was a more
unhappy lover than you.”

“And has he found consolation?”

“He has at least found peace.”

“And does he ever expect to be happy?”

“He hopes so, Maximilian.”

The young man’s head fell on his breast.

“You have my promise,” he said, after a minute’s pause, extending his
hand to Monte Cristo. “Only remember——”

“On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the Island of
Monte Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for you in the port of
Bastia, it will be called the Eurus. You will give your name to the
captain, who will bring you to me. It is understood—is it not?”

“But, count, do you remember that the 5th of October——”

“Child,” replied the count, “not to know the value of a man’s word! I
have told you twenty times that if you wish to die on that day, I will
assist you. Morrel, farewell!”

“Do you leave me?”

“Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone in your struggle with
misfortune—alone with that strong-winged eagle which God sends to bear
aloft the elect to his feet. The story of Ganymede, Maximilian, is not
a fable, but an allegory.”

“When do you leave?”

“Immediately; the steamer waits, and in an hour I shall be far from
you. Will you accompany me to the harbor, Maximilian?”

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“I am entirely yours, count.”

Morrel accompanied the count to the harbor. The white steam was
ascending like a plume of feathers from the black chimney. The steamer
soon disappeared, and in an hour afterwards, as the count had said, was
scarcely distinguishable in the horizon amidst the fogs of the night.