The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (35 page)

‘Silence!’ he said. ‘Otherwise you are lost. From now on we must think only of you, my child, and of how to make your captivity bearable or your flight possible. It would take you years by yourself to do alone all that I have done here, and it would be destroyed at once if our warders learned about the meetings between us. In any case, be calm, dear friend. The dungeon that I leave will not remain empty for long: some other unfortunate will come to take my place. This other man will look on you as a guardian angel. He may be young, strong and patient like yourself, he may help you in your escape, while I would only hinder you. You will no longer have half a corpse tied to you, impeding all your movements. Decidedly, God is at last doing something for you: he is giving you more than he is taking away. It is time I was dead.’

Edmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim: ‘Oh, my friend, be quiet!’ Then, recovering himself after the first shock and the old man’s dispiriting words, he said: ‘I have already saved you once, I can save you again.’

He picked up the leg of the bed and took out the flask, still one-third full of red liquid.

‘Look, we still have some of the life-giving draught. Quickly, tell me what I must do this time. Are there any new instructions? Please tell me, my friend, I am listening.’

‘There is no longer any hope,’ Faria replied, shaking his head. ‘No matter; God wants Man, whom he has created and in whose heart he has so profoundly entrenched a love for life, to do all he can to preserve an existence that is sometimes so painful, but always so dear to him.’

‘Yes, yes! I shall save you!’

‘Well, then, you may try. I am starting to feel cold and can feel the blood rushing to my head. The awful shivering that makes my teeth chatter and seems to unhinge my bones has begun to spread through my body. In five minutes the seizure will strike me, and in a quarter of an hour I shall be nothing but a corpse.’

‘Oh!’ Dantès cried sorrowfully, his heart smitten.

‘Do as you did before, only do not wait so long. All the springs of my life are by now worn out and death’ (indicating his paralysed arm and leg) ‘will only have half its work left to do. If, after pouring twelve drops – instead of ten – into my mouth, you observe that I am still not coming to, then give me the rest. Now, take me to my bed. I cannot stand up any longer.’

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

‘Now, my friend,’ said Faria, ‘the only consolation of my unhappy life, you whom heaven has given me – late, but given me none the less – an inestimable present, for which I thank it… at this moment when we are to be separated for ever, I wish you all the happiness and prosperity that you deserve: my son, I bless you!’

The young man fell to his knees, pressing his head against the old man’s bed.

‘But above all, listen to what I am telling you in these final moments: the Spadas’ treasure does exist. God has abolished all distance and every obstacle for me: I can see it, at the bottom of the second grotto; my eyes penetrate the depths of the earth and are dazzled by such riches. If you manage to escape, remember that the poor abbé, whom everyone believed mad, was not so. Hasten to Monte Cristo, take advantage of our fortune, enjoy it – you have suffered enough.’

A violent trembling interrupted his words. Dantès looked up and saw the eyes becoming bloodshot: it was as though a wave of blood had flowed up from the chest to the forehead.

‘Farewell, farewell,’ the old man murmured, convulsively grasping the young one’s hand. ‘Adieu!’

‘Not yet, not yet,’ Dantès cried. ‘Oh, God, do not abandon us. Help him! Help! Help…’

‘Be quiet, be quiet,’ the dying man muttered. ‘If you can save me, we must not be separated.’

‘You are right. Oh, yes! Have no fear, I shall save you! And, though you are suffering a great deal, you seem to suffer less than the first time.’

‘Do not be deceived: I am suffering less, because I have less strength in me to suffer. At your age, you have faith in life; it is a privilege of youth to believe and to hope. But old men see death more clearly. Here it is! It is coming… it is the end… my life is
going… my reason is clouded… Dantès, your hand… Adieu, adieu!’ And rising in one final effort of his whole being, he said: ‘Monte Cristo! Do not forget Monte Cristo!’

At this, he fell back on the bed.

The fit was terrible. All that remained on the bed of pain in place of the intelligent being that had lain there a moment before were twisted limbs, swollen eyes, bloody froth and a motionless corpse.

Dantès took the lamp and put it by the head of the bed on a jutting stone, so that its flickering flame cast a strange and fantastic light on these twisted features and this stiff, inert body. Staring directly at it, he waited imperturbably for the moment when he could administer the life-saving medicine.

When he thought it was time, he took the knife, prised apart the lips, which offered less resistance than they had the first time, and counted the ten drops one by one. Then he waited. The phial still contained about twice the amount that he had poured from it.

He waited ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, half an hour: there was no movement. Trembling, his hair standing on end, his forehead bathed in cold sweat, he counted the seconds by the beating of his heart.

Then he thought it was time to try the last resort: he brought the phial to Faria’s violet lips and, without needing to prise apart the jaw, which was still open, he emptied it of all its contents.

The medicine produced an immediate effect, galvanizing the old man with a violent shudder through all his limbs. His eyes re-opened with a terrifying expression, he let out a sigh that was closer to a shout, then the whole trembling body relapsed gradually into immobility.

Only the eyes remained open.

Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half passed. During this hour and a half of anguish, Edmond leant over, with his hand pressed against his friend’s heart, and felt the body gradually grow cold and the beating of the heart become more muffled and more dull. At last, nothing remained. The last trembling of the heart ceased and the face became livid; the eyes stayed open but lifeless.

It was six in the morning. Day began to break and its pale light, penetrating the dungeon, dimmed the dying light of the lamp.
Strange shadows passed across the face, at times giving it the appearance of life. While this struggle between day and night continued, Dantès could still doubt, but as soon as day triumphed he knew for certain that he was alone with a corpse.

Then a deep and invincible terror seized him. He no longer dared to hold the hand that dangled outside the bed, he no longer dared to look into those staring white eyes, which he tried several times to close, but in vain; they always reopened. He put out the lamp, hid it carefully and made his retreat, replacing the stone above his head as best he could.

He was just in time. The jailer was about to appear.

This morning, he began his round with Dantès. After his cell, he went to Faria’s, bringing breakfast and fresh linen. Nothing in the man’s manner indicated that he knew anything about the accident that had occurred. He went out.

Dantès was now seized with an unspeakable impatience to know what would happen in his unfortunate friend’s cell; so he went back down the underground passage and arrived in time to hear the turnkey’s cries, as he called for help.

The other warders soon entered. Then you could hear the heavy, regular footsteps typical of soldiers, even when they are off duty. Behind the soldiers came the governor.

Edmond listened to the sound of the bed moving as they shook the body, then the governor’s voice ordering water to be thrown in its face and, seeing that despite this the prisoner was not coming to, demanding the doctor.

The governor went out and a few words of compassion reached Dantès’ ears, mixed with ironic laughter.

‘Well, well, then!’ one of them said. ‘The madman has gone to find his treasure.
Bon voyage!
’

‘For all his millions he won’t have enough to pay for his winding-sheet,’ said another.

‘Winding-sheets are not expensive at the Château d’If,’ remarked a third voice.

‘Since he is a churchman,’ said one of the first two voices, ‘perhaps they will go to some extra expense for him.’

‘In that case he will have the honour of a sack.’

Edmond listened and did not miss a word, but he understood very little of what was said. Soon the voices faded and he decided
that the men had left the cell. However, he did not dare go in: they might have left a turnkey to guard the body. So he remained silent and motionless, hardly daring to breathe.

When someone returned, it was the governor, followed by the doctor and several officers. There was a brief silence: obviously the doctor was going up to the bed and examining the body. Then the questions began.

The doctor diagnosed the patient’s condition and declared him dead. The questions and answers were delivered with a nonchalance that infuriated Dantès: it seemed to him that everyone should feel at least part of his own affection for the poor abbé.

‘I am sad to hear it,’ the governor said, in reply to the doctor’s confirmation of the old man’s death. ‘He was a mild and inoffensive prisoner, who delighted us with his follies, and was above all easy to guard.’

‘As for that,’ said the warder, ‘we could not have guarded him at all and I guarantee that this one would have stayed here fifty years without once attempting to escape.’

‘However,’ the governor continued, ‘as I am responsible in this matter, I think that, certain as you are – and I don’t doubt your competence – it is important as soon as possible to ensure that the prisoner is truly dead.’

There was a moment of utter silence during which Dantès, still listening, guessed that the doctor must be examining the body for a second time.

‘You can set your mind entirely at rest,’ he said shortly. ‘He is dead, I guarantee it.’

‘But as you know, Monsieur,’ the governor insisted, ‘we are not satisfied in such cases with a simple examination; so, despite all appearances, please complete your duties and carry out the formalities prescribed by law.’

‘Let the irons be heated,’ said the doctor. ‘But, in truth, this is a quite useless precaution.’

The order to heat the irons made Dantès shudder.

He heard steps hurrying back and forth, the door grating on its hinges, some comings and goings inside the cell and, a few moments later, a turnkey returning and saying: ‘Here is the brazier with a hot iron.’

There was a further moment’s silence, then the sound of burning flesh, emitting a heavy, sickening odour which even penetrated the
wall behind which Dantès was listening, horrified. At the smell of burning human flesh, sweat bathed the young man’s brow and he thought that he was about to faint.

‘You see, governor: he is indeed dead,’ said the doctor. ‘A burn on the heel is conclusive: the poor idiot is cured of his folly and delivered from his captivity.’

‘Wasn’t he called Faria?’ asked one of the officers accompanying the governor.

‘Yes, Monsieur, and he claimed that it was an old family. He was certainly very well educated and even quite reasonable on any matter not touching his treasure; on that, it must be said, he was intractable.’

‘It is an affliction which we call monomania,’ said the doctor.

‘Have you ever had to complain about him?’ the governor asked the jailer responsible for bringing the abbé’s food.

‘Never, governor,’ the jailer replied. ‘Never, not the slightest! On the contrary: at one time he used to entertain me greatly by telling me stories; and one day, when my wife was ill, he even gave me a recipe which cured her.’

‘Ah, ah! I didn’t know that he was a colleague,’ said the doctor; the he added, with a laugh: ‘I hope, governor, that you will treat him accordingly?’

‘Yes, yes, have no fear, he will be decently shrouded in the newest sack we can find. Does that satisfy you?’

‘Must we carry out this final formality in your presence, Monsieur?’ asked a turnkey.

‘Of course, but hurry. I cannot stay all day in this cell.’

Dantès heard further comings and goings; then, a moment later, the sound of cloth being rumpled. The bed grated on its springs, there was a heavy step on the paving like that of a man lifting a burden, then the bed creaked again under the weight that was returned to it.

‘Until this evening, then,’ said the governor.

‘Will there be a Mass?’ asked one of the officers.

‘Impossible,’ the governor replied. ‘The prison chaplain came to me yesterday to ask for leave to go on a short journey for one week to Hyères, and I told him that I could take care of my prisoners for that time. The poor abbé shouldn’t have been in such a hurry, then he would have had his requiem.’

‘Pooh!’ said the doctor, with the customary impiety of his
profession. ‘He is a churchman. God will consider his state and not give hell the satisfaction of receiving a priest.’

This ill-judged quip was greeted with a burst of laughter. And meanwhile the preparation of the corpse continued.

‘Till this evening, then,’ the governor said, when it was completed.

‘At what time?’ the turnkey asked.

‘Around ten or eleven, of course.’