Chapter 113. The Past
The count departed with a sad heart from the house in which he had leftMercédès, probably never to behold her again. Since the death of littleEdward a great change had taken place in Monte Cristo. Having reachedthe summit of his vengeance by a long and tortuous path, he saw an abyssof doubt yawning before him. More than this, the conversation which hadjust taken place between Mercédès and himself had awakened so manyrecollections in his heart that he felt it necessary to combat withthem. A man of the count’s temperament could not long indulge in thatmelancholy which can exist in common minds, but which destroys superiorones. He thought he must have made an error in his calculations if henow found cause to blame himself.
“I cannot have deceived myself,” he said; “I must look upon the past ina false light. What!” he continued, “can I have been following a falsepath?—can the end which I proposed be a mistaken end?—can one hour havesufficed to prove to an architect that the work upon which he foundedall his hopes was an impossible, if not a sacrilegious, undertaking? Icannot reconcile myself to this idea—it would madden me. The reason whyI am now dissatisfied is that I have not a clear appreciation of thepast. The past, like the country through which we walk, becomesindistinct as we advance. My position is like that of a person woundedin a dream; he feels the wound, though he cannot recollect when hereceived it.
“Come, then, thou regenerate man, thou extravagant prodigal, thouawakened sleeper, thou all-powerful visionary, thou invinciblemillionaire,—once again review thy past life of starvation andwretchedness, revisit the scenes where fate and misfortune conducted,and where despair received thee. Too many diamonds, too much gold andsplendor, are now reflected by the mirror in which Monte Cristo seeks tobehold Dantès. Hide thy diamonds, bury thy gold, shroud thy splendor,exchange riches for poverty, liberty for a prison, a living body for acorpse!”
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 beenconducted by a silent and nocturnal guard; the houses, today so smilingand animated, were on that night dark, mute, and closed.
“And yet they were the same,” murmured Monte Cristo, “only now it isbroad daylight instead of night; it is the sun which brightens theplace, and makes it appear so cheerful.”
He proceeded towards the quay by the Rue Saint-Laurent, and advanced tothe Consigne; it was the point where he had embarked. A pleasure-boatwith striped awning was going by. Monte Cristo called the owner, whoimmediately rowed up to him with the eagerness of a boatman hoping for agood fare.
The weather was magnificent, and the excursion a treat. The sun, red andflaming, 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 anotherelement; while on the extreme verge of the horizon might be seen thefishermen’s boats, white and graceful as the sea-gull, or the merchantvessels bound for Corsica or Spain.
But notwithstanding the serene sky, the gracefully formed boats, and thegolden light in which the whole scene was bathed, the Count of MonteCristo, wrapped in his cloak, could think only of this terrible voyage,the details of which were one by one recalled to his memory. Thesolitary light burning at the Catalans; that first sight of the Châteaud’If, which told him whither they were leading him; the struggle withthe gendarmes when he wished to throw himself overboard; his despairwhen he found himself vanquished, and the sensation when the muzzle ofthe carbine touched his forehead—all these were brought before him invivid and frightful reality.
Like the streams which the heat of the summer has dried up, and whichafter the autumnal storms gradually begin oozing drop by drop, so didthe count feel his heart gradually fill with the bitterness whichformerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantès. Clear sky, swift-flittingboats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the heavens were hung withblack, and the gigantic structure of the Château d’If seemed like thephantom of a mortal enemy. As they reached the shore, the countinstinctively shrunk to the extreme end of the boat, and the owner wasobliged 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 hadbeen violently dragged by the guards, who forced him to ascend the slopeat the points of their bayonets. The journey had seemed very long toDantès, but Monte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the oarseemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up with the flyingspray of the sea.
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There had been no prisoners confined in the Château d’If since therevolution of July; it was only inhabited by a guard, kept there for theprevention of smuggling. A concierge waited at the door to exhibit tovisitors 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 otheremployment. The concierge who attended him had only been there since1830. He visited his own dungeon. He again beheld the dull light vainlyendeavoring to penetrate the narrow opening. His eyes rested upon thespot where had stood his bed, since then removed, and behind the bed thenew stones indicated where the breach made by the Abbé Faria had been.Monte Cristo felt his limbs tremble; he seated himself upon a log ofwood.
“Are there any stories connected with this prison besides the onerelating to the poisoning of Mirabeau?” asked the count; “are there anytraditions respecting these dismal abodes,—in which it is difficult tobelieve men can ever have imprisoned their fellow-creatures?”
“Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine told me one connected with thisvery dungeon.”
Monte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had been his jailer. He had almostforgotten his name and face, but at the mention of the name he recalledhis person as he used to see it, the face encircled by a beard, wearingthe brown jacket, the bunch of keys, the jingling of which he stillseemed to hear. The count turned around, and fancied he saw him in thecorridor, 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 tostill its violent beatings; he felt afraid of hearing his own history.
“This dungeon,” said the concierge, “was, it appears, some time agooccupied by a very dangerous prisoner, the more so since he was full ofindustry. 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; therewas a stone veil between him and the firmament. He thought that therehad been no less thick a veil before the eyes of those to whom Fariaoffered the treasures.
“Could the prisoners see each other?” he asked.
“Oh, no, sir, it was expressly forbidden; but they eluded the vigilanceof 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 andindustrious, while the abbé was aged and weak; besides, his mind was toovacillating 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 whatmeans no one knows; but he made it, and there is the evidence yetremaining of his work. Do you see it?” and the man held the torch to thewall.
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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 longthey did so, nobody knows. One day the old man fell ill and died. Nowguess what the young one did?”
“Tell me.”
“He carried off the corpse, which
he placed in his own bed with its faceto the wall; then he entered the empty dungeon, closed the entrance, andslipped into the sack which had contained the dead body. Did you everhear of such an idea?”
Monte Cristo closed his eyes, and seemed again to experience all thesensations he had felt when the coarse canvas, yet moist with the colddews of death, had touched his face.
The jailer continued:
“Now this was his project. He fancied that they buried the dead at theChâteau d’If, and imagining they would not expend much labor on thegrave of a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with hisshoulders, but unfortunately their arrangements at the Châteaufrustrated his projects. They never buried the dead; they merelyattached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, and then threw them into thesea. This is what was done. The young man was thrown from the top of therock; the corpse was found on the bed next day, and the whole truth wasguessed, for the men who performed the office then mentioned what theyhad not dared to speak of before, that at the moment the corpse wasthrown into the deep, they heard a shriek, which was almost immediatelystifled by the water in which it disappeared.”
The count breathed with difficulty; the cold drops ran down hisforehead, and his heart was full of anguish.
“No,” he muttered, “the doubt I felt was but the commencement offorgetfulness; but here the wound reopens, and the heart again thirstsfor vengeance. And the prisoner,” he continued aloud, “was he ever heardof afterwards?”
“Oh, no; of course not. You can understand that one of two things musthave 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 musthave fallen upright, and then the weight would have dragged him to thebottom, 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 confinedfor plotting with the Bonapartists.”
“Great is truth,” muttered the count, “fire cannot burn, nor water drownit! Thus the poor sailor lives in the recollection of those who narratehis history; his terrible story is recited in the chimney-corner, and ashudder is felt at the description of his transit through the air to beswallowed by the deep.” Then, the count added aloud, “Was his name everknown?”
“Oh, yes; but only as No. 34.”
“Oh, Villefort, Villefort,” murmured the count, “this scene must oftenhave 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 theabbé answering him in those very words through the wall when asked hisname.
“Come, sir.”
“Wait,” said Monte Cristo, “I wish to take one final glance around thisroom.”
“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 darknessthat 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 distinctlyas by daylight. Then he looked around him, and really recognized hisdungeon.
“Yes,” he said, “there is the stone upon which I used to sit; there isthe impression made by my shoulders on the wall; there is the mark of myblood made when one day I dashed my head against the wall. Oh, thosefigures, how well I remember them! I made them one day to calculate theage of my father, that I might know whether I should find him stillliving, 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 notreckon upon hunger and infidelity!” and a bitter laugh escaped thecount.
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 whiteletters 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 longerbegged 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; theguide was coming; Monte Cristo went to meet him.
“Follow me, sir;” and without ascending the stairs the guide conductedhim by a subterraneous passage to another entrance. There, again, MonteCristo was assailed by a multitude of thoughts. The first thing that methis eye was the meridian, drawn by the abbé on the wall, by which hecalculated the time; then he saw the remains of the bed on which thepoor prisoner had died. The sight of this, instead of exciting theanguish experienced by the count in the dungeon, filled his heart with asoft and grateful sentiment, and tears fell from his eyes.
“This is where the mad abbé was kept, sir, and that is where the youngman entered;” and the guide pointed to the opening, which had remainedunclosed. “From the appearance of the stone,” he continued, “a learnedgentleman discovered that the prisoners might have communicated togetherfor 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 hadtwice unconsciously pitied him. The guide took them, thinking themmerely a few pieces of little value; but the light of the torch revealedtheir 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, Icannot understand your generosity!”
“Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been a sailor, and yourstory 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? Thankyou!”
“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 leftin a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen years,’ so I began tosound 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 thehead 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 generallyfound 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 greatcuriosities; 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 dowell.”
“I will run for it, sir;” and the guide went out.
Then the count knelt down by the side of the bed, which death hadconverted into an altar.
“Oh, second father,” he exclaimed, “thou who hast given me liberty,knowledge, riches; thou who, like beings of a super
ior order toourselves, couldst understand the science of good and evil; if in thedepths of the tomb there still remain something within us which canrespond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if after death thesoul ever revisit the places where we have lived and suffered,—then,noble heart, sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the paternal love thoudidst bear me, by the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me somesign, some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which, if itchange not to conviction, must become remorse!” The count bowed hishead, and clasped his hands together.
“Here, sir,” said a voice behind him.
Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The concierge held out the strips ofcloth upon which the Abbé Faria had spread the riches of his mind. Themanuscript was the great work by the Abbé Faria upon the kingdoms ofItaly. The count seized it hastily, his eyes immediately fell upon theepigraph, and he read:
“Thou shalt tear out the dragons’ teeth, and shall trample the lionsunder foot, saith the Lord.”
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “here is my answer. Thanks, father, thanks.” Andfeeling in his pocket, he took thence a small pocket-book, whichcontained 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 morevaluable 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; andwoe to those who forgot that I was there!”
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As he repassed the Catalans, the count turned around and burying hishead in his cloak murmured the name of a woman. The victory wascomplete; twice he had overcome his doubts. The name he pronounced, in avoice of tenderness, amounting almost to love, was that of Haydée.
On landing, the count turned towards the cemetery, where he felt sure offinding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, had piously sought out a tomb,and sought it vainly. He, who returned to France with millions, had beenunable 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 downand the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all the old wood in thechurchyard.
The worthy merchant had been more fortunate. Dying in the arms of hischildren, he had been by them laid by the side of his wife, who hadpreceded him in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of marble, onwhich were inscribed their names, were placed on either side of a littleenclosure, railed in, and shaded by four cypress-trees. Morrel wasleaning against one of these, mechanically fixing his eyes on thegraves. 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, butthere;” and he pointed upwards.
“The dead are everywhere,” said Morrel; “did you not yourself tell me soas we left Paris?”
“Maximilian,” said the count, “you asked me during the journey to allowyou 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 lesspainfully here than anywhere else.”
“So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your word withme, 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 tobelieve 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 anddesired in the world?”
“Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to tell you. Iknew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes of happiness upon awoman. He was young, he had an old father whom he loved, a betrothedbride whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when one of thecaprices of fate,—which would almost make us doubt the goodness ofProvidence, if that Providence did not afterwards reveal itself byproving that all is but a means of conducting to an end,—one of thosecaprices deprived him of his mistress, of the future of which he haddreamed (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 hishand on the young man’s shoulder. Maximilian shuddered.
“Fourteen years!” he muttered.
“Fourteen years!” repeated the count. “During that time he had manymoments of despair. He also, Morrel, like you, considered himself theunhappiest of men.”
“Well?” asked Morrel.
“Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him through humanmeans. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize the infinite mercy of theLord, but at last he took patience and waited. One day he miraculouslyleft the prison, transformed, rich, powerful. His first cry was for hisfather; but that father was dead.”
“My father, too, is dead,” said Morrel.
“Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected, rich, andfull of years; his father died poor, despairing, almost doubtful ofProvidence; and when his son sought his grave ten years afterwards, histomb had disappeared, and no one could say, ‘There sleeps the father youso well loved.’”
“Oh!” exclaimed Morrel.
“He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for he could noteven 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 thepersecutors of her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel, that he was a moreunhappy 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 hishand to Monte Cristo. “Only remember——”
“On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the Island ofMonte Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for you in the port ofBastia, it will be called the Eurus. You will give your name to thecaptain, 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! Ihave told you twenty times that if you wish to die on that day, I willassist you. Morrel, farewell!”
“Do you leave me?”
“Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone in your struggle withmisfortune—alone with that strong-winged eagle which God sends to bearaloft the elect to his feet. The story of Ganymede, Maximilian, is not afable, 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 wasascending like a plume of feathers from the black chimney. The steamersoon disappeared, and in an hour afterwards, as the count had said, wasscarcely distinguishable in the horizon amidst the fogs of the night.