The Count of Monte Cristo

Chapter 19. The Third Attack-1

Chapter 19. The Third Attack

Now that this treasure, which had so long been the object of the abbé’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 Dantès all the good which, with

thirteen or fourteen millions of francs, a man could do in these days to

his friends; and then Dantès’ 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 abbé did not know the Island of Monte Cristo; but Dantès 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. Dantès

drew a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave Dantès advice as to

the means he should employ to recover the treasure. But Dantès 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

Dantès 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 Dantès had

partly filled in. But for this precaution, which, it will be remembered,

the abbé 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 Cæsar 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 Dantès to learn it by heart;

and Dantès 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 Dantès,—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; Dantès, 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 someone 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, Dantès

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 Dantès; “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 Dantès, 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 abbé, 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. Dantès raised his head and

saw Faria’s eyes injected with blood. It seemed as if a flow of blood

had ascended from the chest to the head.