Chapter 113 The Past
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THE
COUNT departed with a sad heart from the house in which he had left Mercижdииs, 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 Mercижdииs 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 Dantииs. 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, to-day 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 Chateau 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 Dantииs. Clear sky, swift-flitting
boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the heavens were hung with
black, and the gigantic structure of the Chateau 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 Dantииs, 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. There
had been no prisoners confined in the Chateau d'If since the revolution of
July; it was only inhabited by a guard, kept there for the prevention of
smuggling. A conciииrge
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 conciииrge
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 Abbиж 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 conciииrge.
"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 conciииrge,
"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 Chateau 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 any one 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 abbиж
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. "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 Chateau 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 Chateau 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 conciииrge. "Yes,
especially if you will show me the poor abbиж's room." "Ah--No.
27." "Yes;
No. 27." repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the abbиж 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 Mercижdииs, 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 Mercижdииs.
On the other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, the white
letters of which were still visible on the green wall. "'O
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. O 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 abbиж
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 abbиж
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." Dantииs 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 conciииrge
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." "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 abbиж'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 conciииrge held out the strips of cloth upon which the Abbиж Faria had spread the riches of
his mind. The manuscript was the great work by the Abbиж 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!" 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 Haidижe. 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.
"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 with your misfortunes, and
with hope, Maximilian." "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?" "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. |
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