XIX. Le troisième accès.

XIX

The Third Attack.

Now that this treasure, which had so long been the object of the abbé's meditations, could secure the future happiness of the one whom Faria truly loved as a son, it had doubled in value in his eyes; every day he dwelt upon the abundance of that treasure, explaining to Dantès all that, with thirteen or fourteen millions of fortune, a man in our modern times could do for the good of his friends; and then Dantès's face would darken, for the oath of vengeance he had sworn rose up in his thoughts, and he, too, reflected how much, in our modern times as well, a man with thirteen or fourteen millions of fortune could do harm to his enemies.

The abbé did not know the island of Monte-Cristo, but Dantès knew it: he had often passed before that island, situated twenty-five miles from Pianosa, between Corsica and the island of Elba, and once he had even put in there. This island was, had always been, and still is completely deserted; it is a rock of almost conical shape, which seems to have been thrust by some volcanic cataclysm from the depths of the abyss to the surface of the sea.

Dantès drew the plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave Dantès advice on the means to employ to recover the treasure.

But Dantès was far from being as enthusiastic and above all as confident as the old man. Certainly, he was now quite sure that Faria was not mad, and the way in which he had arrived at the discovery that had made people believe him insane redoubled his admiration for him; but also he could not believe that this deposit, supposing it had existed, still existed, and, when he did not regard the treasure as chimerical, he at least regarded it as absent.

However, as if fate had wished to take from the prisoners their last hope and make them understand that they were condemned to perpetual imprisonment, a new misfortune befell them: the gallery by the sea, which had long threatened to fall into ruin, had been rebuilt; the foundations had been repaired and the half-filled-in hole that Dantès had stopped up with enormous blocks of rock had been closed. Without this precaution, which had been suggested, it will be remembered, to the young man by the abbé, their misfortune would have been even greater, for their attempt at escape would have been discovered, and they would indubitably have been separated: a new door, stronger, more inexorable than the others, had thus closed upon them again.

"You see well," the young man said to Faria with a gentle sadness, "that God wishes to take from me even the merit of what you call my devotion to you. I promised you to remain eternally with you, and I am no longer free not to keep my promise; I shall have the treasure no more than you, and neither of us will leave this place. Besides, my true treasure, you see, my friend, is not that which awaited me beneath the dark rocks of Monte-Cristo, it is your presence, it is our living together for five or six hours a day, despite our jailers; it is those rays of intelligence that you have poured into my brain, those tongues that you have implanted in my memory and that grow there with all their philological ramifications. These various sciences that you have made so easy for me by the depth of knowledge you have of them and the clarity of the principles to which you have reduced them, that is my treasure, friend, that is how you have made me rich and happy. Believe me and be consoled, that is better for me than tons of gold and cases of diamonds, were they not problematic, like those clouds one sees floating over the sea in the morning, which one takes for solid land, and which evaporate, volatilize and vanish as one approaches them. To have you near me as long as possible, to listen to your eloquent voice adorn my mind, revive my soul, make my whole being capable of great and terrible things if ever I am free, to fill it so well that the despair to which I was about to abandon myself when I met you finds no more room there, that is my fortune, mine: that one is not chimerical; I owe it to you most truly, and all the sovereigns on earth, were they Cesare Borgias, would not be able to take it from me."

Thus, for the two unfortunates, if not happy days, at least days that passed fairly quickly were those that followed. Faria, who for so many years had kept silent about the treasure, now spoke of it on every occasion. As he had foreseen, he had remained paralyzed in the right arm and left leg, and had almost lost all hope of enjoying it himself; but he still dreamed of a deliverance or an escape for his young companion, and he enjoyed it for him. For fear the letter might one day be mislaid or lost, he had forced Dantès to learn it by heart, and Dantès knew it from the first word to the last. Then he had destroyed the second part, certain that the first could be found and seized without its true meaning being guessed. Sometimes whole hours were spent by Faria in giving Dantès instructions, which were to serve him on the day of his freedom. Then, once free, from the day, the hour, the moment he should be free, he was to have but a single, unique thought: to reach Monte-Cristo by some means, to remain there alone under a pretext that would arouse no suspicion, and, once there, once alone, to try to find the marvelous grottoes and dig in the indicated spot. The indicated spot, it will be remembered, is the farthest angle of the second opening.

Meanwhile, the hours passed, if not swiftly, at least bearably. Faria, as we have said, without having recovered the use of his hand and foot, had regained all the clarity of his intelligence, and had gradually, besides the moral knowledge we have detailed, taught his young companion that patient and sublime trade of the prisoner, who from nothing knows how to make something. They therefore occupied themselves eternally, Faria for fear of seeing himself grow old, Dantès for fear of recalling his almost extinguished past, which floated no longer at the bottom of his memory save as a distant light lost in the night; all went thus, as in those existences where misfortune has disturbed nothing and which flow on mechanically and calmly 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 as well, many restrained yearnings, many stifled sighs, which found their way out when Faria was left alone and Edmond had returned to his own cell.

One night, Edmond awoke with a start, believing he had heard himself called.

He opened his eyes and tried to pierce the thickness of the darkness.

His name, or rather a plaintive voice that was trying to articulate his name, reached him.

He rose upon his bed, the sweat of anguish on his brow, and listened. No doubt was possible, the complaint came from his companion's cell.

"Great God!" murmured Dantès; "could it be...?"

And he moved his bed, pulled away the stone, dashed into the corridor and reached the opposite end; the flagstone was raised.

By the light of that shapeless and flickering lamp of which we have spoken, Edmond saw the old man pale, still standing and clinging to the wood of his bed. His features were convulsed by those horrible symptoms he already knew and which had so terrified him when they first appeared.

"Well, my friend," said Faria resignedly, "you understand, do you not? and I need tell you nothing!"

Edmond uttered a cry of pain, and completely losing his head, he dashed toward the door crying:

"Help! help!"

Faria still had the strength to stop him by the arm.

"Silence!" said he, "or you are lost. Think no more but of yourself, my friend, of making your captivity bearable or your escape possible. It would take you years to do alone all that I have done here, and which would be destroyed the instant our guards learned of our intelligence. Besides, be at ease, my friend, the cell I am about to leave will not remain empty long: another unfortunate will come to take my place. To that other you will appear as a saving angel. He may perhaps be young, strong and patient like you, he may help you in your flight, whereas I hindered you. You will no longer have half a corpse bound to you to paralyze all your movements. Decidedly, God is at last doing something for you: he gives you back more than he takes from you, and it is high time that I die."

Edmond could only clasp his hands and cry:

"Oh! my friend, my friend, be silent!"

Then, recovering his strength, for a moment shaken by this unforeseen blow and his courage bent by the old man's words:

"Oh!" said he, "I have already saved you once, I shall well save you a second time!"

And he lifted the foot of the bed and drew from it the flask still one third full of the red liquid.

"Here," said he; "there remains some of that saving draught. Quick, quick, tell me what I must do this time; are there new instructions? Speak, my friend, I am listening.

"There is no hope," answered Faria, shaking his head; "but no matter; God wills that the man he created, and in whose heart he has so deeply rooted the love of life, do all he can to preserve that existence, sometimes so painful, always so dear.

"Oh! yes, yes," cried Dantès, "and I shall save you, I tell you!"

"Well, then, try! cold is seizing me; I feel the blood rushing to my brain; this horrible trembling that makes my teeth chatter and seems to disjoint my bones is beginning to shake my whole body; in five minutes the fit will break out, in a quarter of an hour nothing will remain of me but a corpse.

"Oh!" cried Dantès, his heart pierced with grief.

"Do as the first time, only you will not wait so long. All the springs of life are worn out by now, and death," continued he, showing his paralyzed arm and leg, "will have but half the work to do. If, after pouring twelve drops instead of ten into my mouth, you see that I do not come back, then you will pour the rest. Now, carry me to my bed, for I can no longer stand."

Edmond took the old man in his arms and laid him on the bed.

"Now, friend," said Faria, "sole consolation of my wretched life, you whom heaven gave me a little late, but whom at last it gave me, inappreciable gift for which I thank it; at the moment of parting from you forever, I wish you all the happiness, all the prosperity you deserve: my son, I bless you!"

The young man threw himself on his knees, resting his head against the old man's bed.

"But above all, listen well to what I say to you at this supreme moment: the treasure of the Spadas exists; God permits that there be for me neither distance nor obstacle. I see it at the bottom of the second grotto; my eyes pierce the depths of the earth and are dazzled by so much riches. If you succeed in escaping, remember that the poor abbé whom everyone believed mad was not so. Run to Monte-Cristo, make use of our fortune, make use of it, you have suffered enough."

A violent convulsion interrupted the old man; Dantès raised his head, he saw the eyes suffused with red: it seemed as though a wave of blood had risen from his chest to his brow.

"Farewell! farewell!" murmured the old man, convulsively pressing the young man's hand; "farewell!"

"Oh! not yet, not yet!" cried the other; "do not abandon us, O my God! help him... help... to me..."

"Silence! silence!" murmured the dying man; "do not let them separate us if you save me!"

"You are right. Oh! yes, yes, be at ease, I shall save you! Besides, although you suffer much, you seem to suffer less than the first time."

"Oh! undeceive yourself! I suffer less because there is in me less strength to suffer. At your age one has faith in life, it is the privilege of youth to believe and hope, but old men see death more clearly. Oh! there it is... it comes... it is over... my sight is failing... my reason is fleeing... Your hand, Dantès!... farewell!... farewell!"

And, rising by a last effort in which he gathered all his faculties:

"Monte-Cristo!" said he; "forget not Monte-Cristo!"

And he fell back on his bed. The crisis was terrible: twisted limbs, swollen eyelids, bloody foam, a motionless body—such was what remained upon that bed of sorrow in place of the intelligent being who had lain there a moment before.

Dantès took the lamp, set it at the head of the bed upon a projecting stone from which its trembling light cast a strange and fantastic reflection upon that decomposed face and that inert, stiffened body.

His eyes fixed, he intrepidly awaited the moment to administer the saving remedy.

When he thought the moment come, he took the knife, loosened the teeth, which offered less resistance than the first time, counted drop by drop ten drops and waited; the vial contained about twice what he had poured.

He waited ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, half an hour; nothing moved. Trembling, his hair bristling, his brow icy with sweat, he counted the seconds by the beating of his heart.

Then he thought it time to try the last test: he brought the vial to Faria's violet lips, and, without needing to loosen the jaws that remained open, he poured all the liquid it contained.

The remedy produced a galvanic effect; a violent trembling shook the old man's limbs, his eyes reopened, frightful to see, he gave a sigh that resembled a cry, then that shivering body gradually returned to its immobility.

The eyes alone remained open.

Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half passed. During that hour and a half of anguish, Edmond, bent over his friend, his hand upon his heart, felt by turns that body grow cold and that heart extinguish its beating, more and more muffled and deep.

At last nothing survived; the last quiver of the heart ceased, the face became livid, the eyes remained open, but the gaze was dimmed.

It was six in the morning, day was beginning to appear, and its wan ray, invading the cell, made the dying light of the lamp grow pale. Strange reflections passed over the face of the corpse, giving it at times appearances of life. As long as that struggle of day and night lasted, Dantès could still doubt; but as soon as day had conquered, he understood that he was alone with a corpse.

Then a deep and invincible terror seized him; he dared no longer press that hand hanging outside the bed, he dared no longer rest his eyes on those fixed and white eyes which he tried several times but in vain to close, and which kept reopening. He extinguished the lamp, hid it carefully and fled, replacing the flagstone as best he could above his head.

Besides, it was time; the jailer was about to come.

This time, he began his visit with Dantès; on leaving his cell, he was going into Faria's, to whom he brought breakfast and linen.

Nothing, moreover, indicated in the man that he had knowledge of the accident. He went out.

Dantès was then seized with an unspeakable impatience to know what was about to happen in his unhappy friend's cell; he therefore returned to the underground gallery and arrived in time to hear the key-keeper's exclamations as he called for help.

Soon the other key-keepers entered; then was heard that heavy and regular step usual to soldiers, even off duty. Behind the soldiers came the governor.

Edmond heard the noise of the bed upon which the corpse was being shaken; he heard the governor's voice, ordering water to be thrown in his face, and who, seeing that, despite this immersion, the prisoner did not come back, sent for the doctor.

The governor went out; and a few words of compassion reached Dantès's ears, mingled with mocking laughter.

"Come, come," said one, "the madman has gone to join his treasures; a good journey!"

"He will not, with all his millions, have wherewith to pay for his shroud," said another.

"Oh!" rejoined a third voice, "the shrouds of the Château d'If cost little."

"Perhaps," said one of the first speakers, "as he is a man of the Church, they will make some expense in his favor."

"Then he will have the honors of the sack."

Edmond listened, missing not a word, but understood little of it all. Soon the voices died away, and it seemed to him the attendants were leaving the room. However, he dared not re-enter: they might have left some key-keeper to guard the dead.

He therefore remained mute, motionless and holding his breath.

At the end of about an hour, the silence was stirred by a faint noise, which grew louder.

It was the governor returning, followed by the doctor and several officers.

There was a moment of silence: it was evident the doctor was approaching the bed and examining the corpse.

Soon the questions began.

The doctor analyzed the illness to which the prisoner had succumbed and declared him dead.

Questions and answers were made with a nonchalance that indignant Dantès; it seemed to him that everyone should feel for the poor abbé a part of the affection he bore him.

"I am sorry for what you tell me," said the governor, answering this certainty manifested by the doctor that the old man was indeed dead; "he was a gentle prisoner, inoffensive, amusing with his madness and above all easy to watch."

"Oh!" rejoined the key-keeper, "he might not have been watched at all; he would well have stayed here fifty years, I warrant, without attempting a single escape."

"However," resumed the governor, "I think it would be urgent, despite your conviction, not that I doubt your science, but for my own responsibility, to assure ourselves whether the prisoner is indeed really dead."

There was an instant of absolute silence during which Dantès, still listening, judged that the doctor was examining and feeling the corpse a second time.

"You may be at ease," said the doctor then; "he is dead, I answer for it."

"You know, sir," resumed the governor, insisting, "that we are not content, in cases like this, with a simple examination; despite all appearances, be so good then as to finish the work by fulfilling the formalities prescribed by law."

"Let the irons be heated," said the doctor; "but in truth, it is a quite useless precaution."

This order to heat the irons made Dantès shudder.

Hurried steps were heard, the creaking of the door, some inward coming and going, and, a few moments after, a turnkey re-entered saying:

"Here is the brazier with an iron."

Then there was a moment's silence, then was heard the hissing of flesh that burns, and whose thick and nauseating odor pierced the very wall behind which Dantès listened with horror. At that smell of carbonized human flesh, the sweat started from the young man's brow and he thought he was about to faint.

"You see, sir, that he is indeed dead," said the doctor; "this burn on the heel is decisive: the poor madman is cured of his madness and delivered from his captivity."

"Was he not called Faria?" asked one of the officers accompanying the governor.

"Yes, sir, and, as he claimed, it was an old name; besides, he was very learned and even quite reasonable on all points that did not touch his treasure; but on that one, it must be owned, he was intractable."

"That is the affection we call monomania," said the doctor.

"You had never had cause to complain of him?" asked the governor of the jailer charged with bringing the abbé's food.

"Never, Monsieur the Governor," answered the jailer; "never, never in my life! on the contrary: formerly even he amused me greatly by telling stories; one day when my wife was ill he even gave me a recipe that cured her."

"Ah! ah!" said the doctor; "I was unaware I had to do with a colleague; I hope, Monsieur the Governor," added he, laughing, "that you will treat him accordingly."

"Yes, yes, be at ease, he shall be decently buried in the newest sack that can be found; are you satisfied?"

"Are we to perform this last formality before you, sir?" asked a turnkey.

"Certainly, but make haste, I cannot stay in this room all day."

New comings and goings were heard; an instant after, a sound of crumpled linen reached Dantès's ears, the bed creaked on its springs, a step made heavy like that of a man lifting a burden weighed upon the flagstone, then the bed creaked again under the weight restored to it.

"Till this evening," said the governor.

"Will there be a mass?" asked one of the officers.

"Impossible," answered the governor; "the chaplain of the castle came yesterday to ask me for leave to make a little eight-day journey to Hyères, I answered him for all my prisoners during all that time; the poor abbé had only to not be in such a hurry, and he would have had his requiem."

"Bah! bah! Hyères," said the doctor with the familiar impiety of men of his profession; "he is a man of the Church: God will have regard to his state, and will not give hell the wicked pleasure of sending it a priest."

A burst of laughter followed this bad jest. Meanwhile, the burial operation continued.

"Till this evening!" said the governor when it was finished.

"At what hour?" asked the turnkey.

"Why, toward ten or eleven o'clock."

"Will they watch over the dead?"

"What for? The cell will be locked as if he were alive, that is all."

Then the steps receded, the voices grew fainter, the noise of the door with its creaking lock and grating bolts was heard, a silence more dreary than that of solitude, the silence of death, invaded all, even the frozen soul of the young man.

Then he slowly raised the flagstone with his head, and cast an investigating glance into the room. The room was empty: Dantès came out of the gallery.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”