Chapter 15 Number 34 and Number 27.

Dantes passed through all the stages of 
torture natural to prisoners in 
suspense. He was sustained at first by 
that pride of conscious innocence which 
is the sequence to hope; then he began 
to doubt his own innocence, which 
justified in some measure the 
governor's belief in his mental 
alienation; and then, relaxing his 
sentiment of pride, he addressed his 
supplications, not to God, but to man. 
God is always the last resource. 
Unfortunates, who ought to begin with 
God, do not have any hope in him till 
they have exhausted all other means of 
deliverance.

Dantes asked to be removed from his 
present dungeon into another; for a 
change, however disadvantageous, was 
still a change, and would afford him 
some amusement. He entreated to be 
allowed to walk about, to have fresh 
air, books, and writing materials. His 
requests were not granted, but he went 
on asking all the same. He accustomed 
himself to speaking to the new jailer, 
although the latter was, if possible, 
more taciturn than the old one; but 
still, to speak to a man, even though 
mute, was something. Dantes spoke for 
the sake of hearing his own voice; he 
had tried to speak when alone, but the 
sound of his voice terrified him. 
Often, before his captivity, Dantes, 
mind had revolted at the idea of 
assemblages of prisoners, made up of 
thieves, vagabonds, and murderers. He 
now wished to be amongst them, in order 
to see some other face besides that of 
his jailer; he sighed for the galleys, 
with the infamous costume, the chain, 
and the brand on the shoulder. The 
galley-slaves breathed the fresh air of 
heaven, and saw each other. They were 
very happy. He besought the jailer one 
day to let him have a companion, were 
it even the mad abbe.

The jailer, though rough and hardened 
by the constant sight of so much 
suffering, was yet a man. At the bottom 
of his heart he had often had a feeling 
of pity for this unhappy young man who 
suffered so; and he laid the request of 
number 34 before the governor; but the 
latter sapiently imagined that Dantes 
wished to conspire or attempt an 
escape, and refused his request. Dantes 
had exhausted all human resources, and 
he then turned to God.

All the pious ideas that had been so 
long forgotten, returned; he 
recollected the prayers his mother had 
taught him, and discovered a new 
meaning in every word; for in 
prosperity prayers seem but a mere 
medley of words, until misfortune comes 
and the unhappy sufferer first 
understands the meaning of the sublime 
language in which he invokes the pity 
of heaven! He prayed, and prayed aloud, 
no longer terrified at the sound of his 
own voice, for he fell into a sort of 
ecstasy. He laid every action of his 
life before the Almighty, proposed 
tasks to accomplish, and at the end of 
every prayer introduced the entreaty 
oftener addressed to man than to God: 
"Forgive us our trespasses as we 
forgive them that trespass against us." 
Yet in spite of his earnest prayers, 
Dantes remained a prisoner.

Then gloom settled heavily upon him. 
Dantes was a man of great simplicity of 
thought, and without education; he 
could not, therefore, in the solitude 
of his dungeon, traverse in mental 
vision the history of the ages, bring 
to life the nations that had perished, 
and rebuild the ancient cities so vast 
and stupendous in the light of the 
imagination, and that pass before the 
eye glowing with celestial colors in 
Martin's Babylonian pictures. He could 
not do this, he whose past life was so 
short, whose present so melancholy, and 
his future so doubtful. Nineteen years 
of light to reflect upon in eternal 
darkness! No distraction could come to 
his aid; his energetic spirit, that 
would have exalted in thus revisiting 
the past, was imprisoned like an eagle 
in a cage. He clung to one idea -- that 
of his happiness, destroyed, without 
apparent cause, by an unheard-of 
fatality; he considered and 
reconsidered this idea, devoured it (so 
to speak), as the implacable Ugolino 
devours the skull of Archbishop Roger 
in the Inferno of Dante.

Rage supplanted religious fervor. 
Dantes uttered blasphemies that made 
his jailer recoil with horror, dashed 
himself furiously against the walls of 
his prison, wreaked his anger upon 
everything, and chiefly upon himself, 
so that the least thing, -- a grain of 
sand, a straw, or a breath of air that 
annoyed him, led to paroxysms of fury. 
Then the letter that Villefort had 
showed to him recurred to his mind, and 
every line gleamed forth in fiery 
letters on the wall like the mene tekel 
upharsin of Belshazzar. He told himself 
that it was the enmity of man, and not 
the vengeance of heaven, that had thus 
plunged him into the deepest misery. He 
consigned his unknown persecutors to 
the most horrible tortures he could 
imagine, and found them all 
insufficient, because after torture 
came death, and after death, if not 
repose, at least the boon of 
unconsciousness.

By dint of constantly dwelling on the 
idea that tranquillity was death, and 
if punishment were the end in view 
other tortures than death must be 
invented, he began to reflect on 
suicide. Unhappy he, who, on the brink 
of misfortune, broods over ideas like 
these!

Before him is a dead sea that stretches 
in azure calm before the eye; but he 
who unwarily ventures within its 
embrace finds himself struggling with a 
monster that would drag him down to 
perdition. Once thus ensnared, unless 
the protecting hand of God snatch him 
thence, all is over, and his struggles 
but tend to hasten his destruction. 
This state of mental anguish is, 
however, less terrible than the 
sufferings that precede or the 
punishment that possibly will follow. 
There is a sort of consolation at the 
contemplation of the yawning abyss, at 
the bottom of which lie darkness and 
obscurity.

Edmond found some solace in these 
ideas. All his sorrows, all his 
sufferings, with their train of gloomy 
spectres, fled from his cell when the 
angel of death seemed about to enter. 
Dantes reviewed his past life with 
composure, and, looking forward with 
terror to his future existence, chose 
that middle line that seemed to afford 
him a refuge.

"Sometimes," said he, "in my voyages, 
when I was a man and commanded other 
men, I have seen the heavens overcast, 
the sea rage and foam, the storm arise, 
and, like a monstrous bird, beating the 
two horizons with its wings. Then I 
felt that my vessel was a vain refuge, 
that trembled and shook before the 
tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and 
the sight of the sharp rocks announced 
the approach of death, and death then 
terrified me, and I used all my skill 
and intelligence as a man and a sailor 
to struggle against the wrath of God. 
But I did so because I was happy, 
because I had not courted death, 
because to be cast upon a bed of rocks 
and seaweed seemed terrible, because I 
was unwilling that I, a creature made 
for the service of God, should serve 
for food to the gulls and ravens. But 
now it is different; I have lost all 
that bound me to life, death smiles and 
invites me to repose; I die after my 
own manner, I die exhausted and 
broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when 
I have paced three thousand times round 
my cell."

No sooner had this idea taken 
possession of him than he became more 
composed, arranged his couch to the 
best of his power, ate little and slept 
less, and found existence almost 
supportable, because he felt that he 
could throw it off at pleasure, like a 
worn-out garment. Two methods of 
self-destruction were at his disposal. 
He could hang himself with his 
handkerchief to the window bars, or 
refuse food and die of starvation. But 
the first was repugnant to him. Dantes 
had always entertained the greatest 
horror of pirates, who are hung up to 
the yard-arm; he would not die by what 
seemed an infamous death. He resolved 
to adopt the second, and began that day 
to carry out his resolve. Nearly four 
years had passed away; at the end of 
the second he had ceased to mark the 
lapse of time.

Dantes said, "I wish to die," and had 
chosen the manner of his death, and 
fearful of changing his mind, he had 
taken an oath to die. "When my morning 
and evening meals are brought," thought 
he, "I will cast them out of the 
window, and they will think that I have 
eaten them."

He kept his word; twice a day he cast 
out, through the barred aperture, the 
provisions his jailer brought him -- at 
first gayly, then with deliberation, 
and at last with regret. Nothing but 
the recollection of his oath gave him 
strength to proceed. Hunger made viands 
once repugnant, now acceptable; he held 
the plate in his hand for an hour at a 
time, and gazed thoughtfully at the 
morsel of bad meat, of tainted fish, of 
black and mouldy bread. It was the last 
yearning for life contending with the 
resolution of despair; then his dungeon 
seemed less sombre, his prospects less 
desperate. He was still young -- he was 
only four or five and twenty -- he had 
nearly fifty years to live. What 
unforseen events might not open his 
prison door, and restore him to 
liberty? Then he raised to his lips the 
repast that, like a voluntary Tantalus, 
he refused himself; but he thought of 
his oath, and he would not break it. He 
persisted until, at last, he had not 
sufficient strength to rise and cast 
his supper out of the loophole. The 
next morning he could not see or hear; 
the jailer feared he was dangerously 
ill. Edmond hoped he was dying.

Thus the day passed away. Edmond felt a 
sort of stupor creeping over him which 
brought with it a feeling almost of 
content; the gnawing pain at his 
stomach had ceased; his thirst had 
abated; when he closed his eyes he saw 
myriads of lights dancing before them 
like the will-o'-the-wisps that play 
about the marshes. It was the twilight 
of that mysterious country called Death!

Suddenly, about nine o'clock in the 
evening, Edmond heard a hollow sound in 
the wall against which he was lying.

So many loathsome animals inhabited the 
prison, that their noise did not, in 
general, awake him; but whether 
abstinence had quickened his faculties, 
or whether the noise was really louder 
than usual, Edmond raised his head and 
listened. It was a continual 
scratching, as if made by a huge claw, 
a powerful tooth, or some iron 
instrument attacking the stones.

Although weakened, the young man's 
brain instantly responded to the idea 
that haunts all prisoners -- liberty! 
It seemed to him that heaven had at 
length taken pity on him, and had sent 
this noise to warn him on the very 
brink of the abyss. Perhaps one of 
those beloved ones he had so often 
thought of was thinking of him, and 
striving to diminish the distance that 
separated them.

No, no, doubtless he was deceived, and 
it was but one of those dreams that 
forerun death!

Edmond still heard the sound. It lasted 
nearly three hours; he then heard a 
noise of something falling, and all was 
silent.

Some hours afterwards it began again, 
nearer and more distinct. Edmond was 
intensely interested. Suddenly the 
jailer entered.

For a week since he had resolved to 
die, and during the four days that he 
had been carrying out his purpose, 
Edmond had not spoken to the attendant, 
had not answered him when he inquired 
what was the matter with him, and 
turned his face to the wall when he 
looked too curiously at him; but now 
the jailer might hear the noise and put 
an end to it, and so destroy a ray of 
something like hope that soothed his 
last moments.

The jailer brought him his breakfast. 
Dantes raised himself up and began to 
talk about everything; about the bad 
quality of the food, about the coldness 
of his dungeon, grumbling and 
complaining, in order to have an excuse 
for speaking louder, and wearying the 
patience of his jailer, who out of 
kindness of heart had brought broth and 
white bread for his prisoner.

Fortunately, he fancied that Dantes was 
delirious; and placing the food on the 
rickety table, he withdrew. Edmond 
listened, and the sound became more and 
more distinct.

"There can be no doubt about it," 
thought he; "it is some prisoner who is 
striving to obtain his freedom. Oh, if 
I were only there to help him!" 
Suddenly another idea took possession 
of his mind, so used to misfortune, 
that it was scarcely capable of hope -- 
the idea that the noise was made by 
workmen the governor had ordered to 
repair the neighboring dungeon.

It was easy to ascertain this; but how 
could he risk the question? It was easy 
to call his jailer's attention to the 
noise, and watch his countenance as he 
listened; but might he not by this 
means destroy hopes far more important 
than the short-lived satisfaction of 
his own curiosity? Unfortunately, 
Edmond's brain was still so feeble that 
he could not bend his thoughts to 
anything in particular.

He saw but one means of restoring 
lucidity and clearness to his judgment. 
He turned his eyes towards the soup 
which the jailer had brought, rose, 
staggered towards it, raised the vessel 
to his lips, and drank off the contents 
with a feeling of indescribable 
pleasure. He had often heard that 
shipwrecked persons had died through 
having eagerly devoured too much food. 
Edmond replaced on the table the bread 
he was about to devour, and returned to 
his couch -- he did not wish to die. He 
soon felt that his ideas became again 
collected -- he could think, and 
strengthen his thoughts by reasoning. 
Then he said to himself, "I must put 
this to the test, but without 
compromising anybody. If it is a 
workman, I need but knock against the 
wall, and he will cease to work, in 
order to find out who is knocking, and 
why he does so; but as his occupation 
is sanctioned by the governor, he will 
soon resume it. If, on the contrary, it 
is a prisoner, the noise I make will 
alarm him, he will cease, and not begin 
again until he thinks every one is 
asleep."

Edmond rose again, but this time his 
legs did not tremble, and his sight was 
clear; he went to a corner of his 
dungeon, detached a stone, and with it 
knocked against the wall where the 
sound came. He struck thrice. At the 
first blow the sound ceased, as if by 
magic.

Edmond listened intently; an hour 
passed, two hours passed, and no sound 
was heard from the wall -- all was 
silent there.

Full of hope, Edmond swallowed a few 
mouthfuls of bread and water, and, 
thanks to the vigor of his 
constitution, found himself well-nigh 
recovered.

The day passed away in utter silence -- 
night came without recurrence of the 
noise.

"It is a prisoner," said Edmond 
joyfully. The night passed in perfect 
silence. Edmond did not close his eyes.

In the morning the jailer brought him 
fresh provisions -- he had already 
devoured those of the previous day; he 
ate these listening anxiously for the 
sound, walking round and round his 
cell, shaking the iron bars of the 
loophole, restoring vigor and agility 
to his limbs by exercise, and so 
preparing himself for his future 
destiny. At intervals he listened to 
learn if the noise had not begun again, 
and grew impatient at the prudence of 
the prisoner, who did not guess he had 
been disturbed by a captive as anxious 
for liberty as himself.

Three days passed -- seventy-two long 
tedious hours which he counted off by 
minutes!

At length one evening, as the jailer 
was visiting him for the last time that 
night, Dantes, with his ear for the 
hundredth time at the wall, fancied he 
heard an almost imperceptible movement 
among the stones. He moved away, walked 
up and down his cell to collect his 
thoughts, and then went back and 
listened.

The matter was no longer doubtful. 
Something was at work on the other side 
of the wall; the prisoner had 
discovered the danger, and had 
substituted a lever for a chisel.

Encouraged by this discovery, Edmond 
determined to assist the indefatigable 
laborer. He began by moving his bed, 
and looked around for anything with 
which he could pierce the wall, 
penetrate the moist cement, and 
displace a stone.

He saw nothing, he had no knife or 
sharp instrument, the window grating 
was of iron, but he had too often 
assured himself of its solidity. All 
his furniture consisted of a bed, a 
chair, a table, a pail, and a jug. The 
bed had iron clamps, but they were 
screwed to the wood, and it would have 
required a screw-driver to take them 
off. The table and chair had nothing, 
the pail had once possessed a handle, 
but that had been removed.

Dantes had but one resource, which was 
to break the jug, and with one of the 
sharp fragments attack the wall. He let 
the jug fall on the floor, and it broke 
in pieces.

Dantes concealed two or three of the 
sharpest fragments in his bed, leaving 
the rest on the floor. The breaking of 
his jug was too natural an accident to 
excite suspicion. Edmond had all the 
night to work in, but in the darkness 
he could not do much, and he soon felt 
that he was working against something 
very hard; he pushed back his bed, and 
waited for day.

All night he heard the subterranean 
workman, who continued to mine his way. 
Day came, the jailer entered. Dantes 
told him that the jug had fallen from 
his hands while he was drinking, and 
the jailer went grumblingly to fetch 
another, without giving himself the 
trouble to remove the fragments of the 
broken one. He returned speedily, 
advised the prisoner to be more 
careful, and departed.

Dantes heard joyfully the key grate in 
the lock; he listened until the sound 
of steps died away, and then, hastily 
displacing his bed, saw by the faint 
light that penetrated into his cell, 
that he had labored uselessly the 
previous evening in attacking the stone 
instead of removing the plaster that 
surrounded it.

The damp had rendered it friable, and 
Dantes was able to break it off -- in 
small morsels, it is true, but at the 
end of half an hour he had scraped off 
a handful; a mathematician might have 
calculated that in two years, supposing 
that the rock was not encountered, a 
passage twenty feet long and two feet 
broad, might be formed.

The prisoner reproached himself with 
not having thus employed the hours he 
had passed in vain hopes, prayer, and 
despondency. During the six years that 
he had been imprisoned, what might he 
not have accomplished?

In three days he had succeeded, with 
the utmost precaution, in removing the 
cement, and exposing the stone-work. 
The wall was built of rough stones, 
among which, to give strength to the 
structure, blocks of hewn stone were at 
intervals imbedded. It was one of these 
he had uncovered, and which he must 
remove from its socket.

Dantes strove to do this with his 
nails, but they were too weak. The 
fragments of the jug broke, and after 
an hour of useless toil, he paused.

Was he to be thus stopped at the 
beginning, and was he to wait inactive 
until his fellow workman had completed 
his task? Suddenly an idea occurred to 
him -- he smiled, and the perspiration 
dried on his forehead.

The jailer always brought Dantes' soup 
in an iron saucepan; this saucepan 
contained soup for both prisoners, for 
Dantes had noticed that it was either 
quite full, or half empty, according as 
the turnkey gave it to him or to his 
companion first.

The handle of this saucepan was of 
iron; Dantes would have given ten years 
of his life in exchange for it.

The jailer was accustomed to pour the 
contents of the saucepan into Dantes' 
plate, and Dantes, after eating his 
soup with a wooden spoon, washed the 
plate, which thus served for every day. 
Now when evening came Dantes put his 
plate on the ground near the door; the 
jailer, as he entered, stepped on it 
and broke it.

This time he could not blame Dantes. He 
was wrong to leave it there, but the 
jailer was wrong not to have looked 
before him.

The jailer, therefore, only grumbled. 
Then he looked about for something to 
pour the soup into; Dantes' entire 
dinner service consisted of one plate 
-- there was no alternative.

"Leave the saucepan," said Dantes; "you 
can take it away when you bring me my 
breakfast." This advice was to the 
jailer's taste, as it spared him the 
necessity of making another trip. He 
left the saucepan.

Dantes was beside himself with joy. He 
rapidly devoured his food, and after 
waiting an hour, lest the jailer should 
change his mind and return, he removed 
his bed, took the handle of the 
saucepan, inserted the point between 
the hewn stone and rough stones of the 
wall, and employed it as a lever. A 
slight oscillation showed Dantes that 
all went well. At the end of an hour 
the stone was extricated from the wall, 
leaving a cavity a foot and a half in 
diameter.

Dantes carefully collected the plaster, 
carried it into the corner of his cell, 
and covered it with earth. Then, 
wishing to make the best use of his 
time while he had the means of labor, 
he continued to work without ceasing. 
At the dawn of day he replaced the 
stone, pushed his bed against the wall, 
and lay down. The breakfast consisted 
of a piece of bread; the jailer entered 
and placed the bread on the table.

"Well, don't you intend to bring me 
another plate?" said Dantes.

"No," replied the turnkey; "you destroy 
everything. First you break your jug, 
then you make me break your plate; if 
all the prisoners followed your 
example, the government would be 
ruined. I shall leave you the saucepan, 
and pour your soup into that. So for 
the future I hope you will not be so 
destructive."

Dantes raised his eyes to heaven and 
clasped his hands beneath the coverlet. 
He felt more gratitude for the 
possession of this piece of iron than 
he had ever felt for anything. He had 
noticed, however, that the prisoner on 
the other side had ceased to labor; no 
matter, this was a greater reason for 
proceeding -- if his neighbor would not 
come to him, he would go to his 
neighbor. All day he toiled on 
untiringly, and by the evening he had 
succeeded in extracting ten handfuls of 
plaster and fragments of stone. When 
the hour for his jailer's visit 
arrived, Dantes straightened the handle 
of the saucepan as well as he could, 
and placed it in its accustomed place. 
The turnkey poured his ration of soup 
into it, together with the fish -- for 
thrice a week the prisoners were 
deprived of meat. This would have been 
a method of reckoning time, had not 
Dantes long ceased to do so. Having 
poured out the soup, the turnkey 
retired. Dantes wished to ascertain 
whether his neighbor had really ceased 
to work. He listened -- all was silent, 
as it had been for the last three days. 
Dantes sighed; it was evident that his 
neighbor distrusted him. However, he 
toiled on all the night without being 
discouraged; but after two or three 
hours he encountered an obstacle. The 
iron made no impression, but met with a 
smooth surface; Dantes touched it, and 
found that it was a beam. This beam 
crossed, or rather blocked up, the hole 
Dantes had made; it was necessary, 
therefore, to dig above or under it. 
The unhappy young man had not thought 
of this. "O my God, my God!" murmured 
he, "I have so earnestly prayed to you, 
that I hoped my prayers had been heard. 
After having deprived me of my liberty, 
after having deprived me of death, 
after having recalled me to existence, 
my God, have pity on me, and do not let 
me die in despair!"

"Who talks of God and despair at the 
same time?" said a voice that seemed to 
come from beneath the earth, and, 
deadened by the distance, sounded 
hollow and sepulchral in the young 
man's ears. Edmond's hair stood on end, 
and he rose to his knees.

"Ah," said he, "I hear a human voice." 
Edmond had not heard any one speak save 
his jailer for four or five years; and 
a jailer is no man to a prisoner -- he 
is a living door, a barrier of flesh 
and blood adding strength to restraints 
of oak and iron.

"In the name of heaven," cried Dantes, 
"speak again, though the sound of your 
voice terrifies me. Who are you?"

"Who are you?" said the voice.

"An unhappy prisoner," replied Dantes, 
who made no hesitation in answering.

"Of what country?"

"A Frenchman."

"Your name?"

"Edmond Dantes."

"Your profession?"

"A sailor."

"How long have you been here?"

"Since the 28th of February, 1815."

"Your crime?"

"I am innocent."

"But of what are you accused?"

"Of having conspired to aid the 
emperor's return."

"What! For the emperor's return? -- the 
emperor is no longer on the throne, 
then?"

"He abdicated at Fontainebleau in 1814, 
and was sent to the Island of Elba. But 
how long have you been here that you 
are ignorant of all this?"

"Since 1811."

Dantes shuddered; this man had been 
four years longer than himself in 
prison.

"Do not dig any more," said the voice; 
"only tell me how high up is your 
excavation?"

"On a level with the floor."

"How is it concealed?"

"Behind my bed."

"Has your bed been moved since you have 
been a prisoner?"

"No."

"What does your chamber open on?"

"A corridor."

"And the corridor?"

"On a court."

"Alas!" murmured the voice.

"Oh, what is the matter?" cried Dantes.

"I have made a mistake owing to an 
error in my plans. I took the wrong 
angle, and have come out fifteen feet 
from where I intended. I took the wall 
you are mining for the outer wall of 
the fortress."

"But then you would be close to the 
sea?"

"That is what I hoped."

"And supposing you had succeeded?"

"I should have thrown myself into the 
sea, gained one of the islands near 
here -- the Isle de Daume or the Isle 
de Tiboulen -- and then I should have 
been safe."

"Could you have swum so far?"

"Heaven would have given me strength; 
but now all is lost."

"All?"

"Yes; stop up your excavation 
carefully, do not work any more, and 
wait until you hear from me."

"Tell me, at least, who you are?"

"I am -- I am No. 27."

"You mistrust me, then," said Dantes. 
Edmond fancied he heard a bitter laugh 
resounding from the depths.

"Oh, I am a Christian," cried Dantes, 
guessing instinctively that this man 
meant to abandon him. "I swear to you 
by him who died for us that naught 
shall induce me to breathe one syllable 
to my jailers; but I conjure you do not 
abandon me. If you do, I swear to you, 
for I have got to the end of my 
strength, that I will dash my brains 
out against the wall, and you will have 
my death to reproach yourself with."

"How old are you? Your voice is that of 
a young man."

"I do not know my age, for I have not 
counted the years I have been here. All 
I do know is, that I was just nineteen 
when I was arrested, the 28th of 
February, 1815."

"Not quite twenty-six!" murmured the 
voice; "at that age he cannot be a 
traitor."

"Oh, no, no," cried Dantes. "I swear to 
you again, rather than betray you, I 
would allow myself to be hacked in 
pieces!"

"You have done well to speak to me, and 
ask for my assistance, for I was about 
to form another plan, and leave you; 
but your age reassures me. I will not 
forget you. Wait."

"How long?"

"I must calculate our chances; I will 
give you the signal."

"But you will not leave me; you will 
come to me, or you will let me come to 
you. We will escape, and if we cannot 
escape we will talk; you of those whom 
you love, and I of those whom I love. 
You must love somebody?"

"No, I am alone in the world."

"Then you will love me. If you are 
young, I will be your comrade; if you 
are old, I will be your son. I have a 
father who is seventy if he yet lives; 
I only love him and a young girl called 
Mercedes. My father has not yet 
forgotten me, I am sure, but God alone 
knows if she loves me still; I shall 
love you as I loved my father."

"It is well," returned the voice; 
"to-morrow."

These few words were uttered with an 
accent that left no doubt of his 
sincerity; Dantes rose, dispersed the 
fragments with the same precaution as 
before, and pushed his bed back against 
the wall. He then gave himself up to 
his happiness. He would no longer be 
alone. He was, perhaps, about to regain 
his liberty; at the worst, he would 
have a companion, and captivity that is 
shared is but half captivity. Plaints 
made in common are almost prayers, and 
prayers where two or three are gathered 
together invoke the mercy of heaven.

All day Dantes walked up and down his 
cell. He sat down occasionally on his 
bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At 
the slightest noise he bounded towards 
the door. Once or twice the thought 
crossed his mind that he might be 
separated from this unknown, whom he 
loved already; and then his mind was 
made up -- when the jailer moved his 
bed and stooped to examine the opening, 
he would kill him with his water jug. 
He would be condemned to die, but he 
was about to die of grief and despair 
when this miraculous noise recalled him 
to life.

The jailer came in the evening. Dantes 
was on his bed. It seemed to him that 
thus he better guarded the unfinished 
opening. Doubtless there was a strange 
expression in his eyes, for the jailer 
said, "Come, are you going mad again?"

Dantes did not answer; he feared that 
the emotion of his voice would betray 
him. The jailer went away shaking his 
head. Night came; Dantes hoped that his 
neighbor would profit by the silence to 
address him, but he was mistaken. The 
next morning, however, just as he 
removed his bed from the wall, he heard 
three knocks; he threw himself on his 
knees.

"Is it you?" said he; "I am here."

"Is your jailer gone?"

"Yes," said Dantes; "he will not return 
until the evening; so that we have 
twelve hours before us."

"I can work, then?" said the voice.

"Oh, yes, yes; this instant, I entreat 
you."

In a moment that part of the floor on 
which Dantes was resting his two hands, 
as he knelt with his head in the 
opening, suddenly gave way; he drew 
back smartly, while a mass of stones 
and earth disappeared in a hole that 
opened beneath the aperture he himself 
had formed. Then from the bottom of 
this passage, the depth of which it was 
impossible to measure, he saw appear, 
first the head, then the shoulders, and 
lastly the body of a man, who sprang 
lightly into his cell. 

 Chapter 16 A Learned Italian.

Seizing in his arms the friend so long 
and ardently desired, Dantes almost 
carried him towards the window, in 
order to obtain a better view of his 
features by the aid of the imperfect 
light that struggled through the 
grating.

He was a man of small stature, with 
hair blanched rather by suffering and 
sorrow than by age. He had a deep-set, 
penetrating eye, almost buried beneath 
the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and 
still black) beard reaching down to his 
breast. His thin face, deeply furrowed 
by care, and the bold outline of his 
strongly marked features, betokened a 
man more accustomed to exercise his 
mental faculties than his physical 
strength. Large drops of perspiration 
were now standing on his brow, while 
the garments that hung about him were 
so ragged that one could only guess at 
the pattern upon which they had 
originally been fashioned.

The stranger might have numbered sixty 
or sixty-five years; but a certain 
briskness and appearance of vigor in 
his movements made it probable that he 
was aged more from captivity than the 
course of time. He received the 
enthusiastic greeting of his young 
acquaintance with evident pleasure, as 
though his chilled affections were 
rekindled and invigorated by his 
contact with one so warm and ardent. He 
thanked him with grateful cordiality 
for his kindly welcome, although he 
must at that moment have been suffering 
bitterly to find another dungeon where 
he had fondly reckoned on discovering a 
means of regaining his liberty.

"Let us first see," said he, "whether 
it is possible to remove the traces of 
my entrance here -- our future 
tranquillity depends upon our jailers 
being entirely ignorant of it." 
Advancing to the opening, he stooped 
and raised the stone easily in spite of 
its weight; then, fitting it into its 
place, he said, --

"You removed this stone very 
carelessly; but I suppose you had no 
tools to aid you."

"Why," exclaimed Dantes, with 
astonishment, "do you possess any?"

"I made myself some; and with the 
exception of a file, I have all that 
are necessary, -- a chisel, pincers, 
and lever."

"Oh, how I should like to see these 
products of your industry and patience."

"Well, in the first place, here is my 
chisel." So saying, he displayed a 
sharp strong blade, with a handle made 
of beechwood.

"And with what did you contrive to make 
that?" inquired Dantes.

"With one of the clamps of my bedstead; 
and this very tool has sufficed me to 
hollow out the road by which I came 
hither, a distance of about fifty feet."

"Fifty feet!" responded Dantes, almost 
terrified.

"Do not speak so loud, young man -- 
don't speak so loud. It frequently 
occurs in a state prison like this, 
that persons are stationed outside the 
doors of the cells purposely to 
overhear the conversation of the 
prisoners."

"But they believe I am shut up alone 
here."

"That makes no difference."

"And you say that you dug your way a 
distance of fifty feet to get here?"

"I do; that is about the distance that 
separates your chamber from mine; only, 
unfortunately, I did not curve aright; 
for want of the necessary geometrical 
instruments to calculate my scale of 
proportion, instead of taking an 
ellipsis of forty feet, I made it 
fifty. I expected, as I told you, to 
reach the outer wall, pierce through 
it, and throw myself into the sea; I 
have, however, kept along the corridor 
on which your chamber opens, instead of 
going beneath it. My labor is all in 
vain, for I find that the corridor 
looks into a courtyard filled with 
soldiers."

"That's true," said Dantes; "but the 
corridor you speak of only bounds one 
side of my cell; there are three others 
-- do you know anything of their 
situation?"

"This one is built against the solid 
rock, and it would take ten experienced 
miners, duly furnished with the 
requisite tools, as many years to 
perforate it. This adjoins the lower 
part of the governor's apartments, and 
were we to work our way through, we 
should only get into some lock-up 
cellars, where we must necessarily be 
recaptured. The fourth and last side of 
your cell faces on -- faces on -- stop 
a minute, now where does it face?"

The wall of which he spoke was the one 
in which was fixed the loophole by 
which light was admitted to the 
chamber. This loophole, which gradually 
diminished in size as it approached the 
outside, to an opening through which a 
child could not have passed, was, for 
better security, furnished with three 
iron bars, so as to quiet all 
apprehensions even in the mind of the 
most suspicious jailer as to the 
possibility of a prisoner's escape. As 
the stranger asked the question, he 
dragged the table beneath the window.

"Climb up," said he to Dantes. The 
young man obeyed, mounted on the table, 
and, divining the wishes of his 
companion, placed his back securely 
against the wall and held out both 
hands. The stranger, whom as yet Dantes 
knew only by the number of his cell, 
sprang up with an agility by no means 
to be expected in a person of his 
years, and, light and steady on his 
feet as a cat or a lizard, climbed from 
the table to the outstretched hands of 
Dantes, and from them to his shoulders; 
then, bending double, for the ceiling 
of the dungeon prevented him from 
holding himself erect, he managed to 
slip his head between the upper bars of 
the window, so as to be able to command 
a perfect view from top to bottom.

An instant afterwards he hastily drew 
back his head, saying, "I thought so!" 
and sliding from the shoulders of 
Dantes as dextrously as he had 
ascended, he nimbly leaped from the 
table to the ground.

"What was it that you thought?" asked 
the young man anxiously, in his turn 
descending from the table.

The elder prisoner pondered the matter. 
"Yes," said he at length, "it is so. 
This side of your chamber looks out 
upon a kind of open gallery, where 
patrols are continually passing, and 
sentries keep watch day and night."

"Are you quite sure of that?"

"Certain. I saw the soldier's shape and 
the top of his musket; that made me 
draw in my head so quickly, for I was 
fearful he might also see me."

"Well?" inquired Dantes.

"You perceive then the utter 
impossibility of escaping through your 
dungeon?"

"Then," pursued the young man eagerly --

"Then," answered the elder prisoner, 
"the will of God be done!" and as the 
old man slowly pronounced those words, 
an air of profound resignation spread 
itself over his careworn countenance. 
Dantes gazed on the man who could thus 
philosophically resign hopes so long 
and ardently nourished with an 
astonishment mingled with admiration.

"Tell me, I entreat of you, who and 
what you are?" said he at length; 
"never have I met with so remarkable a 
person as yourself."

"Willingly," answered the stranger; 
"if, indeed, you feel any curiosity 
respecting one, now, alas, powerless to 
aid you in any way."

"Say not so; you can console and 
support me by the strength of your own 
powerful mind. Pray let me know who you 
really are?"

The stranger smiled a melancholy smile. 
"Then listen," said he. "l am the Abbe 
Faria, and have been imprisoned as you 
know in this Chateau d'If since the 
year 1811; previously to which I had 
been confined for three years in the 
fortress of Fenestrelle. In the year 
1811 I was transferred to Piedmont in 
France. It was at this period I learned 
that the destiny which seemed 
subservient to every wish formed by 
Napoleon, had bestowed on him a son, 
named king of Rome even in his cradle. 
I was very far then from expecting the 
change you have just informed me of; 
namely, that four years afterwards, 
this colossus of power would be 
overthrown. Then who reigns in France 
at this moment -- Napoleon II.?"

"No, Louis XVIII."

"The brother of Louis XVII.! How 
inscrutable are the ways of providence 
-- for what great and mysterious 
purpose has it pleased heaven to abase 
the man once so elevated, and raise up 
him who was so abased?"

Dantes, whole attention was riveted on 
a man who could thus forget his own 
misfortunes while occupying himself 
with the destinies of others.

"Yes, yes," continued he, "'Twill be 
the same as it was in England. After 
Charles I., Cromwell; after Cromwell, 
Charles II., and then James II., and 
then some son-in-law or relation, some 
Prince of Orange, a stadtholder who 
becomes a king. Then new concessions to 
the people, then a constitution, then 
liberty. Ah, my friend!" said the abbe, 
turning towards Dantes, and surveying 
him with the kindling gaze of a 
prophet, "you are young, you will see 
all this come to pass."

"Probably, if ever I get out of prison!"

"True," replied Faria, "we are 
prisoners; but I forget this sometimes, 
and there are even moments when my 
mental vision transports me beyond 
these walls, and I fancy myself at 
liberty."

"But wherefore are you here?"

"Because in 1807 I dreamed of the very 
plan Napoleon tried to realize in 1811; 
because, like Machiavelli, I desired to 
alter the political face of Italy, and 
instead of allowing it to be split up 
into a quantity of petty 
principalities, each held by some weak 
or tyrannical ruler, I sought to form 
one large, compact, and powerful 
empire; and, lastly, because I fancied 
I had found my Caesar Borgia in a 
crowned simpleton, who feigned to enter 
into my views only to betray me. It was 
the plan of Alexander VI. and Clement 
VII., but it will never succeed now, 
for they attempted it fruitlessly, and 
Napoleon was unable to complete his 
work. Italy seems fated to misfortune." 
And the old man bowed his head.

Dantes could not understand a man 
risking his life for such matters. 
Napoleon certainly he knew something 
of, inasmuch as he had seen and spoken 
with him; but of Clement VII. and 
Alexander VI. he knew nothing.

"Are you not," he asked, "the priest 
who here in the Chateau d'If is 
generally thought to be -- ill?"

"Mad, you mean, don't you?"

"I did not like to say so," answered 
Dantes, smiling.

"Well, then," resumed Faria with a 
bitter smile, "let me answer your 
question in full, by acknowledging that 
I am the poor mad prisoner of the 
Chateau d'If, for many years permitted 
to amuse the different visitors with 
what is said to be my insanity; and, in 
all probability, I should be promoted 
to the honor of making sport for the 
children, if such innocent beings could 
be found in an abode devoted like this 
to suffering and despair."

Dantes remained for a short time mute 
and motionless; at length he said, -- 
"Then you abandon all hope of escape?"

"I perceive its utter impossibility; 
and I consider it impious to attempt 
that which the Almighty evidently does 
not approve."

"Nay, be not discouraged. Would it not 
be expecting too much to hope to 
succeed at your first attempt? Why not 
try to find an opening in another 
direction from that which has so 
unfortunately failed?"

"Alas, it shows how little notion you 
can have of all it has cost me to 
effect a purpose so unexpectedly 
frustrated, that you talk of beginning 
over again. In the first place, I was 
four years making the tools I possess, 
and have been two years scraping and 
digging out earth, hard as granite 
itself; then what toil and fatigue has 
it not been to remove huge stones I 
should once have deemed impossible to 
loosen. Whole days have I passed in 
these Titanic efforts, considering my 
labor well repaid if, by night-time I 
had contrived to carry away a square 
inch of this hard-bound cement, changed 
by ages into a substance unyielding as 
the stones themselves; then to conceal 
the mass of earth and rubbish I dug up, 
I was compelled to break through a 
staircase, and throw the fruits of my 
labor into the hollow part of it; but 
the well is now so completely choked 
up, that I scarcely think it would be 
possible to add another handful of dust 
without leading to discovery. Consider 
also that I fully believed I had 
accomplished the end and aim of my 
undertaking, for which I had so exactly 
husbanded my strength as to make it 
just hold out to the termination of my 
enterprise; and now, at the moment when 
I reckoned upon success, my hopes are 
forever dashed from me. No, I repeat 
again, that nothing shall induce me to 
renew attempts evidently at variance 
with the Almighty's pleasure."

Dantes held down his head, that the 
other might not see how joy at the 
thought of having a companion 
outweighed the sympathy he felt for the 
failure of the abbe's plans.

The abbe sank upon Edmond's bed. while 
Edmond himself remained standing. 
Escape had never once occurred to him. 
There are, indeed, some things which 
appear so impossible that the mind does 
not dwell on them for an instant. To 
undermine the ground for fifty feet -- 
to devote three years to a labor which, 
if successful, would conduct you to a 
precipice overhanging the sea -- to 
plunge into the waves from the height 
of fifty, sixty, perhaps a hundred 
feet, at the risk of being dashed to 
pieces against the rocks, should you 
have been fortunate enough to have 
escaped the fire of the sentinels; and 
even, supposing all these perils past, 
then to have to swim for your life a 
distance of at least three miles ere 
you could reach the shore -- were 
difficulties so startling and 
formidable that Dantes had never even 
dreamed of such a scheme, resigning 
himself rather to death. But the sight 
of an old man clinging to life with so 
desperate a courage, gave a fresh turn 
to his ideas, and inspired him with new 
courage. Another, older and less strong 
than he, had attempted what he had not 
had sufficient resolution to undertake, 
and had failed only because of an error 
in calculation. This same person, with 
almost incredible patience and 
perseverance, had contrived to provide 
himself with tools requisite for so 
unparalleled an attempt. Another had 
done all this; why, then, was it 
impossible to Dantes? Faria had dug his 
way through fifty feet, Dantes would 
dig a hundred; Faria, at the age of 
fifty, had devoted three years to the 
task; he, who was but half as old, 
would sacrifice six; Faria, a priest 
and savant, had not shrunk from the 
idea of risking his life by trying to 
swim a distance of three miles to one 
of the islands -- Daume, Rattonneau, or 
Lemaire; should a hardy sailer, an 
experienced diver, like himself, shrink 
from a similar task; should he, who had 
so often for mere amusement's sake 
plunged to the bottom of the sea to 
fetch up the bright coral branch, 
hesitate to entertain the same project? 
He could do it in an hour, and how many 
times had he, for pure pastime, 
continued in the water for more than 
twice as long! At once Dantes resolved 
to follow the brave example of his 
energetic companion, and to remember 
that what has once been done may be 
done again.

After continuing some time in profound 
meditation, the young man suddenly 
exclaimed, "I have found what you were 
in search of!"

Faria started: "Have you, indeed?" 
cried he, raising his head with quick 
anxiety; "pray, let me know what it is 
you have discovered?"

"The corridor through which you have 
bored your way from the cell you occupy 
here, extends in the same direction as 
the outer gallery, does it not?"

"It does."

"And is not above fifteen feet from it?"

"About that."

"Well, then, I will tell you what we 
must do. We must pierce through the 
corridor by forming a side opening 
about the middle, as it were the top 
part of a cross. This time you will lay 
your plans more accurately; we shall 
get out into the gallery you have 
described; kill the sentinel who guards 
it, and make our escape. All we require 
to insure success is courage, and that 
you possess, and strength, which I am 
not deficient in; as for patience, you 
have abundantly proved yours -- you 
shall now see me prove mine."

"One instant, my dear friend," replied 
the abbe; "it is clear you do not 
understand the nature of the courage 
with which I am endowed, and what use I 
intend making of my strength. As for 
patience, I consider that I have 
abundantly exercised that in beginning 
every morning the task of the night 
before, and every night renewing the 
task of the day. But then, young man 
(and I pray of you to give me your full 
attention), then I thought I could not 
be doing anything displeasing to the 
Almighty in trying to set an innocent 
being at liberty -- one who had 
committed no offence, and merited not 
condemnation."

"And have your notions changed?" asked 
Dantes with much surprise; "do you 
think yourself more guilty in making 
the attempt since you have encountered 
me?"

"No; neither do I wish to incur guilt. 
Hitherto I have fancied myself merely 
waging war against circumstances, not 
men. I have thought it no sin to bore 
through a wall, or destroy a staircase; 
but I cannot so easily persuade myself 
to pierce a heart or take away a life." 
A slight movement of surprise escaped 
Dantes.

"Is it possible," said he, "that where 
your liberty is at stake you can allow 
any such scruple to deter you from 
obtaining it?"

"Tell me," replied Faria, "what has 
hindered you from knocking down your 
jailer with a piece of wood torn from 
your bedstead, dressing yourself in his 
clothes, and endeavoring to escape?"

"Simply the fact that the idea never 
occurred to me," answered Dantes.

"Because," said the old man, "the 
natural repugnance to the commission of 
such a crime prevented you from 
thinking of it; and so it ever is 
because in simple and allowable things 
our natural instincts keep us from 
deviating from the strict line of duty. 
The tiger, whose nature teaches him to 
delight in shedding blood, needs but 
the sense of smell to show him when his 
prey is within his reach, and by 
following this instinct he is enabled 
to measure the leap necessary to permit 
him to spring on his victim; but man, 
on the contrary, loathes the idea of 
blood -- it is not alone that the laws 
of social life inspire him with a 
shrinking dread of taking life; his 
natural construction and physiological 
formation" --

Dantes was confused and silent at this 
explanation of the thoughts which had 
unconsciously been working in his mind, 
or rather soul; for there are two 
distinct sorts of ideas, those that 
proceed from the head and those that 
emanate from the heart.

"Since my imprisonment," said Faria, "I 
have thought over all the most 
celebrated cases of escape on record. 
They have rarely been successful. Those 
that have been crowned with full 
success have been long meditated upon, 
and carefully arranged; such, for 
instance, as the escape of the Duc de 
Beaufort from the Chateau de Vincennes, 
that of the Abbe Dubuquoi from For 
l'Eveque; of Latude from the Bastille. 
Then there are those for which chance 
sometimes affords opportunity, and 
those are the best of all. Let us, 
therefore, wait patiently for some 
favorable moment, and when it presents 
itself, profit by it."

"Ah," said Dantes, "you might well 
endure the tedious delay; you were 
constantly employed in the task you set 
yourself, and when weary with toil, you 
had your hopes to refresh and encourage 
you."

"I assure you," replied the old man, "I 
did not turn to that source for 
recreation or support."

"What did you do then?"

"I wrote or studied."

"Were you then permitted the use of 
pens, ink, and paper?"

"Oh, no," answered the abbe; "I had 
none but what I made for myself."

"You made paper, pens and ink?"

"Yes."

Dantes gazed with admiration, but he 
had some difficulty in believing. Faria 
saw this.

"When you pay me a visit in my cell, my 
young friend," said he, "I will show 
you an entire work, the fruits of the 
thoughts and reflections of my whole 
life; many of them meditated over in 
the shades of the Coloseum at Rome, at 
the foot of St. Mark's column at 
Venice, and on the borders of the Arno 
at Florence, little imagining at the 
time that they would be arranged in 
order within the walls of the Chateau 
d'If. The work I speak of is called `A 
Treatise on the Possibility of a 
General Monarchy in Italy,' and will 
make one large quarto volume."

"And on what have you written all this?"

"On two of my shirts. I invented a 
preparation that makes linen as smooth 
and as easy to write on as parchment."

"You are, then, a chemist?"

"Somewhat; I know Lavoisier, and was 
the intimate friend of Cabanis."

"But for such a work you must have 
needed books -- had you any?"

"I had nearly five thousand volumes in 
my library at Rome; but after reading 
them over many times, I found out that 
with one hundred and fifty well-chosen 
books a man possesses, if not a 
complete summary of all human 
knowledge, at least all that a man need 
really know. I devoted three years of 
my life to reading and studying these 
one hundred and fifty volumes, till I 
knew them nearly by heart; so that 
since I have been in prison, a very 
slight effort of memory has enabled me 
to recall their contents as readily as 
though the pages were open before me. I 
could recite you the whole of 
Thucydides, Xenophon, Plutarch, Titus 
Livius, Tacitus, Strada, Jornandes, 
Dante, Montaigne, Shakspeare, Spinoza, 
Machiavelli, and Bossuet. I name only 
the most important."

"You are, doubtless, acquainted with a 
variety of languages, so as to have 
been able to read all these?"

"Yes, I speak five of the modern 
tongues -- that is to say, German, 
French, Italian, English, and Spanish; 
by the aid of ancient Greek I learned 
modern Greek -- I don't speak it so 
well as I could wish, but I am still 
trying to improve myself."

"Improve yourself!" repeated Dantes; 
"why, how can you manage to do so?"

"Why, I made a vocabulary of the words 
I knew; turned, returned, and arranged 
them, so as to enable me to express my 
thoughts through their medium. I know 
nearly one thousand words, which is all 
that is absolutely necessary, although 
I believe there are nearly one hundred 
thousand in the dictionaries. I cannot 
hope to be very fluent, but I certainly 
should have no difficulty in explaining 
my wants and wishes; and that would be 
quite as much as I should ever require."

Stronger grew the wonder of Dantes, who 
almost fancied he had to do with one 
gifted with supernatural powers; still 
hoping to find some imperfection which 
might bring him down to a level with 
human beings, he added, "Then if you 
were not furnished with pens, how did 
you manage to write the work you speak 
of?"

"I made myself some excellent ones, 
which would be universally preferred to 
all others if once known. You are aware 
what huge whitings are served to us on 
maigre days. Well, I selected the 
cartilages of the heads of these 
fishes, and you can scarcely imagine 
the delight with which I welcomed the 
arrival of each Wednesday, Friday, and 
Saturday, as affording me the means of 
increasing my stock of pens; for I will 
freely confess that my historical 
labors have been my greatest solace and 
relief. While retracing the past, I 
forget the present; and traversing at 
will the path of history I cease to 
remember that I am myself a prisoner."

"But the ink," said Dantes; "of what 
did you make your ink?"

"There was formerly a fireplace in my 
dungeon," replied Faria, "but it was 
closed up long ere I became an occupant 
of this prison. Still, it must have 
been many years in use, for it was 
thickly covered with a coating of soot; 
this soot I dissolved in a portion of 
the wine brought to me every Sunday, 
and I assure you a better ink cannot be 
desired. For very important notes, for 
which closer attention is required, I 
pricked one of my fingers, and wrote 
with my own blood."

"And when," asked Dantes, "may I see 
all this?"

"Whenever you please," replied the abbe.

"Oh, then let it be directly!" 
exclaimed the young man.

"Follow me, then," said the abbe, as he 
re-entered the subterranean passage, in 
which he soon disappeared, followed by 
Dantes. 

 Chapter 17 The Abbe's Chamber.

After having passed with tolerable ease 
through the subterranean passage, 
which, however, did not admit of their 
holding themselves erect, the two 
friends reached the further end of the 
corridor, into which the abbe's cell 
opened; from that point the passage 
became much narrower, and barely 
permitted one to creep through on hands 
and knees. The floor of the abbe's cell 
was paved, and it had been by raising 
one of the stones in the most obscure 
corner that Faria had to been able to 
commence the laborious task of which 
Dantes had witnessed the completion.

As he entered the chamber of his 
friend, Dantes cast around one eager 
and searching glance in quest of the 
expected marvels, but nothing more than 
common met his view.

"It is well," said the abbe; "we have 
some hours before us -- it is now just 
a quarter past twelve o'clock." 
Instinctively Dantes turned round to 
observe by what watch or clock the abbe 
had been able so accurately to specify 
the hour.

"Look at this ray of light which enters 
by my window," said the abbe, "and then 
observe the lines traced on the wall. 
Well, by means of these lines, which 
are in accordance with the double 
motion of the earth, and the ellipse it 
describes round the sun, I am enabled 
to ascertain the precise hour with more 
minuteness than if I possessed a watch; 
for that might be broken or deranged in 
its movements, while the sun and earth 
never vary in their appointed paths."

This last explanation was wholly lost 
upon Dantes, who had always imagined, 
from seeing the sun rise from behind 
the mountains and set in the 
Mediterranean, that it moved, and not 
the earth. A double movement of the 
globe he inhabited, and of which he 
could feel nothing, appeared to him 
perfectly impossible. Each word that 
fell from his companion's lips seemed 
fraught with the mysteries of science, 
as worthy of digging out as the gold 
and diamonds in the mines of Guzerat 
and Golconda, which he could just 
recollect having visited during a 
voyage made in his earliest youth.

"Come," said he to the abbe, "I am 
anxious to see your treasures."

The abbe smiled, and, proceeding to the 
disused fireplace, raised, by the help 
of his chisel, a long stone, which had 
doubtless been the hearth, beneath 
which was a cavity of considerable 
depth, serving as a safe depository of 
the articles mentioned to Dantes.

"What do you wish to see first?" asked 
the abbe.

"Oh, your great work on the monarchy of 
Italy!"

Faria then drew forth from his 
hiding-place three or four rolls of 
linen, laid one over the other, like 
folds of papyrus. These rolls consisted 
of slips of cloth about four inches 
wide and eighteen long; they were all 
carefully numbered and closely covered 
with writing, so legible that Dantes 
could easily read it, as well as make 
out the sense -- it being in Italian, a 
language he, as a Provencal, perfectly 
understood.

"There," said he, "there is the work 
complete. I wrote the word finis at the 
end of the sixty-eighth strip about a 
week ago. I have torn up two of my 
shirts, and as many handkerchiefs as I 
was master of, to complete the precious 
pages. Should I ever get out of prison 
and find in all Italy a printer 
courageous enough to publish what I 
have composed, my literary reputation 
is forever secured."

"I see," answered Dantes. "Now let me 
behold the curious pens with which you 
have written your work."

"Look!" said Faria, showing to the 
young man a slender stick about six 
inches long, and much resembling the 
size of the handle of a fine 
painting-brush, to the end of which was 
tied, by a piece of thread, one of 
those cartilages of which the abbe had 
before spoken to Dantes; it was 
pointed, and divided at the nib like an 
ordinary pen. Dantes examined it with 
intense admiration, then looked around 
to see the instrument with which it had 
been shaped so correctly into form.

"Ah, yes," said Faria; "the penknife. 
That's my masterpiece. I made it, as 
well as this larger knife, out of an 
old iron candlestick." The penknife was 
sharp and keen as a razor; as for the 
other knife, it would serve a double 
purpose, and with it one could cut and 
thrust.

Dantes examined the various articles 
shown to him with the same attention 
that he had bestowed on the curiosities 
and strange tools exhibited in the 
shops at Marseilles as the works of the 
savages in the South Seas from whence 
they had been brought by the different 
trading vessels.

"As for the ink," said Faria, "I told 
you how I managed to obtain that -- and 
I only just make it from time to time, 
as I require it."

"One thing still puzzles me," observed 
Dantes, "and that is how you managed to 
do all this by daylight?"

"I worked at night also," replied Faria.

"Night! -- why, for heaven's sake, are 
your eyes like cats', that you can see 
to work in the dark?"

"Indeed they are not; but God his 
supplied man with the intelligence that 
enables him to overcome the limitations 
of natural conditions. I furnished 
myself with a light."

"You did? Pray tell me how."

"l separated the fat from the meat 
served to me, melted it, and so made 
oil -- here is my lamp." So saying, the 
abbe exhibited a sort of torch very 
similar to those used in public 
illuminations.

"But light?"

"Here are two flints and a piece of 
burnt linen."

"And matches?"

"I pretended that I had a disorder of 
the skin, and asked for a little 
sulphur, which was readily supplied." 
Dantes laid the different things he had 
been looking at on the table, and stood 
with his head drooping on his breast, 
as though overwhelmed by the 
perseverance and strength of Faria's 
mind.

"You have not seen all yet," continued 
Faria, "for I did not think it wise to 
trust all my treasures in the same 
hiding-place. Let us shut this one up." 
They put the stone back in its place; 
the abbe sprinkled a little dust over 
it to conceal the traces of its having 
been removed, rubbed his foot well on 
it to make it assume the same 
appearance as the other, and then, 
going towards his bed, he removed it 
from the spot it stood in. Behind the 
head of the bed, and concealed by a 
stone fitting in so closely as to defy 
all suspicion, was a hollow space, and 
in this space a ladder of cords between 
twenty-five and thirty feet in length. 
Dantes closely and eagerly examined it; 
he found it firm, solid, and compact 
enough to bear any weight.

"Who supplied you with the materials 
for making this wonderful work?"

"I tore up several of my shirts, and 
ripped out the seams in the sheets of 
my bed, during my three years' 
imprisonment at Fenestrelle; and when I 
was removed to the Chateau d'If, I 
managed to bring the ravellings with 
me, so that I have been able to finish 
my work here."

"And was it not discovered that your 
sheets were unhemmed?"

"Oh, no, for when I had taken out the 
thread I required, I hemmed the edges 
over again."

"With what?"

"With this needle," said the abbe, as, 
opening his ragged vestments, he showed 
Dantes a long, sharp fish-bone, with a 
small perforated eye for the thread, a 
small portion of which still remained 
in it. "I once thought," continued 
Faria, "of removing these iron bars, 
and letting myself down from the 
window, which, as you see, is somewhat 
wider than yours, although I should 
have enlarged it still more preparatory 
to my flight; however, I discovered 
that I should merely have dropped into 
a sort of inner court, and I therefore 
renounced the project altogether as too 
full of risk and danger. Nevertheless, 
I carefully preserved my ladder against 
one of those unforeseen opportunities 
of which I spoke just now, and which 
sudden chance frequently brings about." 
While affecting to be deeply engaged in 
examining the ladder, the mind of 
Dantes was, in fact, busily occupied by 
the idea that a person so intelligent, 
ingenious, and clear-sighted as the 
abbe might probably be able to solve 
the dark mystery of his own 
misfortunes, where he himself could see 
nothing.

"What are you thinking of?" asked the 
abbe smilingly, imputing the deep 
abstraction in which his visitor was 
plunged to the excess of his awe and 
wonder.

"I was reflecting, in the first place," 
replied Dantes, "upon the enormous 
degree of intelligence and ability you 
must have employed to reach the high 
perfection to which you have attained. 
What would you not have accomplished if 
you had been free?"

"Possibly nothing at all; the overflow 
of my brain would probably, in a state 
of freedom, have evaporated in a 
thousand follies; misfortune is needed 
to bring to light the treasures of the 
human intellect. Compression is needed 
to explode gunpowder. Captivity has 
brought my mental faculties to a focus; 
and you are well aware that from the 
collision of clouds electricity is 
produced -- from electricity, 
lightning, from lightning, 
illumination."

"No," replied Dantes. "I know nothing. 
Some of your words are to me quite 
empty of meaning. You must be blessed 
indeed to possess the knowledge you 
have."

The abbe smiled. "Well," said he, "but 
you had another subject for your 
thoughts; did you not say so just now?"

"I did!"

"You have told me as yet but one of 
them -- let me hear the other."

"It was this, -- that while you had 
related to me all the particulars of 
your past life, you were perfectly 
unacquainted with mine."

"Your life, my young friend, has not 
been of sufficient length to admit of 
your having passed through any very 
important events."

"It has been long enough to inflict on 
me a great and undeserved misfortune. I 
would fain fix the source of it on man 
that I may no longer vent reproaches 
upon heaven."

"Then you profess ignorance of the 
crime with which you are charged?"

"I do, indeed; and this I swear by the 
two beings most dear to me upon earth, 
-- my father and Mercedes."

"Come," said the abbe, closing his 
hiding-place, and pushing the bed back 
to its original situation, "let me hear 
your story."

Dantes obeyed, and commenced what he 
called his history, but which consisted 
only of the account of a voyage to 
India, and two or three voyages to the 
Levant until he arrived at the recital 
of his last cruise, with the death of 
Captain Leclere, and the receipt of a 
packet to be delivered by himself to 
the grand marshal; his interview with 
that personage, and his receiving, in 
place of the packet brought, a letter 
addressed to a Monsieur Noirtier -- his 
arrival at Marseilles, and interview 
with his father -- his affection for 
Mercedes, and their nuptual feast -- 
his arrest and subsequent examination, 
his temporary detention at the Palais 
de Justice, and his final imprisonment 
in the Chateau d'If. From this point 
everything was a blank to Dantes -- he 
knew nothing more, not even the length 
of time he had been imprisoned. His 
recital finished, the abbe reflected 
long and earnestly.

"There is," said he, at the end of his 
meditations, "a clever maxim, which 
bears upon what I was saying to you 
some little while ago, and that is, 
that unless wicked ideas take root in a 
naturally depraved mind, human nature, 
in a right and wholesome state, revolts 
at crime. Still, from an artificial 
civilization have originated wants, 
vices, and false tastes, which 
occasionally become so powerful as to 
stifle within us all good feelings, and 
ultimately to lead us into guilt and 
wickedness. From this view of things, 
then, comes the axiom that if you visit 
to discover the author of any bad 
action, seek first to discover the 
person to whom the perpetration of that 
bad action could be in any way 
advantageous. Now, to apply it in your 
case, -- to whom could your 
disappearance have been serviceable?"

"To no one, by heaven! I was a very 
insignificant person."

"Do not speak thus, for your reply 
evinces neither logic nor philosophy; 
everything is relative, my dear young 
friend, from the king who stands in the 
way of his successor, to the employee 
who keeps his rival out of a place. 
Now, in the event of the king's death, 
his successor inherits a crown, -- when 
the employee dies, the supernumerary 
steps into his shoes, and receives his 
salary of twelve thousand livres. Well, 
these twelve thousand livres are his 
civil list, and are as essential to him 
as the twelve millions of a king. Every 
one, from the highest to the lowest 
degree, has his place on the social 
ladder, and is beset by stormy passions 
and conflicting interests, as in 
Descartes' theory of pressure and 
impulsion. But these forces increase as 
we go higher, so that we have a spiral 
which in defiance of reason rests upon 
the apex and not on the base. Now let 
us return to your particular world. You 
say you were on the point of being made 
captain of the Pharaon?"

"Yes."

"And about to become the husband of a 
young and lovely girl?"

"Yes."

"Now, could any one have had any 
interest in preventing the 
accomplishment of these two things? But 
let us first settle the question as to 
its being the interest of any one to 
hinder you from being captain of the 
Pharaon. What say you?"

"I cannot believe such was the case. I 
was generally liked on board, and had 
the sailors possessed the right of 
selecting a captain themselves, I feel 
convinced their choice would have 
fallen on me. There was only one person 
among the crew who had any feeling of 
ill-will towards me. I had quarelled 
with him some time previously, and had 
even challenged him to fight me; but he 
refused."

"Now we are getting on. And what was 
this man's name?"

"Danglars."

"What rank did he hold on board?"

"He was supercargo."

"And had you been captain, should you 
have retained him in his employment?"

"Not if the choice had remained with 
me, for I had frequently observed 
inaccuracies in his accounts."

"Good again! Now then, tell me, was any 
person present during your last 
conversation with Captain Leclere?"

"No; we were quite alone."

"Could your conversation have been 
overheard by any one?"

"It might, for the cabin door was open 
-- and -- stay; now I recollect, -- 
Danglars himself passed by just as 
Captain Leclere was giving me the 
packet for the grand marshal."

"That's better," cried the abbe; "now 
we are on the right scent. Did you take 
anybody with you when you put into the 
port of Elba?"

"Nobody."

"Somebody there received your packet, 
and gave you a letter in place of it, I 
think?"

"Yes; the grand marshal did."

"And what did you do with that letter?"

"Put it into my portfolio."

"You had your portfolio with you, then? 
Now, how could a sailor find room in 
his pocket for a portfolio large enough 
to contain an official letter?"

"You are right; it was left on board."

"Then it was not till your return to 
the ship that you put the letter in the 
portfolio?"

"No."

"And what did you do with this same 
letter while returning from 
Porto-Ferrajo to the vessel?"

"I carried it in my hand."

"So that when you went on board the 
Pharaon, everybody could see that you 
held a letter in your hand?"

"Yes."

"Danglars, as well as the rest?"

"Danglars, as well as others."

"Now, listen to me, and try to recall 
every circumstance attending your 
arrest. Do you recollect the words in 
which the information against you was 
formulated?"

"Oh yes, I read it over three times, 
and the words sank deeply into my 
memory."

"Repeat it to me."

Dantes paused a moment, then said, 
"This is it, word for word: `The king's 
attorney is informed by a friend to the 
throne and religion, that one Edmond 
Dantes, mate on board the Pharaon, this 
day arrived from Smyrna, after having 
touched at Naples and Porto-Ferrajo, 
has been intrusted by Murat with a 
packet for the usurper; again, by the 
usurper, with a letter for the 
Bonapartist Club in Paris. This proof 
of his guilt may be procured by his 
immediate arrest, as the letter will be 
found either about his person, at his 
father's residence, or in his cabin on 
board the Pharaon.'" The abbe shrugged 
his shoulders. "The thing is clear as 
day," said he; "and you must have had a 
very confiding nature, as well as a 
good heart, not to have suspected the 
origin of the whole affair."

"Do you really think so? Ah, that would 
indeed be infamous."

"How did Danglars usually write?"

"In a handsome, running hand."

"And how was the anonymous letter 
written?"

"Backhanded." Again the abbe smiled. 
"Disguised."

"It was very boldly written, if 
disguised."

"Stop a bit," said the abbe, taking up 
what he called his pen, and, after 
dipping it into the ink, he wrote on a 
piece of prepared linen, with his left 
hand, the first two or three words of 
the accusation. Dantes drew back, and 
gazed on the abbe with a sensation 
almost amounting to terror.

"How very astonishing!" cried he at 
length. "Why your writing exactly 
resembles that of the accusation."

"Simply because that accusation had 
been written with the left hand; and I 
have noticed that" --

"What?"

"That while the writing of different 
persons done with the right hand 
varies, that performed with the left 
hand is invariably uniform."

"You have evidently seen and observed 
everything."

"Let us proceed."

"Oh, yes, yes!"

"Now as regards the second question."

"I am listening."

"Was there any person whose interest it 
was to prevent your marriage with 
Mercedes?"

"Yes; a young man who loved her."

"And his name was" --

"Fernand."

"That is a Spanish name, I think?"

"He was a Catalan."

"You imagine him capable of writing the 
letter?"

"Oh, no; he would more likely have got 
rid of me by sticking a knife into me."

"That is in strict accordance with the 
Spanish character; an assassination 
they will unhesitatingly commit, but an 
act of cowardice, never."

"Besides," said Dantes, "the various 
circumstances mentioned in the letter 
were wholly unknown to him."

"You had never spoken of them yourself 
to any one?"

"To no one."

"Not even to your mistress?"

"No, not even to my betrothed."

"Then it is Danglars."

"I feel quite sure of it now."

"Wait a little. Pray, was Danglars 
acquainted with Fernand?"

"No -- yes, he was. Now I recollect" --

"What?"

"To have seen them both sitting at 
table together under an arbor at Pere 
Pamphile's the evening before the day 
fixed for my wedding. They were in 
earnest conversation. Danglars was 
joking in a friendly way, but Fernand 
looked pale and agitated."

"Were they alone?"

"There was a third person with them 
whom I knew perfectly well, and who 
had, in all probability made their 
acquaintance; he was a tailor named 
Caderousse, but he was very drunk. 
Stay! -- stay! -- How strange that it 
should not have occurred to me before! 
Now I remember quite well, that on the 
table round which they were sitting 
were pens, ink, and paper. Oh, the 
heartless, treacherous scoundrels!" 
exclaimed Dantes, pressing his hand to 
his throbbing brows.

"Is there anything else I can assist 
you in discovering, besides the villany 
of your friends?" inquired the abbe 
with a laugh.

"Yes, yes," replied Dantes eagerly; "I 
would beg of you, who see so completely 
to the depths of things, and to whom 
the greatest mystery seems but an easy 
riddle, to explain to me how it was 
that I underwent no second examination, 
was never brought to trial, and, above 
all, was condemned without ever having 
had sentence passed on me?"

"That is altogether a different and 
more serious matter," responded the 
abbe. "The ways of justice are 
frequently too dark and mysterious to 
be easily penetrated. All we have 
hitherto done in the matter has been 
child's play. If you wish me to enter 
upon the more difficult part of the 
business, you must assist me by the 
most minute information on every point."

"Pray ask me whatever questions you 
please; for, in good truth, you see 
more clearly into my life than I do 
myself."

"In the first place, then, who examined 
you, -- the king's attorney, his 
deputy, or a magistrate?"

"The deputy."

"Was he young or old?"

"About six or seven and twenty years of 
age, I should say."

"So," answered the abbe. "Old enough to 
be ambitions, but too young to be 
corrupt. And how did he treat you?"

"With more of mildness than severity."

"Did you tell him your whole story?"

"I did."

"And did his conduct change at all in 
the course of your examination?"

"He did appear much disturbed when he 
read the letter that had brought me 
into this scrape. He seemed quite 
overcome by my misfortune."

"By your misfortune?"

"Yes."

"Then you feel quite sure that it was 
your misfortune he deplored?"

"He gave me one great proof of his 
sympathy, at any rate."

"And that?"

"He burnt the sole evidence that could 
at all have criminated me."

"What? the accusation?"

"No; the letter."

"Are you sure?"

"I saw it done."

"That alters the case. This man might, 
after all, be a greater scoundrel than 
you have thought possible."

"Upon my word," said Dantes, "you make 
me shudder. Is the world filled with 
tigers and crocodiles?"

"Yes; and remember that two-legged 
tigers and crocodiles are more 
dangerous than the others."

"Never mind; let us go on."

"With all my heart! You tell me he 
burned the letter?"

"He did; saying at the same time, `You 
see I thus destroy the only proof 
existing against you.'"

"This action is somewhat too sublime to 
be natural."

"You think so?"

"I am sure of it. To whom was this 
letter addressed?"

"To M. Noirtier, No. 13 Coq-Heron, 
Paris."

"Now can you conceive of any interest 
that your heroic deputy could possibly 
have had in the destruction of that 
letter?"

"Why, it is not altogether impossible 
he might have had, for he made me 
promise several times never to speak of 
that letter to any one, assuring me he 
so advised me for my own interest; and, 
more than this, he insisted on my 
taking a solemn oath never to utter the 
name mentioned in the address."

"Noirtier!" repeated the abbe; 
"Noirtier! -- I knew a person of that 
name at the court of the Queen of 
Etruria, -- a Noirtier, who had been a 
Girondin during the Revolution! What 
was your deputy called?"

"De Villefort!" The abbe burst into a 
fit of laughter, while Dantes gazed on 
him in utter astonishment.

"What ails you?" said he at length.

"Do you see that ray of sunlight?"

"I do."

"Well, the whole thing is more clear to 
me than that sunbeam is to you. Poor 
fellow! poor young man! And you tell me 
this magistrate expressed great 
sympathy and commiseration for you?"

"He did."

"And the worthy man destroyed your 
compromising letter?"

"Yes."

"And then made you swear never to utter 
the name of Noirtier?"

"Yes."

"Why, you poor short-sighted simpleton, 
can you not guess who this Noirtier 
was, whose very name he was so careful 
to keep concealed? Noirtier was his 
father."

Had a thunderbolt fallen at the feet of 
Dantes, or hell opened its yawning gulf 
before him, he could not have been more 
completely transfixed with horror than 
he was at the sound of these unexpected 
words. Starting up, he clasped his 
hands around his head as though to 
prevent his very brain from bursting, 
and exclaimed, "His father! his father!"

"Yes, his father," replied the abbe; 
"his right name was Noirtier de 
Villefort." At this instant a bright 
light shot through the mind of Dantes, 
and cleared up all that had been dark 
and obscure before. The change that had 
come over Villefort during the 
examination, the destruction of the 
letter, the exacted promise, the almost 
supplicating tones of the magistrate, 
who seemed rather to implore mercy than 
to pronounce punishment, -- all 
returned with a stunning force to his 
memory. He cried out, and staggered 
against the wall like a drunken man, 
then he hurried to the opening that led 
from the abbe's cell to his own, and 
said, "I must be alone, to think over 
all this."

When he regained his dungeon, he threw 
himself on his bed, where the turnkey 
found him in the evening visit, sitting 
with fixed gaze and contracted 
features, dumb and motionless as a 
statue. During these hours of profound 
meditation, which to him had seemed 
only minutes, he had formed a fearful 
resolution, and bound himself to its 
fulfilment by a solemn oath.

Dantes was at length roused from his 
revery by the voice of Faria, who, 
having also been visited by his jailer, 
had come to invite his fellow-sufferer 
to share his supper. The reputation of 
being out of his mind, though 
harmlessly and even amusingly so, had 
procured for the abbe unusual 
privileges. He was supplied with bread 
of a finer, whiter quality than the 
usual prison fare, and even regaled 
each Sunday with a small quantity of 
wine. Now this was a Sunday, and the 
abbe had come to ask his young 
companion to share the luxuries with 
him. Dantes followed; his features were 
no longer contracted, and now wore 
their usual expression, but there was 
that in his whole appearance that 
bespoke one who had come to a fixed and 
desperate resolve. Faria bent on him 
his penetrating eye: "I regret now," 
said he, "having helped you in your 
late inquiries, or having given you the 
information I did."

"Why so?" inquired Dantes.

"Because it has instilled a new passion 
in your heart -- that of vengeance."

Dantes smiled. "Let us talk of 
something else," said he.

Again the abbe looked at him, then 
mournfully shook his head; but in 
accordance with Dantes' request, he 
began to speak of other matters. The 
elder prisoner was one of those persons 
whose conversation, like that of all 
who have experienced many trials, 
contained many useful and important 
hints as well as sound information; but 
it was never egotistical, for the 
unfortunate man never alluded to his 
own sorrows. Dantes listened with 
admiring attention to all he said; some 
of his remarks corresponded with what 
he already knew, or applied to the sort 
of knowledge his nautical life had 
enabled him to acquire. A part of the 
good abbe's words, however, were wholly 
incomprehensible to him; but, like the 
aurora which guides the navigator in 
northern latitudes, opened new vistas 
to the inquiring mind of the listener, 
and gave fantastic glimpses of new 
horizons, enabling him justly to 
estimate the delight an intellectual 
mind would have in following one so 
richly gifted as Faria along the 
heights of truth, where he was so much 
at home.

"You must teach me a small part of what 
you know," said Dantes, "if only to 
prevent your growing weary of me. I can 
well believe that so learned a person 
as yourself would prefer absolute 
solitude to being tormented with the 
company of one as ignorant and 
uninformed as myself. If you will only 
agree to my request, I promise you 
never to mention another word about 
escaping." The abbe smiled. "Alas, my 
boy," said he, "human knowledge is 
confined within very narrow limits; and 
when I have taught you mathematics, 
physics, history, and the three or four 
modern languages with which I am 
acquainted, you will know as much as I 
do myself. Now, it will scarcely 
require two years for me to communicate 
to you the stock of learning I possess."

"Two years!" exclaimed Dantes; "do you 
really believe I can acquire all these 
things in so short a time?"

"Not their application, certainly, but 
their principles you may; to learn is 
not to know; there are the learners and 
the learned. Memory makes the one, 
philosophy the other."

"But cannot one learn philosophy?"

"Philosophy cannot be taught; it is the 
application of the sciences to truth; 
it is like the golden cloud in which 
the Messiah went up into heaven."

"Well, then," said Dantes, "What shall 
you teach me first? I am in a hurry to 
begin. I want to learn."

"Everything," said the abbe. And that 
very evening the prisoners sketched a 
plan of education, to be entered upon 
the following day. Dantes possessed a 
prodigious memory, combined with an 
astonishing quickness and readiness of 
conception; the mathematical turn of 
his mind rendered him apt at all kinds 
of calculation, while his naturally 
poetical feelings threw a light and 
pleasing veil over the dry reality of 
arithmetical computation, or the rigid 
severity of geometry. He already knew 
Italian, and had also picked up a 
little of the Romaic dialect during 
voyages to the East; and by the aid of 
these two languages he easily 
comprehended the construction of all 
the others, so that at the end of six 
mouths he began to speak Spanish, 
English, and German. In strict 
accordance with the promise made to the 
abbe, Dantes spoke no more of escape. 
Perhaps the delight his studies 
afforded him left no room for such 
thoughts; perhaps the recollection that 
he had pledged his word (on which his 
sense of honor was keen) kept him from 
referring in any way to the 
possibilities of flight. Days, even 
months, passed by unheeded in one rapid 
and instructive course. At the end of a 
year Dantes was a new man. Dantes 
observed, however, that Faria, in spite 
of the relief his society afforded, 
daily grew sadder; one thought seemed 
incessantly to harass and distract his 
mind. Sometimes he would fall into long 
reveries, sigh heavily and 
involuntarily, then suddenly rise, and, 
with folded arms, begin pacing the 
confined space of his dungeon. One day 
he stopped all at once, and exclaimed, 
"Ah, if there were no sentinel!"

"There shall not be one a minute longer 
than you please," said Dantes, who had 
followed the working of his thoughts as 
accurately as though his brain were 
enclosed in crystal so clear as to 
display its minutest operations.

"I have already told you," answered the 
abbe, "that I loathe the idea of 
shedding blood."

"And yet the murder, if you choose to 
call it so, would be simply a measure 
of self-preservation."

"No matter! I could never agree to it."

"Still, you have thought of it?"

"Incessantly, alas!" cried the abbe.

"And you have discovered a means of 
regaining our freedom, have you not?" 
asked Dantes eagerly.

"I have; if it were only possible to 
place a deaf and blind sentinel in the 
gallery beyond us."

"He shall be both blind and deaf," 
replied the young man, with an air of 
determination that made his companion 
shudder.

"No, no," cried the abbe; "impossible!" 
Dantes endeavored to renew the subject; 
the abbe shook his head in token of 
disapproval, and refused to make any 
further response. Three months passed 
away.

"Are you strong?" the abbe asked one 
day of Dantes. The young man, in reply, 
took up the chisel, bent it into the 
form of a horseshoe, and then as 
readily straightened it.

"And will you engage not to do any harm 
to the sentry, except as a last resort?"

"I promise on my honor."

"Then," said the abbe, "we may hope to 
put our design into execution."

"And how long shall we be in 
accomplishing the necessary work?"

"At least a year."

"And shall we begin at once?"

"At once."

"We have lost a year to no purpose!" 
cried Dantes.

"Do you consider the last twelve months 
to have been wasted?" asked the abbe.

"Forgive me!" cried Edmond, blushing 
deeply.

"Tut, tut!" answered the abbe, "man is 
but man after all, and you are about 
the best specimen of the genus I have 
ever known. Come, let me show you my 
plan." The abbe then showed Dantes the 
sketch he had made for their escape. It 
consisted of a plan of his own cell and 
that of Dantes, with the passage which 
united them. In this passage he 
proposed to drive a level as they do in 
mines; this level would bring the two 
prisoners immediately beneath the 
gallery where the sentry kept watch; 
once there, a large excavation would be 
made, and one of the flag-stones with 
which the gallery was paved be so 
completely loosened that at the desired 
moment it would give way beneath the 
feet of the soldier, who, stunned by 
his fall, would be immediately bound 
and gagged by Dantes before he had 
power to offer any resistance. The 
prisoners were then to make their way 
through one of the gallery windows, and 
to let themselves down from the outer 
walls by means of the abbe's ladder of 
cords. Dantes' eyes sparkled with joy, 
and he rubbed his hands with delight at 
the idea of a plan so simple, yet 
apparently so certain to succeed.

That very day the miners began their 
labors, with a vigor and alacrity 
proportionate to their long rest from 
fatigue and their hopes of ultimate 
success. Nothing interrupted the 
progress of the work except the 
necessity that each was under of 
returning to his cell in anticipation 
of the turnkey's visits. They had 
learned to distinguish the almost 
imperceptible sound of his footsteps as 
he descended towards their dungeons, 
and happily, never failed of being 
prepared for his coming. The fresh 
earth excavated during their present 
work, and which would have entirely 
blocked up the old passage, was thrown, 
by degrees and with the utmost 
precaution, out of the window in either 
Faria's or Dantes' cell, the rubbish 
being first pulverized so finely that 
the night wind carried it far away 
without permitting the smallest trace 
to remain. More than a year had been 
consumed in this undertaking, the only 
tools for which had been a chisel, a 
knife, and a wooden lever; Faria still 
continuing to instruct Dantes by 
conversing with him, sometimes in one 
language, sometimes in another; at 
others, relating to him the history of 
nations and great men who from time to 
time have risen to fame and trodden the 
path of glory.

The abbe was a man of the world, and 
had, moreover, mixed in the first 
society of the day; he wore an air of 
melancholy dignity which Dantes, thanks 
to the imitative powers bestowed on him 
by nature, easily acquired, as well as 
that outward polish and politeness he 
had before been wanting in, and which 
is seldom possessed except by those who 
have been placed in constant 
intercourse with persons of high birth 
and breeding. At the end of fifteen 
months the level was finished, and the 
excavation completed beneath the 
gallery, and the two workmen could 
distinctly hear the measured tread of 
the sentinel as he paced to and fro 
over their heads.

Compelled, as they were, to await a 
night sufficiently dark to favor their 
flight, they were obliged to defer 
their final attempt till that 
auspicious moment should arrive; their 
greatest dread now was lest the stone 
through which the sentry was doomed to 
fall should give way before its right 
time, and this they had in some measure 
provided against by propping it up with 
a small beam which they had discovered 
in the walls through which they had 
worked their way. Dantes was occupied 
in arranging this piece of wood when he 
heard Faria, who had remained in 
Edmond's cell for the purpose of 
cutting a peg to secure their 
rope-ladder, call to him in a tone 
indicative of great suffering. Dantes 
hastened to his dungeon, where he found 
him standing in the middle of the room, 
pale as death, his forehead streaming 
with perspiration, and his hands 
clinched tightly together.

"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed Dantes, 
"what is the matter? what has happened?"

"Quick! quick!" returned the abbe, 
"listen to what I have to say." Dantes 
looked in fear and wonder at the livid 
countenance of Faria, whose eyes, 
already dull and sunken, were 
surrounded by purple circles, while his 
lips were white as those of a corpse, 
and his very hair seemed to stand on 
end.

"Tell me, I beseech you, what ails 
you?" cried Dantes, letting his chisel 
fall to the floor.

"Alas," faltered out the abbe, "all is 
over with me. I am seized with a 
terrible, perhaps mortal illness; I can 
feel that the paroxysm is fast 
approaching. I had a similar attack the 
year previous to my imprisonment. This 
malady admits but of one remedy; I will 
tell you what that is. Go into my cell 
as quickly as you can; draw out one of 
the feet that support the bed; you will 
find it has been hollowed out for the 
purpose of containing a small phial you 
will see there half-filled with a 
red-looking fluid. Bring it to me -- or 
rather -- no, no! -- I may be found 
here, therefore help me back to my room 
while I have the strength to drag 
myself along. Who knows what may 
happen, or how long the attack may 
last?"

In spite of the magnitude of the 
misfortune which thus suddenly 
frustrated his hopes, Dantes did not 
lose his presence of mind, but 
descended into the passage, dragging 
his unfortunate companion with him; 
then, half-carrying, half-supporting 
him, he managed to reach the abbe's 
chamber, when he immediately laid the 
sufferer on his bed.

"Thanks," said the poor abbe, shivering 
as though his veins were filled with 
ice. "I am about to be seized with a 
fit of catalepsy; when it comes to its 
height I shall probably lie still and 
motionless as though dead, uttering 
neither sigh nor groan. On the other 
hand, the symptoms may be much more 
violent, and cause me to fall into 
fearful convulsions, foam at the mouth, 
and cry out loudly. Take care my cries 
are not heard, for if they are it is 
more than probable I should be removed 
to another part of the prison, and we 
be separated forever. When I become 
quite motionless, cold, and rigid as a 
corpse, then, and not before, -- be 
careful about this, -- force open my 
teeth with the knife, pour from eight 
to ten drops of the liquor containted 
in the phial down my throat, and I may 
perhaps revive."

"Perhaps!" exclaimed Dantes in 
grief-stricken tones.

"Help! help!" cried the abbe, "I -- I 
-- die -- I" --

So sudden and violent was the fit that 
the unfortunate prisoner was unable to 
complete the sentence; a violent 
convulsion shook his whole frame, his 
eyes started from their sockets, his 
mouth was drawn on one side, his cheeks 
became purple, he struggled, foamed, 
dashed himself about, and uttered the 
most dreadful cries, which, however, 
Dantes prevented from being heard by 
covering his head with the blanket. The 
fit lasted two hours; then, more 
helpless than an infant, and colder and 
paler than marble, more crushed and 
broken than a reed trampled under foot, 
he fell back, doubled up in one last 
convulsion, and became as rigid as a 
corpse.

Edmond waited till life seemed extinct 
in the body of his friend, then, taking 
up the knife, he with difficulty forced 
open the closely fixed jaws, carefully 
administered the appointed number of 
drops, and anxiously awaited the 
result. An hour passed away and the old 
man gave no sign of returning 
animation. Dantes began to fear he had 
delayed too long ere he administered 
the remedy, and, thrusting his hands 
into his hair, continued gazing on the 
lifeless features of his friend. At 
length a slight color tinged the livid 
cheeks, consciousness returned to the 
dull, open eyeballs, a faint sigh 
issued from the lips, and the sufferer 
made a feeble effort to move.

"He is saved! he is saved!" cried 
Dantes in a paroxysm of delight.

The sick man was not yet able to speak, 
but he pointed with evident anxiety 
towards the door. Dantes listened, and 
plainly distinguished the approaching 
steps of the jailer. It was therefore 
near seven o'clock; but Edmond's 
anxiety had put all thoughts of time 
out of his head. The young man sprang 
to the entrance, darted through it, 
carefully drawing the stone over the 
opening, and hurried to his cell. He 
had scarcely done so before the door 
opened, and the jailer saw the prisoner 
seated as usual on the side of his bed. 
Almost before the key had turned in the 
lock, and before the departing steps of 
the jailer had died away in the long 
corridor he had to traverse, Dantes, 
whose restless anxiety concerning his 
friend left him no desire to touch the 
food brought him, hurried back to the 
abbe's chamber, and raising the stone 
by pressing his head against it, was 
soon beside the sick man's couch. Faria 
had now fully regained his 
consciousness, but he still lay 
helpless and exhausted.

"I did not expect to see you again," 
said he feebly, to Dantes.

"And why not?" asked the young man. 
"Did you fancy yourself dying?"

"No, I had no such idea; but, knowing 
that all was ready for flight, I 
thought you might have made your 
escape." The deep glow of indignation 
suffused the cheeks of Dantes.

"Without you? Did you really think me 
capable of that?"

"At least," said the abbe, "I now see 
how wrong such an opinion would have 
been. Alas, alas! I am fearfully 
exhausted and debilitated by this 
attack."

"Be of good cheer," replied Dantes; 
"your strength will return." And as he 
spoke he seated himself near the bed 
beside Faria, and took his hands. The 
abbe shook his head.

"The last attack I had," said he, 
"lasted but half an hour, and after it 
I was hungry, and got up without help; 
now I can move neither my right arm nor 
leg, and my head seems uncomfortable, 
which shows that there has been a 
suffusion of blood on the brain. The 
third attack will either carry me off, 
or leave me paralyzed for life."

"No, no," cried Dantes; "you are 
mistaken -- you will not die! And your 
third attack (if, indeed, you should 
have another) will find you at liberty. 
We shall save you another time, as we 
have done this, only with a better 
chance of success, because we shall be 
able to command every requisite 
assistance."

"My good Edmond," answered the abbe, 
"be not deceived. The attack which has 
just passed away, condemns me forever 
to the walls of a prison. None can fly 
from a dungeon who cannot walk."

"Well, we will wait, -- a week, a 
month, two months, if need be, -- and 
meanwhile your strength will return. 
Everything is in readiness for our 
flight, and we can select any time we 
choose. As soon as you feel able to 
swim we will go."

"I shall never swim again," replied 
Faria. "This arm is paralyzed; not for 
a time, but forever. Lift it, and judge 
if I am mistaken." The young man raised 
the arm, which fell back by its own 
weight, perfectly inanimate and 
helpless. A sigh escaped him.

"You are convinced now, Edmond, are you 
not?" asked the abbe. "Depend upon it, 
I know what I say. Since the first 
attack I experienced of this malady, I 
have continually reflected on it. 
Indeed, I expected it, for it is a 
family inheritance; both my father and 
grandfather died of it in a third 
attack. The physician who prepared for 
me the remedy I have twice successfully 
taken, was no other than the celebrated 
Cabanis, and he predicted a similar end 
for me."

"The physician may be mistaken!" 
exclaimed Dantes. "And as for your poor 
arm, what difference will that make? I 
can take you on my shoulders, and swim 
for both of us."

"My son," said the abbe, "you, who are 
a sailor and a swimmer, must know as 
well as I do that a man so loaded would 
sink before he had done fifty strokes. 
Cease, then, to allow yourself to be 
duped by vain hopes, that even your own 
excellent heart refuses to believe in. 
Here I shall remain till the hour of my 
deliverance arrives, and that, in all 
human probability, will be the hour of 
my death. As for you, who are young and 
active, delay not on my account, but 
fly -- go-I give you back your promise."

"It is well," said Dantes. "Then I 
shall also remain." Then, rising and 
extending his hand with an air of 
solemnity over the old man's head, he 
slowly added, "By the blood of Christ I 
swear never to leave you while you 
live."

Faria gazed fondly on his noble-minded, 
single-hearted, high-principled young 
friend, and read in his countenance 
ample confirmation of the sincerity of 
his devotion and the loyalty of his 
purpose.

"Thanks," murmured the invalid, 
extending one hand. "I accept. You may 
one of these days reap the reward of 
your disinterested devotion. But as I 
cannot, and you will not, quit this 
place, it becomes necessary to fill up 
the excavation beneath the soldier's 
gallery; he might, by chance, hear the 
hollow sound of his footsteps, and call 
the attention of his officer to the 
circumstance. That would bring about a 
discovery which would inevitably lead 
to our being separated. Go, then, and 
set about this work, in which, 
unhappily, I can offer you no 
assistance; keep at it all night, if 
necessary, and do not return here 
to-morrow till after the jailer his 
visited me. I shall have something of 
the greatest importance to communicate 
to you."

Dantes took the hand of the abbe in 
his, and affectionately pressed it. 
Faria smiled encouragingly on him, and 
the young man retired to his task, in 
the spirit of obedience and respect 
which he had sworn to show towards his 
aged friend. 

 Chapter 18 The Treasure.

When Dantes returned next morning to 
the chamber of his companion in 
captivity, he found Faria seated and 
looking composed. In the ray of light 
which entered by the narrow window of 
his cell, he held open in his left 
hand, of which alone, it will be 
recollected, he retained the use, a 
sheet of paper, which, from being 
constantly rolled into a small compass, 
had the form of a cylinder, and was not 
easily kept open. He did not speak, but 
showed the paper to Dantes.

"What is that?" he inquired.

"Look at it," said the abbe with a 
smile.

"I have looked at it with all possible 
attention," said Dantes, "and I only 
see a half-burnt paper, on which are 
traces of Gothic characters inscribed 
with a peculiar kind of ink."

"This paper, my friend," said Faria, "I 
may now avow to you, since I have the 
proof of your fidelity -- this paper is 
my treasure, of which, from this day 
forth, one-half belongs to you."

The sweat started forth on Dantes brow. 
Until this day and for how long a time! 
-- he had refrained from talking of the 
treasure, which had brought upon the 
abbe the accusation of madness. With 
his instinctive delicacy Edmond had 
preferred avoiding any touch on this 
painful chord, and Faria had been 
equally silent. He had taken the 
silence of the old man for a return to 
reason; and now these few words uttered 
by Faria, after so painful a crisis, 
seemed to indicate a serious relapse 
into mental alienation.

"Your treasure?" stammered Dantes. 
Faria smiled.

"Yes," said he. "You have, indeed, a 
noble nature, Edmond, and I see by your 
paleness and agitation what is passing 
in your heart at this moment. No, be 
assured, I am not mad. This treasure 
exists, Dantes, and if I have not been 
allowed to possess it, you will. Yes -- 
you. No one would listen or believe me, 
because everyone thought me mad; but 
you, who must know that I am not, 
listen to me, and believe me so 
afterwards if you will."

"Alas," murmured Edmond to himself, 
"this is a terrible relapse! There was 
only this blow wanting." Then he said 
aloud, "My dear friend, your attack 
has, perhaps, fatigued you; had you not 
better repose awhile? To-morrow, if you 
will, I will hear your narrative; but 
to-day I wish to nurse you carefully. 
Besides," he said, "a treasure is not a 
thing we need hurry about."

"On the contrary, it is a matter of the 
utmost importance, Edmond!" replied the 
old man. "Who knows if to-morrow, or 
the next day after, the third attack 
may not come on? and then must not all 
be over? Yes, indeed, I have often 
thought with a bitter joy that these 
riches, which would make the wealth of 
a dozen families, will be forever lost 
to those men who persecute me. This 
idea was one of vengeance to me, and I 
tasted it slowly in the night of my 
dungeon and the despair of my 
captivity. But now I have forgiven the 
world for the love of you; now that I 
see you, young and with a promising 
future, -- now that I think of all that 
may result to you in the good fortune 
of such a disclosure, I shudder at any 
delay, and tremble lest I should not 
assure to one as worthy as yourself the 
possession of so vast an amount of 
hidden wealth." Edmond turned away his 
head with a sigh.

"You persist in your incredulity, 
Edmond," continued Faria. "My words 
have not convinced you. I see you 
require proofs. Well, then, read this 
paper, which I have never shown to any 
one."

"To-morrow, my dear friend," said 
Edmond, desirous of not yielding to the 
old man's madness. "I thought it was 
understood that we should not talk of 
that until to-morrow."

"Then we will not talk of it until 
to-morrow; but read this paper to-day."

"I will not irritate him," thought 
Edmond, and taking the paper, of which 
half was wanting, -- having been burnt, 
no doubt, by some accident, -- he read: 
--

"This treasure, which may amount to 
two... of Roman crowns in the most 
distant a... of the second opening 
wh... declare to belong to him alo... 
heir. "25th April, l49"

"Well!" said Faria, when the young man 
had finished reading it.

"Why," replied Dantes, "I see nothing 
but broken lines and unconnected words, 
which are rendered illegible by fire."

"Yes, to you, my friend, who read them 
for the first time; but not for me, who 
have grown pale over them by many 
nights' study, and have reconstructed 
every phrase, completed every thought."

"And do you believe you have discovered 
the hidden meaning?"

"I am sure I have, and you shall judge 
for yourself; but first listen to the 
history of this paper."

"Silence!" exclaimed Dantes. "Steps 
approach -- I go -- adieu."

And Dantes, happy to escape the history 
and explanation which would be sure to 
confirm his belief in his friend's 
mental instability, glided like a snake 
along the narrow passage; while Faria, 
restored by his alarm to a certain 
amount of activity, pushed the stone 
into place with his foot, and covered 
it with a mat in order the more 
effectually to avoid discovery.

It was the governor, who, hearing of 
Faria's illness from the jailer, had 
come in person to see him.

Faria sat up to receive him, avoiding 
all gestures in order that he might 
conceal from the governor the paralysis 
that had already half stricken him with 
death. His fear was lest the governor, 
touched with pity, might order him to 
be removed to better quarters, and thus 
separate him from his young companion. 
But fortunately this was not the case, 
and the governor left him, convinced 
that the poor madman, for whom in his 
heart he felt a kind of affection, was 
only troubled with a slight 
indisposition.

During this time, Edmond, seated on his 
bed with his head in his hands, tried 
to collect his scattered thoughts. 
Faria, since their first acquaintance, 
had been on all points so rational and 
logical, so wonderfully sagacious, in 
fact, that he could not understand how 
so much wisdom on all points could be 
allied with madness. Was Faria deceived 
as to his treasure, or was all the 
world deceived as to Faria?

Dantes remained in his cell all day, 
not daring to return to his friend, 
thinking thus to defer the moment when 
he should be convinced, once for all, 
that the abbe was mad -- such a 
conviction would be so terrible!

But, towards the evening after the hour 
for the customary visit had gone by, 
Faria, not seeing the young man appear, 
tried to move and get over the distance 
which separated them. Edmond shuddered 
when he heard the painful efforts which 
the old man made to drag himself along; 
his leg was inert, and he could no 
longer make use of one arm. Edmond was 
obliged to assist him, for otherwise he 
would not have been able to enter by 
the small aperture which led to Dantes' 
chamber.

"Here I am, pursuing you 
remorselessly," he said with a 
benignant smile. "You thought to escape 
my munificence, but it is in vain. 
Listen to me."

Edmond saw there was no escape, and 
placing the old man on his bed, he 
seated himself on the stool beside him.

"You know," said the abbe, "that I was 
the secretary and intimate friend of 
Cardinal Spada, the last of the princes 
of that name. I owe to this worthy lord 
all the happiness I ever knew. He was 
not rich, although the wealth of his 
family had passed into a proverb, and I 
heard the phrase very often, `As rich 
as a Spada.' But he, like public rumor, 
lived on this reputation for wealth; 
his palace was my paradise. I was tutor 
to his nephews, who are dead; and when 
he was alone in the world, I tried by 
absolute devotion to his will, to make 
up to him all he had done for me during 
ten years of unremitting kindness. The 
cardinal's house had no secrets for me. 
I had often seen my noble patron 
annotating ancient volumes, and eagerly 
searching amongst dusty family 
manuscripts. One day when I was 
reproaching him for his unavailing 
searches, and deploring the prostration 
of mind that followed them, he looked 
at me, and, smiling bitterly, opened a 
volume relating to the History of the 
City of Rome. There, in the twentieth 
chapter of the Life of Pope Alexander 
VI., were the following lines, which I 
can never forget: --

"`The great wars of Romagna had ended; 
Caesar Borgia, who had completed his 
conquest, had need of money to purchase 
all Italy. The pope had also need of 
money to bring matters to an end with 
Louis XII. King of France, who was 
formidable still in spite of his recent 
reverses; and it was necessary, 
therefore, to have recourse to some 
profitable scheme, which was a matter 
of great difficulty in the impoverished 
condition of exhausted Italy. His 
holiness had an idea. He determined to 
make two cardinals.'

"By choosing two of the greatest 
personages of Rome, especially rich men 
-- this was the return the holy father 
looked for. In the first place, he 
could sell the great appointments and 
splendid offices which the cardinals 
already held; and then he had the two 
hats to sell besides. There was a third 
point in view, which will appear 
hereafter. The pope and Caesar Borgia 
first found the two future cardinals; 
they were Giovanni Rospigliosi, who 
held four of the highest dignities of 
the Holy See, and Caesar Spada, one of 
the noblest and richest of the Roman 
nobility; both felt the high honor of 
such a favor from the pope. They were 
ambitious, and Caesar Borgia soon found 
purchasers for their appointments. The 
result was, that Rospigliosi and Spada 
paid for being cardinals, and eight 
other persons paid for the offices the 
cardinals held before their elevation, 
and thus eight hundred thousand crowns 
entered into the coffers of the 
speculators.

"It is time now to proceed to the last 
part of the speculation. The pope 
heaped attentions upon Rospigliosi and 
Spada, conferred upon them the insignia 
of the cardinalate, and induced them to 
arrange their affairs and take up their 
residence at Rome. Then the pope and 
Caesar Borgia invited the two cardinals 
to dinner. This was a matter of dispute 
between the holy father and his son. 
Caesar thought they could make use of 
one of the means which he always had 
ready for his friends, that is to say, 
in the first place, the famous key 
which was given to certain persons with 
the request that they go and open a 
designated cupboard. This key was 
furnished with a small iron point, -- a 
negligence on the part of the 
locksmith. When this was pressed to 
effect the opening of the cupboard, of 
which the lock was difficult, the 
person was pricked by this small point, 
and died next day. Then there was the 
ring with the lion's head, which Caesar 
wore when he wanted to greet his 
friends with a clasp of the hand. The 
lion bit the hand thus favored, and at 
the end of twenty-four hours, the bite 
was mortal. Caesar proposed to his 
father, that they should either ask the 
cardinals to open the cupboard, or 
shake hands with them; but Alexander 
VI., replied: `Now as to the worthy 
cardinals, Spada and Rospigliosi, let 
us ask both of them to dinner, 
something tells me that we shall get 
that money back. Besides, you forget, 
Caesar, an indigestion declares itself 
immediately, while a prick or a bite 
occasions a delay of a day or two.' 
Caesar gave way before such cogent 
reasoning, and the cardinals were 
consequently invited to dinner.

"The table was laid in a vineyard 
belonging to the pope, near San 
Pierdarena, a charming retreat which 
the cardinals knew very well by report. 
Rospigliosi, quite set up with his new 
dignities, went with a good appetite 
and his most ingratiating manner. 
Spada, a prudent man, and greatly 
attached to his only nephew, a young 
captain of the highest promise, took 
paper and pen, and made his will. He 
then sent word to his nephew to wait 
for him near the vineyard; but it 
appeared the servant did not find him.

"Spada knew what these invitations 
meant; since Christianity, so eminently 
civilizing, had made progress in Rome, 
it was no longer a centurion who came 
from the tyrant with a message, `Caesar 
wills that you die.' but it was a 
legate a latere, who came with a smile 
on his lips to say from the pope, `His 
holiness requests you to dine with him.'

"Spada set out about two o'clock to San 
Pierdarena. The pope awaited him. The 
first sight that attracted the eyes of 
Spada was that of his nephew, in full 
costume, and Caesar Borgia paying him 
most marked attentions. Spada turned 
pale, as Caesar looked at him with an 
ironical air, which proved that he had 
anticipated all, and that the snare was 
well spread. They began dinner and 
Spada was only able to inquire of his 
nephew if he had received his message. 
The nephew replied no; perfectly 
comprehending the meaning of the 
question. It was too late, for he had 
already drunk a glass of excellent 
wine, placed for him expressly by the 
pope's butler. Spada at the same moment 
saw another bottle approach him, which 
he was pressed to taste. An hour 
afterwards a physician declared they 
were both poisoned through eating 
mushrooms. Spada died on the threshold 
of the vineyard; the nephew expired at 
his own door, making signs which his 
wife could not comprehend.

"Then Caesar and the pope hastened to 
lay hands on the heritage, under 
presence of seeking for the papers of 
the dead man. But the inheritance 
consisted in this only, a scrap of 
paper on which Spada had written: -- `I 
bequeath to my beloved nephew my 
coffers, my books, and, amongst others, 
my breviary with the gold corners, 
which I beg he will preserve in 
remembrance of his affectionate uncle.'

"The heirs sought everywhere, admired 
the breviary, laid hands on the 
furniture, and were greatly astonished 
that Spada, the rich man, was really 
the most miserable of uncles -- no 
treasures -- unless they were those of 
science, contained in the library and 
laboratories. That was all. Caesar and 
his father searched, examined, 
scrutinized, but found nothing, or at 
least very little; not exceeding a few 
thousand crowns in plate, and about the 
same in ready money; but the nephew had 
time to say to his wife before he 
expired: `Look well among my uncle's 
papers; there is a will.'

"They sought even more thoroughly than 
the august heirs had done, but it was 
fruitless. There were two palaces and a 
vineyard behind the Palatine Hill; but 
in these days landed property had not 
much value, and the two palaces and the 
vineyard remained to the family since 
they were beneath the rapacity of the 
pope and his son. Months and years 
rolled on. Alexander VI. died, 
poisoned, -- you know by what mistake. 
Caesar, poisoned at the same time, 
escaped by shedding his skin like a 
snake; but the new skin was spotted by 
the poison till it looked like a 
tiger's. Then, compelled to quit Rome, 
he went and got himself obscurely 
killed in a night skirmish, scarcely 
noticed in history. After the pope's 
death and his son's exile, it was 
supposed that the Spada family would 
resume the splendid position they had 
held before the cardinal's time; but 
this was not the case. The Spadas 
remained in doubtful ease, a mystery 
hung over this dark affair, and the 
public rumor was, that Caesar, a better 
politician than his father, had carried 
off from the pope the fortune of the 
two cardinals. I say the two, because 
Cardinal Rospigliosi, who had not taken 
any precaution, was completely 
despoiled.

"Up to this point," said Faria, 
interrupting the thread of his 
narrative, "this seems to you very 
meaningless, no doubt, eh?"

"Oh, my friend," cried Dantes, "on the 
contrary, it seems as if I were reading 
a most interesting narrative; go on, I 
beg of you."

"I will."

"The family began to get accustomed to 
their obscurity. Years rolled on, and 
amongst the descendants some were 
soldiers, others diplomatists; some 
churchmen, some bankers; some grew 
rich, and some were ruined. I come now 
to the last of the family, whose 
secretary I was -- the Count of Spada. 
I had often heard him complain of the 
disproportion of his rank with his 
fortune; and I advised him to invest 
all he had in an annuity. He did so, 
and thus doubled his income. The 
celebrated breviary remained in the 
family, and was in the count's 
possession. It had been handed down 
from father to son; for the singular 
clause of the only will that had been 
found, had caused it to be regarded as 
a genuine relic, preserved in the 
family with superstitious veneration. 
It was an illuminated book, with 
beautiful Gothic characters, and so 
weighty with gold, that a servant 
always carried it before the cardinal 
on days of great solemnity.

"At the sight of papers of all sorts, 
-- titles, contracts, parchments, which 
were kept in the archives of the 
family, all descending from the 
poisoned cardinal, I in my turn 
examined the immense bundles of 
documents, like twenty servitors, 
stewards, secretaries before me; but in 
spite of the most exhaustive 
researches, I found -- nothing. Yet I 
had read, I had even written a precise 
history of the Borgia family, for the 
sole purpose of assuring myself whether 
any increase of fortune had occurred to 
them on the death of the Cardinal 
Caesar Spada; but could only trace the 
acquisition of the property of the 
Cardinal Rospigliosi, his companion in 
misfortune.

" I was then almost assured that the 
inheritance had neither profited the 
Borgias nor the family, but had 
remained unpossessed like the treasures 
of the Arabian Nights, which slept in 
the bosom of the earth under the eyes 
of the genie. I searched, ransacked, 
counted, calculated a thousand and a 
thousand times the income and 
expenditure of the family for three 
hundred years. It was useless. I 
remained in my ignorance, and the Count 
of Spada in his poverty. My patron 
died. He had reserved from his annuity 
his family papers, his library, 
composed of five thousand volumes, and 
his famous breviary. All these he 
bequeathed to me, with a thousand Roman 
crowns, which he had in ready money, on 
condition that I would have anniversary 
masses said for the repose of his soul, 
and that I would draw up a genealogical 
tree and history of his house. All this 
I did scrupulously. Be easy, my dear 
Edmond, we are near the conclusion.

"In 1807, a month before I was 
arrested, and a fortnight after the 
death of the Count of Spada, on the 
25th of December (you will see 
presently how the date became fixed in 
my memory), I was reading, for the 
thousandth time, the papers I was 
arranging, for the palace was sold to a 
stranger, and I was going to leave Rome 
and settle at Florence, intending to 
take with me twelve thousand francs I 
possessed, my library, and the famous 
breviary, when, tired with my constant 
labor at the same thing, and overcome 
by a heavy dinner I had eaten, my head 
dropped on my hands, and I fell asleep 
about three o'clock in the afternoon. I 
awoke as the clock was striking six. I 
raised my head; I was in utter 
darkness. I rang for a light, but as no 
one came, I determined to find one for 
myself. It was indeed but anticipating 
the simple manners which I should soon 
be under the necessity of adopting. I 
took a wax-candle in one hand, and with 
the other groped about for a piece of 
paper (my match-box being empty), with 
which I proposed to get a light from 
the small flame still playing on the 
embers. Fearing, however, to make use 
of any valuable piece of paper, I 
hesitated for a moment, then 
recollected that I had seen in the 
famous breviary, which was on the table 
beside me, an old paper quite yellow 
with age, and which had served as a 
marker for centuries, kept there by the 
request of the heirs. I felt for it, 
found it, twisted it up together, and 
putting it into the expiring flame, set 
light to it.

"But beneath my fingers, as if by 
magic, in proportion as the fire 
ascended, I saw yellowish characters 
appear on the paper. I grasped it in my 
hand, put out the flame as quickly as I 
could, lighted my taper in the fire 
itself, and opened the crumpled paper 
with inexpressible emotion, 
recognizing, when I had done so, that 
these characters had been traced in 
mysterious and sympathetic ink, only 
appearing when exposed to the fire; 
nearly one-third of the paper had been 
consumed by the flame. It was that 
paper you read this morning; read it 
again, Dantes, and then I will complete 
for you the incomplete words and 
unconnected sense."

Faria, with an air of triumph, offered 
the paper to Dantes, who this time read 
the following words, traced with an ink 
of a reddish color resembling rust: --

"This 25th day of April, 1498, be... 
Alexander VI., and fearing that not... 
he may desire to become my heir, and 
re... and Bentivoglio, who were 
poisoned,... my sole heir, that I have 
bu... and has visited with me, that is, 
in... Island of Monte Cristo, all I 
poss... jewels, diamonds, gems; that I 
alone... may amount to nearly two 
mil... will find on raising the 
twentieth ro... creek to the east in a 
right line. Two open... in these caves; 
the treasure is in the furthest a... 
which treasure I bequeath and leave 
en... as my sole heir. "25th April, 
1498. "Caes...

"And now," said the abbe, "read this 
other paper;" and he presented to 
Dantes a second leaf with fragments of 
lines written on it, which Edmond read 
as follows: --

 "...ing invited to dine by his 
Holiness ...content with making me pay 
for my hat, ...serves for me the fate 
of Cardinals Caprara ...I declare to my 
nephew, Guido Spada ...ried in a place 
he knows ...the caves of the small 
...essed of ingots, gold, money, 
...know of the existence of this 
treasure, which ...lions of Roman 
crowns, and which he ...ck from the 
small ...ings have been made ...ngle in 
the second; ...tire to him ...ar Spada."

Faria followed him with an excited 
look. "and now," he said, when he saw 
that Dantes had read the last line, 
"put the two fragments together, and 
judge for yourself." Dantes obeyed, and 
the conjointed pieces gave the 
following: --

"This 25th day of April, 1498, be...ing 
invited to dine by his Holiness 
Alexander VI., and fearing that 
not...content with making me pay for my 
hat, he may desire to become my heir, 
and re...serves for me the fate of 
Cardinals Caprara and Bentivoglio, who 
were poisoned...I declare to my nephew, 
Guido Spada, my sole heir, that I have 
bu...ried in a place he knows and has 
visited with me, that is, in...the 
caves of the small Island of Monte 
Cristo all I poss...ssed of ingots, 
gold, money, jewels, diamonds, gems; 
that I alone...know of the existence of 
this treasure, which may amount to 
nearly two mil...lions of Roman crowns, 
and which he will find on raising the 
twentieth ro...ck from the small creek 
to the east in a right line. Two 
open...ings have been made in these 
caves; the treasure is in the furthest 
a...ngle in the second; which treasure 
I bequeath and leave en...tire to him 
as my sole heir. "25th April, 1498. 
"Caes...ar Spada."

"Well, do you comprehend now?" inquired 
Faria.

"It is the declaration of Cardinal 
Spada, and the will so long sought 
for," replied Edmond, still incredulous.

"Yes; a thousand times, yes!"

"And who completed it as it now is?"

"I did. Aided by the remaining 
fragment, I guessed the rest; measuring 
the length of the lines by those of the 
paper, and divining the hidden meaning 
by means of what was in part revealed, 
as we are guided in a cavern by the 
small ray of light above us."

"And what did you do when you arrived 
at this conclusion?"

"I resolved to set out, and did set out 
at that very instant, carrying with me 
the beginning of my great work, the 
unity of the Italian kingdom; but for 
some time the imperial police (who at 
this period, quite contrary to what 
Napoleon desired so soon as he had a 
son born to him, wished for a partition 
of provinces) had their eyes on me; and 
my hasty departure, the cause of which 
they were unable to guess, having 
aroused their suspicions, I was 
arrested at the very moment I was 
leaving Piombino.

"Now," continued Faria, addressing 
Dantes with an almost paternal 
expression, "now, my dear fellow, you 
know as much as I do myself. If we ever 
escape together, half this treasure is 
yours; if I die here, and you escape 
alone, the whole belongs to you."

"But," inquired Dantes hesitating, "has 
this treasure no more legitimate 
possessor in the world than ourselves?"

"No, no, be easy on that score; the 
family is extinct. The last Count of 
Spada, moreover, made me his heir, 
bequeathing to me this symbolic 
breviary, he bequeathed to me all it 
contained; no, no, make your mind 
satisfied on that point. If we lay 
hands on this fortune, we may enjoy it 
without remorse."

"And you say this treasure amounts to" 
--

"Two millions of Roman crowns; nearly 
thirteen millions of our money."*

* $2,600,000 in 1894.

"Impossible!" said Dantes, staggered at 
the enormous amount.

"Impossible? and why?" asked the old 
man. "The Spada family was one of the 
oldest and most powerful families of 
the fifteenth century; and in those 
times, when other opportunities for 
investment were wanting, such 
accumulations of gold and jewels were 
by no means rare; there are at this day 
Roman families perishing of hunger, 
though possessed of nearly a million in 
diamonds and jewels, handed down by 
entail, and which they cannot touch." 
Edmond thought he was in a dream -- he 
wavered between incredulity and joy.

"I have only kept this secret so long 
from you," continued Faria, "that I 
might test your character, and then 
surprise you. Had we escaped before my 
attack of catalepsy, I should have 
conducted you to Monte Cristo; now," he 
added, with a sigh, "it is you who will 
conduct me thither. Well, Dantes, you 
do not thank me?"

"This treasure belongs to you, my dear 
friend," replied Dantes, "and to you 
only. I have no right to it. I am no 
relation of yours."

"You are my son, Dantes," exclaimed the 
old man. "You are the child of my 
captivity. My profession condemns me to 
celibacy. God has sent you to me to 
console, at one and the same time, the 
man who could not be a father, and the 
prisoner who could not get free." And 
Faria extended the arm of which alone 
the use remained to him to the young 
man who threw himself upon his neck and 
wept. 

 Chapter 19 The Third Attack.

Now that this treasure, which had so 
long been the object of the abbe'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 
Dantes all the good which, with 
thirteen or fourteen millions of 
francs, a man could do in these days to 
his friends; and then Dantes' 
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 abbe did not know the Island of 
Monte Cristo; but Dantes 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. Dantes drew a 
plan of the island for Faria, and Faria 
gave Dantes advice as to the means he 
should employ to recover the treasure. 
But Dantes 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 
Dantes 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 Dantes had 
partly filled in. But for this 
precaution, which, it will be 
remembered, the abbe 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 Caesar 
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 Dantes to learn it 
by heart; and Dantes 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 
Dantes, -- 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; Dantes, 
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 some one 
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, Dantes 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 Dantes; "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 Dantes, 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 abbe, 
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. Dantes 
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.

"Adieu, adieu!" murmured the old man, 
clasping Edmond's hand convulsively -- 
"adieu!"

"Oh, no, -- no, not yet," he cried; "do 
not forsake me! Oh, succor him! Help -- 
help -- help!"

"Hush -- hush!" murmured the dying man, 
"that they may not separate us if you 
save me!"

"You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be 
assured I shall save you! Besides, 
although you suffer much, you do not 
seem to be in such agony as you were 
before."

"Do not mistake. I suffer less because 
there is in me less strength to endure. 
At your age we have faith in life; it 
is the privilege of youth to believe 
and hope, but old men see death more 
clearly. Oh, 'tis here -- 'tis here -- 
'tis over -- my sight is gone -- my 
senses fail! Your hand, Dantes! Adieu 
-- adieu!" And raising himself by a 
final effort, in which he summoned all 
his faculties, he said, -- "Monte 
Cristo, forget not Monte Cristo!" And 
he fell back on the bed. The crisis was 
terrible, and a rigid form with twisted 
limbs, swollen eyelids, and lips 
flecked with bloody foam, lay on the 
bed of torture, in place of the 
intellectual being who so lately rested 
there.

Dantes took the lamp, placed it on a 
projecting stone above the bed, whence 
its tremulous light fell with strange 
and fantastic ray on the distorted 
countenance and motionless, stiffened 
body. With steady gaze he awaited 
confidently the moment for 
administering the restorative.

When he believed that the right moment 
had arrived, he took the knife, pried 
open the teeth, which offered less 
resistance than before, counted one 
after the other twelve drops, and 
watched; the phial contained, perhaps, 
twice as much more. He waited ten 
minutes, a quarter of an hour, half an 
hour, -- no change took place. 
Trembling, his hair erect, his brow 
bathed with perspiration, he counted 
the seconds by the beating of his 
heart. Then he thought it was time to 
make the last trial, and he put the 
phial to the purple lips of Faria, and 
without having occasion to force open 
his jaws, which had remained extended, 
he poured the whole of the liquid down 
his throat.

The draught produced a galvanic effect, 
a violent trembling pervaded the old 
man's limbs, his eyes opened until it 
was fearful to gaze upon them, he 
heaved a sigh which resembled a shriek, 
and then his convulsed body returned 
gradually to its former immobility, the 
eyes remaining open.

Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a 
half elapsed, and during this period of 
anguish, Edmond leaned over his friend, 
his hand applied to his heart, and felt 
the body gradually grow cold, and the 
heart's pulsation become more and more 
deep and dull, until at length it 
stopped; the last movement of the heart 
ceased, the face became livid, the eyes 
remained open, but the eyeballs were 
glazed. It was six o'clock in the 
morning, the dawn was just breaking, 
and its feeble ray came into the 
dungeon, and paled the ineffectual 
light of the lamp. Strange shadows 
passed over the countenance of the dead 
man, and at times gave it the 
appearance of life. While the struggle 
between day and night lasted, Dantes 
still doubted; but as soon as the 
daylight gained the pre-eminence, he 
saw that he was alone with a corpse. 
Then an invincible and extreme terror 
seized upon him, and he dared not again 
press the hand that hung out of bed, he 
dared no longer to gaze on those fixed 
and vacant eyes, which he tried many 
times to close, but in vain -- they 
opened again as soon as shut. He 
extinguished the lamp, carefully 
concealed it, and then went away, 
closing as well as he could the 
entrance to the secret passage by the 
large stone as he descended.

It was time, for the jailer was coming. 
On this occasion he began his rounds at 
Dantes' cell, and on leaving him he 
went on to Faria's dungeon, taking 
thither breakfast and some linen. 
Nothing betokened that the man know 
anything of what had occurred. He went 
on his way.

Dantes was then seized with an 
indescribable desire to know what was 
going on in the dungeon of his 
unfortunate friend. He therefore 
returned by the subterraneous gallery, 
and arrived in time to hear the 
exclamations of the turnkey, who called 
out for help. Other turnkeys came, and 
then was heard the regular tramp of 
soldiers. Last of all came the governor.

Edmond heard the creaking of the bed as 
they moved the corpse, heard the voice 
of the governor, who asked them to 
throw water on the dead man's face; and 
seeing that, in spite of this 
application, the prisoner did not 
recover, they sent for the doctor. The 
governor then went out, and words of 
pity fell on Dantes' listening ears, 
mingled with brutal laughter.

"Well, well," said one, "the madman has 
gone to look after his treasure. Good 
journey to him!"

"With all his millions, he will not 
have enough to pay for his shroud!" 
said another.

"Oh," added a third voice, "the shrouds 
of the Chateau d'If are not dear!"

"Perhaps," said one of the previous 
speakers, "as he was a churchman, they 
may go to some expense in his behalf."

"They may give him the honors of the 
sack."

Edmond did not lose a word, but 
comprehended very little of what was 
said. The voices soon ceased, and it 
seemed to him as if every one had left 
the cell. Still he dared not to enter, 
as they might have left some turnkey to 
watch the dead. He remained, therefore, 
mute and motionless, hardly venturing 
to breathe. At the end of an hour, he 
heard a faint noise, which increased. 
It was the governor who returned, 
followed by the doctor and other 
attendants. There was a moment's 
silence, -- it was evident that the 
doctor was examining the dead body. The 
inquiries soon commenced.

The doctor analyzed the symptoms of the 
malady to which the prisoner had 
succumbed, and declared that he was 
dead. Questions and answers followed in 
a nonchalant manner that made Dantes 
indignant, for he felt that all the 
world should have for the poor abbe a 
love and respect equal to his own.

"I am very sorry for what you tell me," 
said the governor, replying to the 
assurance of the doctor, "that the old 
man is really dead; for he was a quiet, 
inoffensive prisoner, happy in his 
folly, and required no watching."

"Ah," added the turnkey, "there was no 
occasion for watching him: he would 
have stayed here fifty years, I'll 
answer for it, without any attempt to 
escape."

"Still," said the governor, "I believe 
it will be requisite, notwithstanding 
your certainty, and not that I doubt 
your science, but in discharge of my 
official duty, that we should be 
perfectly assured that the prisoner is 
dead." There was a moment of complete 
silence, during which Dantes, still 
listening, knew that the doctor was 
examining the corpse a second time.

"You may make your mind easy," said the 
doctor; "he is dead. I will answer for 
that."

"You know, sir," said the governor, 
persisting, "that we are not content in 
such cases as this with such a simple 
examination. In spite of all 
appearances, be so kind, therefore, as 
to finish your duty by fulfilling the 
formalities described by law."

"Let the irons be heated," said the 
doctor; "but really it is a useless 
precaution." This order to heat the 
irons made Dantes shudder. He heard 
hasty steps, the creaking of a door, 
people going and coming, and some 
minutes afterwards a turnkey entered, 
saying, --

"Here is the brazier, lighted." There 
was a moment's silence, and then was 
heard the crackling of burning flesh, 
of which the peculiar and nauseous 
smell penetrated even behind the wall 
where Dantes was listening in horror. 
The perspiration poured forth upon the 
young man's brow, and he felt as if he 
should faint.

"You see, sir, he is really dead," said 
the doctor; "this burn in the heel is 
decisive. The poor fool is cured of his 
folly, and delivered from his 
captivity."

"Wasn't his name Faria?" inquired one 
of the officers who accompanied the 
governor.

"Yes, sir; and, as he said, it was an 
ancient name. He was, too, very 
learned, and rational enough on all 
points which did not relate to his 
treasure; but on that, indeed, he was 
intractable."

"It is the sort of malady which we call 
monomania," said the doctor.

"You had never anything to complain 
of?" said the governor to the jailer 
who had charge of the abbe.

"Never, sir," replied the jailer, 
"never; on the contrary, he sometimes 
amused me very much by telling me 
stories. One day, too, when my wife was 
ill, he gave me a prescription which 
cured her."

"Ah, ah!" said the doctor, "I did not 
know that I had a rival; but I hope, 
governor, that you will show him all 
proper respect."

"Yes, yes, make your mind easy, he 
shall be decently interred in the 
newest sack we can find. Will that 
satisfy you?"

"Must this last formality take place in 
your presence, sir?" inquired a turnkey.

"Certainly. But make haste -- I cannot 
stay here all day." Other footsteps, 
going and coming, were now heard, and a 
moment afterwards the noise of rustling 
canvas reached Dantes' ears, the bed 
creaked, and the heavy footfall of a 
man who lifts a weight sounded on the 
floor; then the bed again creaked under 
the weight deposited upon it.

"This evening," said the governor.

"Will there be any mass?" asked one of 
the attendants.

"That is impossible," replied the 
governor. "The chaplain of the chateau 
came to me yesterday to beg for leave 
of absence, in order to take a trip to 
Hyeres for a week. I told him I would 
attend to the prisoners in his absence. 
If the poor abbe had not been in such a 
hurry, he might have had his requiem."

"Pooh, pooh;" said the doctor, with the 
impiety usual in persons of his 
profession; "he is a churchman. God 
will respect his profession, and not 
give the devil the wicked delight of 
sending him a priest." A shout of 
laughter followed this brutal jest. 
Meanwhile the operation of putting the 
body in the sack was going on.

"This evening," said the governor, when 
the task was ended.

"At what hour?" inquired a turnkey.

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

"Shall we watch by the corpse?"

"Of what use would it be? Shut the 
dungeon as if he were alive -- that is 
all." Then the steps retreated, and the 
voices died away in the distance; the 
noise of the door, with its creaking 
hinges and bolts ceased, and a silence 
more sombre than that of solitude 
ensued, -- the silence of death, which 
was all-pervasive, and struck its icy 
chill to the very soul of Dantes. Then 
he raised the flag-stone cautiously 
with his head, and looked carefully 
around the chamber. It was empty, and 
Dantes emerged from the tunnel. 

 Chapter 20 The Cemetery of the Chateau 
D'If.

On the bed, at full length, and faintly 
illuminated by the pale light that came 
from the window, lay a sack of canvas, 
and under its rude folds was stretched 
a long and stiffened form; it was 
Faria's last winding-sheet, -- a 
winding-sheet which, as the turnkey 
said, cost so little. Everything was in 
readiness. A barrier had been placed 
between Dantes and his old friend. No 
longer could Edmond look into those 
wide-open eyes which had seemed to be 
penetrating the mysteries of death; no 
longer could he clasp the hand which 
had done so much to make his existence 
blessed. Faria, the beneficent and 
cheerful companion, with whom he was 
accustomed to live so intimately, no 
longer breathed. He seated himself on 
the edge of that terrible bed, and fell 
into melancholy and gloomy revery.

Alone -- he was alone again -- again 
condemned to silence -- again face to 
face with nothingness! Alone! -- never 
again to see the face, never again to 
hear the voice of the only human being 
who united him to earth! Was not 
Faria's fate the better, after all -- 
to solve the problem of life at its 
source, even at the risk of horrible 
suffering? The idea of suicide, which 
his friend had driven away and kept 
away by his cheerful presence, now 
hovered like a phantom over the abbe's 
dead body.

"If I could die," he said, "I should go 
where he goes, and should assuredly 
find him again. But how to die? It is 
very easy," he went on with a smile; "I 
will remain here, rush on the first 
person that opens the door, strangle 
him, and then they will guillotine me." 
But excessive grief is like a storm at 
sea, where the frail bark is tossed 
from the depths to the top of the wave. 
Dantes recoiled from the idea of so 
infamous a death, and passed suddenly 
from despair to an ardent desire for 
life and liberty.

"Die? oh, no," he exclaimed -- "not die 
now, after having lived and suffered so 
long and so much! Die? yes, had I died 
years ago; but now to die would be, 
indeed, to give way to the sarcasm of 
destiny. No, I want to live; I shall 
struggle to the very last; I will yet 
win back the happiness of which I have 
been deprived. Before I die I must not 
forget that I have my executioners to 
punish, and perhaps, too, who knows, 
some friends to reward. Yet they will 
forget me here, and I shall die in my 
dungeon like Faria." As he said this, 
he became silent and gazed straight 
before him like one overwhelmed with a 
strange and amazing thought. Suddenly 
he arose, lifted his hand to his brow 
as if his brain wore giddy, paced twice 
or thrice round the dungeon, and then 
paused abruptly by the bed.

"Just God!" he muttered, "whence comes 
this thought? Is it from thee? Since 
none but the dead pass freely from this 
dungeon, let me take the place of the 
dead!" Without giving himself time to 
reconsider his decision, and, indeed, 
that he might not allow his thoughts to 
be distracted from his desperate 
resolution, he bent over the appalling 
shroud, opened it with the knife which 
Faria had made, drew the corpse from 
the sack, and bore it along the tunnel 
to his own chamber, laid it on his 
couch, tied around its head the rag he 
wore at night around his own, covered 
it with his counterpane, once again 
kissed the ice-cold brow, and tried 
vainly to close the resisting eyes, 
which glared horribly, turned the head 
towards the wall, so that the jailer 
might, when he brought the evening 
meal, believe that he was asleep, as 
was his frequent custom; entered the 
tunnel again, drew the bed against the 
wall, returned to the other cell, took 
from the hiding-place the needle and 
thread, flung off his rags, that they 
might feel only naked flesh beneath the 
coarse canvas, and getting inside the 
sack, placed himself in the posture in 
which the dead body had been laid, and 
sewed up the mouth of the sack from the 
inside.

He would have been discovered by the 
beating of his heart, if by any 
mischance the jailers had entered at 
that moment. Dantes might have waited 
until the evening visit was over, but 
he was afraid that the governor would 
change his mind, and order the dead 
body to be removed earlier. In that 
case his last hope would have been 
destroyed. Now his plans were fully 
made, and this is what he intended to 
do. If while he was being carried out 
the grave-diggers should discover that 
they were bearing a live instead of a 
dead body, Dantes did not intend to 
give them time to recognize him, but 
with a sudden cut of the knife, he 
meant to open the sack from top to 
bottom, and, profiting by their alarm, 
escape; if they tried to catch him, he 
would use his knife to better purpose.

If they took him to the cemetery and 
laid him in a grave, he would allow 
himself to be covered with earth, and 
then, as it was night, the 
grave-diggers could scarcely have 
turned their backs before he would have 
worked his way through the yielding 
soil and escaped. He hoped that the 
weight of earth would not be so great 
that he could not overcome it. If he 
was detected in this and the earth 
proved too heavy, he would be stifled, 
and then -- so much the better, all 
would be over. Dantes had not eaten 
since the preceding evening, but he had 
not thought of hunger, nor did he think 
of it now. His situation was too 
precarious to allow him even time to 
reflect on any thought but one.

The first risk that Dantes ran was, 
that the jailer, when he brought him 
his supper at seven o'clock, might 
perceive the change that had been made; 
fortunately, twenty times at least, 
from misanthropy or fatigue, Dantes had 
received his jailer in bed, and then 
the man placed his bread and soup on 
the table, and went away without saying 
a word. This time the jailer might not 
be as silent as usual, but speak to 
Dantes, and seeing that he received no 
reply, go to the bed, and thus discover 
all.

When seven o'clock came, Dantes' agony 
really began. His hand placed upon his 
heart was unable to redress its 
throbbings, while, with the other he 
wiped the perspiration from his 
temples. From time to time chills ran 
through his whole body, and clutched 
his heart in a grasp of ice. Then he 
thought he was going to die. Yet the 
hours passed on without any unusual 
disturbance, and Dantes knew that he 
had escaped the first peril. It was a 
good augury. At length, about the hour 
the governor had appointed, footsteps 
were heard on the stairs. Edmond felt 
that the moment had arrived, summoned 
up all his courage, held his breath, 
and would have been happy if at the 
same time he could have repressed the 
throbbing of his veins. The footsteps 
-- they were double -- paused at the 
door -- and Dantes guessed that the two 
grave-diggers had come to seek him -- 
this idea was soon converted into 
certainty, when he heard the noise they 
made in putting down the hand-bier. The 
door opened, and a dim light reached 
Dantes' eyes through the coarse sack 
that covered him; he saw two shadows 
approach his bed, a third remaining at 
the door with a torch in its hand. The 
two men, approaching the ends of the 
bed, took the sack by its extremities.

"He's heavy though for an old and thin 
man," said one, as he raised the head.

"They say every year adds half a pound 
to the weight of the bones," said 
another, lifting the feet.

"Have you tied the knot?" inquired the 
first speaker.

"What would be the use of carrying so 
much more weight?" was the reply, "I 
can do that when we get there."

"Yes, you're right," replied the 
companion.

"What's the knot for?" thought Dantes.

They deposited the supposed corpse on 
the bier. Edmond stiffened himself in 
order to play the part of a dead man, 
and then the party, lighted by the man 
with the torch, who went first, 
ascended the stairs. Suddenly he felt 
the fresh and sharp night air, and 
Dantes knew that the mistral was 
blowing. It was a sensation in which 
pleasure and pain were strangely 
mingled. The bearers went on for twenty 
paces, then stopped, putting the bier 
down on the ground. One of them went 
away, and Dantes heard his shoes 
striking on the pavement.

"Where am I?" he asked himself.

"Really, he is by no means a light 
load!" said the other bearer, sitting 
on the edge of the hand-barrow. Dantes' 
first impulse was to escape, but 
fortunately he did not attempt it.

"Give us a light," said the other 
bearer, "or I shall never find what I 
am looking for." The man with the torch 
complied, although not asked in the 
most polite terms.

"What can he be looking for?" thought 
Edmond. "The spade, perhaps." An 
exclamation of satisfaction indicated 
that the grave-digger had found the 
object of his search. "Here it is at 
last," he said, "not without some 
trouble though."

"Yes," was the answer, "but it has lost 
nothing by waiting."

As he said this, the man came towards 
Edmond, who heard a heavy metallic 
substance laid down beside him, and at 
the same moment a cord was fastened 
round his feet with sudden and painful 
violence.

"Well, have you tied the knot?" 
inquired the grave-digger, who was 
looking on.

"Yes, and pretty tight too, I can tell 
you," was the answer.

"Move on, then." And the bier was 
lifted once more, and they proceeded.

They advanced fifty paces farther, and 
then stopped to open a door, then went 
forward again. The noise of the waves 
dashing against the rocks on which the 
chateau is built, reached Dantes' ear 
distinctly as they went forward.

"Bad weather!" observed one of the 
bearers; "not a pleasant night for a 
dip in the sea."

"Why, yes, the abbe runs a chance of 
being wet," said the other; and then 
there was a burst of brutal laughter. 
Dantes did not comprehend the jest, but 
his hair stood erect on his head.

"Well, here we are at last," said one 
of them. "A little farther -- a little 
farther," said the other. "You know 
very well that the last was stopped on 
his way, dashed on the rocks, and the 
governor told us next day that we were 
careless fellows."

They ascended five or six more steps, 
and then Dantes felt that they took 
him, one by the head and the other by 
the heels, and swung him to and fro. 
"One!" said the grave-diggers, "two! 
three!" And at the same instant Dantes 
felt himself flung into the air like a 
wounded bird, falling, falling, with a 
rapidity that made his blood curdle. 
Although drawn downwards by the heavy 
weight which hastened his rapid 
descent, it seemed to him as if the 
fall lasted for a century.

At last, with a horrible splash, he 
darted like an arrow into the ice-cold 
water, and as he did so he uttered a 
shrill cry, stifled in a moment by his 
immersion beneath the waves.

Dantes had been flung into the sea, and 
was dragged into its depths by a 
thirty-six pound shot tied to his feet. 
The sea is the cemetery of the Chateau 
d'If. 

 Chapter 21 The Island of Tiboulen.

Dantes, although stunned and almost 
suffocated, had sufficient presence of 
mind to hold his breath, and as his 
right hand (prepared as he was for 
every chance) held his knife open, he 
rapidly ripped up the sack, extricated 
his arm, and then his body; but in 
spite of all his efforts to free 
himself from the shot, he felt it 
dragging him down still lower. He then 
bent his body, and by a desperate 
effort severed the cord that bound his 
legs, at the moment when it seemed as 
if he were actually strangled. With a 
mighty leap he rose to the surface of 
the sea, while the shot dragged down to 
the depths the sack that had so nearly 
become his shroud.

Dantes waited only to get breath, and 
then dived, in order to avoid being 
seen. When he arose a second time, he 
was fifty paces from where he had first 
sunk. He saw overhead a black and 
tempestuous sky, across which the wind 
was driving clouds that occasionally 
suffered a twinkling star to appear; 
before him was the vast expanse of 
waters, sombre and terrible, whose 
waves foamed and roared as if before 
the approach of a storm. Behind him, 
blacker than the sea, blacker than the 
sky, rose phantom-like the vast stone 
structure, whose projecting crags 
seemed like arms extended to seize 
their prey, and on the highest rock was 
a torch lighting two figures. He 
fancied that these two forms were 
looking at the sea; doubtless these 
strange grave-diggers had heard his 
cry. Dantes dived again, and remained a 
long time beneath the water. This was 
an easy feat to him, for he usually 
attracted a crowd of spectators in the 
bay before the lighthouse at Marseilles 
when he swam there, and was unanimously 
declared to be the best swimmer in the 
port. When he came up again the light 
had disappeared.

He must now get his bearings. Ratonneau 
and Pomegue are the nearest islands of 
all those that surround the Chateau 
d'If, but Ratonneau and Pomegue are 
inhabited, as is also the islet of 
Daume, Tiboulen and Lemaire were 
therefore the safest for Dantes' 
venture. The islands of Tiboulen and 
Lemaire are a league from the Chateau 
d'If; Dantes, nevertheless, determined 
to make for them. But how could he find 
his way in the darkness of the night? 
At this moment he saw the light of 
Planier, gleaming in front of him like 
a star. By leaving this light on the 
right, he kept the Island of Tiboulen a 
little on the left; by turning to the 
left, therefore, he would find it. But, 
as we have said, it was at least a 
league from the Chateau d'If to this 
island. Often in prison Faria had said 
to him, when he saw him idle and 
inactive, "Dantes, you must not give 
way to this listlessness; you will be 
drowned if you seek to escape, and your 
strength has not been properly 
exercised and prepared for exertion." 
These words rang in Dantes' ears, even 
beneath the waves; he hastened to 
cleave his way through them to see if 
he had not lost his strength. He found 
with pleasure that his captivity had 
taken away nothing of his power, and 
that he was still master of that 
element on whose bosom he had so often 
sported as a boy.

Fear, that relentless pursuer, clogged 
Dantes' efforts. He listened for any 
sound that might be audible, and every 
time that he rose to the top of a wave 
he scanned the horizon, and strove to 
penetrate the darkness. He fancied that 
every wave behind him was a pursuing 
boat, and he redoubled his exertions, 
increasing rapidly his distance from 
the chateau, but exhausting his 
strength. He swam on still, and already 
the terrible chateau had disappeared in 
the darkness. He could not see it, but 
he felt its presence. An hour passed, 
during which Dantes, excited by the 
feeling of freedom, continued to cleave 
the waves. "Let us see," said he, "I 
have swum above an hour, but as the 
wind is against me, that has retarded 
my speed; however, if I am not 
mistaken, I must be close to Tiboulen. 
But what if I were mistaken?" A shudder 
passed over him. He sought to tread 
water, in order to rest himself; but 
the sea was too violent, and he felt 
that he could not make use of this 
means of recuperation.

"Well," said he, "I will swim on until 
I am worn out, or the cramp seizes me, 
and then I shall sink;" and he struck 
out with the energy of despair.

Suddenly the sky seemed to him to 
become still darker and more dense, and 
heavy clouds seemed to sweep down 
towards him; at the same time he felt a 
sharp pain in his knee. He fancied for 
a moment that he had been shot, and 
listened for the report; but he heard 
nothing. Then he put out his hand, and 
encountered an obstacle and with 
another stroke knew that he had gained 
the shore.

Before him rose a grotesque mass of 
rocks, that resembled nothing so much 
as a vast fire petrified at the moment 
of its most fervent combustion. It was 
the Island of Tiboulen. Dantes rose, 
advanced a few steps, and, with a 
fervent prayer of gratitude, stretched 
himself on the granite. which seemed to 
him softer than down. Then, in spite of 
the wind and rain, he fell into the 
deep, sweet sleep of utter exhaustion. 
At the expiration of an hour Edmond was 
awakened by the roar of thunder. The 
tempest was let loose and beating the 
atmosphere with its mighty wings; from 
time to time a flash of lightning 
stretched across the heavens like a 
fiery serpent, lighting up the clouds 
that rolled on in vast chaotic waves.

Dantes had not been deceived -- he had 
reached the first of the two islands, 
which was, in fact, Tiboulen. He knew 
that it was barren and without shelter; 
but when the sea became more calm, he 
resolved to plunge into its waves 
again, and swim to Lemaire, equally 
arid, but larger, and consequently 
better adapted for concealment.

An overhanging rock offered him a 
temporary shelter, and scarcely had he 
availed himself of it when the tempest 
burst forth in all its fury. Edmond 
felt the trembling of the rock beneath 
which he lay; the waves, dashing 
themselves against it, wetted him with 
their spray. He was safely sheltered, 
and yet he felt dizzy in the midst of 
the warring of the elements and the 
dazzling brightness of the lightning. 
It seemed to him that the island 
trembled to its base, and that it 
would, like a vessel at anchor, break 
moorings, and bear him off into the 
centre of the storm. He then 
recollected that he had not eaten or 
drunk for four-and-twenty hours. He 
extended his hands, and drank greedily 
of the rainwater that had lodged in a 
hollow of the rock.

As he rose, a flash of lightning, that 
seemed to rive the remotest heights of 
heaven, illumined the darkness. By its 
light, between the Island of Lemaire 
and Cape Croiselle, a quarter of a 
league distant, Dantes saw a 
fishing-boat driven rapidly like a 
spectre before the power of winds and 
waves. A second after, he saw it again, 
approaching with frightful rapidity. 
Dantes cried at the top of his voice to 
warn them of their danger, but they saw 
it themselves. Another flash showed him 
four men clinging to the shattered mast 
and the rigging, while a fifth clung to 
the broken rudder.

The men he beheld saw him undoubtedly, 
for their cries were carried to his 
ears by the wind. Above the splintered 
mast a sail rent to tatters was waving; 
suddenly the ropes that still held it 
gave way, and it disappeared in the 
darkness of the night like a vast 
sea-bird. At the same moment a violent 
crash was heard, and cries of distress. 
Dantes from his rocky perch saw the 
shattered vessel, and among the 
fragments the floating forms of the 
hapless sailors. Then all was dark 
again.

Dantes ran down the rocks at the risk 
of being himself dashed to pieces; he 
listened, he groped about, but he heard 
and saw nothing -- the cries had 
ceased, and the tempest continued to 
rage. By degrees the wind abated, vast 
gray clouds rolled towards the west, 
and the blue firmament appeared studded 
with bright stars. Soon a red streak 
became visible in the horizon, the 
waves whitened, a light played over 
them, and gilded their foaming crests 
with gold. It was day.

Dantes stood mute and motionless before 
this majestic spectacle, as if he now 
beheld it for the first time; and 
indeed since his captivity in the 
Chateau d'If he had forgotten that such 
scenes were ever to be witnessed. He 
turned towards the fortress, and looked 
at both sea and land. The gloomy 
building rose from the bosom of the 
ocean with imposing majesty and seemed 
to dominate the scene. It was about 
five o'clock. The sea continued to get 
calmer.

"In two or three hours," thought 
Dantes, "the turnkey will enter my 
chamber, find the body of my poor 
friend, recognize it, seek for me in 
vain, and give the alarm. Then the 
tunnel will be discovered; the men who 
cast me into the sea and who must have 
heard the cry I uttered, will be 
questioned. Then boats filled with 
armed soldiers will pursue the wretched 
fugitive. The cannon will warn every 
one to refuse shelter to a man 
wandering about naked and famished. The 
police of Marseilles will be on the 
alert by land, whilst the governor 
pursues me by sea. I am cold, I am 
hungry. I have lost even the knife that 
saved me. O my God, I have suffered 
enough surely! Have pity on me, and do 
for me what I am unable to do for 
myself."

As Dantes (his eyes turned in the 
direction of the Chateau d'If) uttered 
this prayer, he saw off the farther 
point of the Island of Pomegue a small 
vessel with lateen sail skimming the 
sea like a gull in search of prey; and 
with his sailor's eye he knew it to be 
a Genoese tartan. She was coming out of 
Marseilles harbor, and was standing out 
to sea rapidly, her sharp prow cleaving 
through the waves. "Oh," cried Edmond, 
"to think that in half an hour I could 
join her, did I not fear being 
questioned, detected, and conveyed back 
to Marseilles! What can I do? What 
story can I invent? under pretext of 
trading along the coast, these men, who 
are in reality smugglers, will prefer 
selling me to doing a good action. I 
must wait. But I cannot ---I am 
starving. In a few hours my strength 
will be utterly exhausted; besides, 
perhaps I have not been missed at the 
fortress. I can pass as one of the 
sailors wrecked last night. My story 
will be accepted, for there is no one 
left to contradict me."

As he spoke, Dantes looked toward the 
spot where the fishing-vessel had been 
wrecked, and started. The red cap of 
one of the sailors hung to a point of 
the rock and some timbers that had 
formed part of the vessel's keel, 
floated at the foot of the crag. It an 
instant Dantes' plan was formed. he 
swam to the cap, placed it on his head, 
seized one of the timbers, and struck 
out so as to cut across the course the 
vessel was taking.

"I am saved!" murmured he. And this 
conviction restored his strength.

He soon saw that the vessel, with the 
wind dead ahead, was tacking between 
the Chateau d'If and the tower of 
Planier. For an instant he feared lest, 
instead of keeping in shore, she should 
stand out to sea; but he soon saw that 
she would pass, like most vessels bound 
for Italy, between the islands of Jaros 
and Calaseraigne. However, the vessel 
and the swimmer insensibly neared one 
another, and in one of its tacks the 
tartan bore down within a quarter of a 
mile of him. He rose on the waves, 
making signs of distress; but no one on 
board saw him, and the vessel stood on 
another tack. Dantes would have 
shouted, but he knew that the wind 
would drown his voice.

It was then he rejoiced at his 
precaution in taking the timber, for 
without it he would have been unable, 
perhaps, to reach the vessel -- 
certainly to return to shore, should he 
be unsuccessful in attracting attention.

Dantes, though almost sure as to what 
course the vessel would take, had yet 
watched it anxiously until it tacked 
and stood towards him. Then he 
advanced; but before they could meet, 
the vessel again changed her course. By 
a violent effort he rose half out of 
the water, waving his cap, and uttering 
a loud shout peculiar to sailers. This 
time he was both seen and heard, and 
the tartan instantly steered towards 
him. At the same time, he saw they were 
about to lower the boat.

An instant after, the boat, rowed by 
two men, advanced rapidly towards him. 
Dantes let go of the timber, which he 
now thought to be useless, and swam 
vigorously to meet them. But he had 
reckoned too much upon his strength, 
and then he realized how serviceable 
the timber had been to him. His arms 
became stiff, his legs lost their 
flexibility, and he was almost 
breathless.

He shouted again. The two sailors 
redoubled their efforts, and one of 
them cried in Italian, "Courage!"

The word reached his ear as a wave 
which he no longer had the strength to 
surmount passed over his head. He rose 
again to the surface, struggled with 
the last desperate effort of a drowning 
man, uttered a third cry, and felt 
himself sinking, as if the fatal cannon 
shot were again tied to his feet. The 
water passed over his head, and the sky 
turned gray. A convulsive movement 
again brought him to the surface. He 
felt himself seized by the hair, then 
he saw and heard nothing. He had 
fainted.

When he opened his eyes Dantes found 
himself on the deck of the tartan. His 
first care was to see what course they 
were taking. They were rapidly leaving 
the Chateau d'If behind. Dantes was so 
exhausted that the exclamation of joy 
he uttered was mistaken for a sigh.

As we have said, he was lying on the 
deck. A sailor was rubbing his limbs 
with a woollen cloth; another, whom he 
recognized as the one who had cried out 
"Courage!" held a gourd full of rum to 
his mouth; while the third, an old 
sailer, at once the pilot and captain, 
looked on with that egotistical pity 
men feel for a misfortune that they 
have escaped yesterday, and which may 
overtake them to-morrow.

A few drops of the rum restored 
suspended animation, while the friction 
of his limbs restored their elasticity.

"Who are you?" said the pilot in bad 
French.

"I am," replied Dantes, in bad Italian, 
"a Maltese sailor. We were coming from 
Syracuse laden with grain. The storm of 
last night overtook us at Cape Morgion, 
and we were wrecked on these rocks."

"Where do you come from?"

"From these rocks that I had the good 
luck to cling to while our captain and 
the rest of the crew were all lost. I 
saw your vessel, and fearful of being 
left to perish on the desolate island, 
I swam off on a piece of wreckage to 
try and intercept your course. You have 
saved my life, and I thank you," 
continued Dantes. "I was lost when one 
of your sailors caught hold of my hair."

"It was I," said a sailor of a frank 
and manly appearance; "and it was time, 
for you were sinking."

"Yes," returned Dantes, holding out his 
hand, "I thank you again."

"I almost hesitated, though," replied 
the sailor; "you looked more like a 
brigand than an honest man, with your 
beard six inches, and your hair a foot 
long." Dantes recollected that his hair 
and beard had not been cut all the time 
he was at the Chateau d'If.

"Yes," said he, "I made a vow, to our 
Lady of the Grotto not to cut my hair 
or beard for ten years if I were saved 
in a moment of danger; but to-day the 
vow expires."

"Now what are we to do with you?" said 
the captain.

"Alas, anything you please. My captain 
is dead; I have barely escaped; but I 
am a good sailor. Leave me at the first 
port you make; I shall be sure to find 
employment."

"Do you know the Mediterranean?"

"I have sailed over it since my 
childhood."

"You know the best harbors?"

"There are few ports that I could not 
enter or leave with a bandage over my 
eyes."

"I say, captain," said the sailor who 
had cried "Courage!" to Dantes, "if 
what he says is true, what hinders his 
staying with us?"

"If he says true," said the captain 
doubtingly. "But in his present 
condition he will promise anything, and 
take his chance of keeping it 
afterwards."

"I will do more than I promise," said 
Dantes.

"We shall see," returned the other, 
smiling.

"Where are you going?" asked Dantes.

"To Leghorn."

"Then why, instead of tacking so 
frequently, do you not sail nearer the 
wind?"

"Because we should run straight on to 
the Island of Rion."

"You shall pass it by twenty fathoms."

"Take the helm, and let us see what you 
know." The young man took the helm, 
felt to see if the vessel answered the 
rudder promptly and seeing that, 
without being a first-rate sailer, she 
yet was tolerably obedient, --

"To the sheets," said he. The four 
seamen, who composed the crew, obeyed, 
while the pilot looked on. "Haul taut." 
-- They obeyed.

"Belay." This order was also executed; 
and the vessel passed, as Dantes had 
predicted, twenty fathoms to windward.

"Bravo!" said the captain.

"Bravo!" repeated the sailors. And they 
all looked with astonishment at this 
man whose eye now disclosed an 
intelligence and his body a vigor they 
had not thought him capable of showing.

"You see," said Dantes, quitting the 
helm, "I shall be of some use to you, 
at least during the voyage. If you do 
not want me at Leghorn, you can leave 
me there, and I will pay you out of the 
first wages I get, for my food and the 
clothes you lend me."

"Ah," said the captain, "we can agree 
very well, if you are reasonable."

"Give me what you give the others, and 
it will be all right," returned Dantes.

"That's not fair," said the seaman who 
had saved Dantes; "for you know more 
than we do."

"What is that to you, Jacopo?" returned 
the Captain. "Every one is free to ask 
what he pleases."

"That's true," replied Jacopo; "I only 
make a remark."

"Well, you would do much better to find 
him a jacket and a pair of trousers, if 
you have them."

"No," said Jacopo; "but I have a shirt 
and a pair of trousers."

"That is all I want," interrupted 
Dantes. Jacopo dived into the hold and 
soon returned with what Edmond wanted.

"Now, then, do you wish for anything 
else?" said the patron.

"A piece of bread and another glass of 
the capital rum I tasted, for I have 
not eaten or drunk for a long time." He 
had not tasted food for forty hours. A 
piece of bread was brought, and Jacopo 
offered him the gourd.

"Larboard your helm," cried the captain 
to the steersman. Dantes glanced that 
way as he lifted the gourd to his 
mouth; then paused with hand in mid-air.

"Hollo! what's the matter at the 
Chateau d'If?" said the captain.

A small white cloud, which had 
attracted Dantes' attention, crowned 
the summit of the bastion of the 
Chateau d'If. At the same moment the 
faint report of a gun was heard. The 
sailors looked at one another.

"What is this?" asked the captain.

"A prisoner has escaped from the 
Chateau d'If, and they are firing the 
alarm gun," replied Dantes. The captain 
glanced at him, but he had lifted the 
rum to his lips and was drinking it 
with so much composure, that 
suspicions, if the captain had any, 
died away.

"At any rate," murmured he, "if it be, 
so much the better, for I have made a 
rare acquisition." Under pretence of 
being fatigued, Dantes asked to take 
the helm; the steersman, glad to be 
relieved, looked at the captain, and 
the latter by a sign indicated that he 
might abandon it to his new comrade. 
Dantes could thus keep his eyes on 
Marseilles.

"What is the day of the month?" asked 
he of Jacopo, who sat down beside him.

"The 28th of February."

"In what year?"

"In what year -- you ask me in what 
year?"

"Yes," replied the young man, "I ask 
you in what year!"

"You have forgotten then?"

"I got such a fright last night," 
replied Dantes, smiling, "that I have 
almost lost my memory. I ask you what 
year is it?"

"The year 1829," returned Jacopo. It 
was fourteen years day for day since 
Dantes' arrest. He was nineteen when he 
entered the Chateau d'If; he was 
thirty-three when he escaped. A 
sorrowful smile passed over his face; 
he asked himself what had become of 
Mercedes, who must believe him dead. 
Then his eyes lighted up with hatred as 
he thought of the three men who had 
caused him so long and wretched a 
captivity. He renewed against Danglars, 
Fernand, and Villefort the oath of 
implacable vengeance he had made in his 
dungeon. This oath was no longer a vain 
menace; for the fastest sailer in the 
Mediterranean would have been unable to 
overtake the little tartan, that with 
every stitch of canvas set was flying 
before the wind to Leghorn. 

 Chapter 22 The Smugglers.

Dantes had not been a day on board 
before he had a very clear idea of the 
men with whom his lot had been cast. 
Without having been in the school of 
the Abbe Faria, the worthy master of 
The Young Amelia (the name of the 
Genoese tartan) knew a smattering of 
all the tongues spoken on the shores of 
that large lake called the 
Mediterranean, from the Arabic to the 
Provencal, and this, while it spared 
him interpreters, persons always 
troublesome and frequently indiscreet, 
gave him great facilities of 
communication, either with the vessels 
he met at sea, with the small boats 
sailing along the coast, or with the 
people without name, country, or 
occupation, who are always seen on the 
quays of seaports, and who live by 
hidden and mysterious means which we 
must suppose to be a direct gift of 
providence, as they have no visible 
means of support. It is fair to assume 
that Dantes was on board a smuggler.

At first the captain had received 
Dantes on board with a certain degree 
of distrust. He was very well known to 
the customs officers of the coast; and 
as there was between these worthies and 
himself a perpetual battle of wits, he 
had at first thought that Dantes might 
be an emissary of these industrious 
guardians of rights and duties, who 
perhaps employed this ingenious means 
of learning some of the secrets of his 
trade. But the skilful manner in which 
Dantes had handled the lugger had 
entirely reassured him; and then, when 
he saw the light plume of smoke 
floating above the bastion of the 
Chateau d'If, and heard the distant 
report, he was instantly struck with 
the idea that he had on board his 
vessel one whose coming and going, like 
that of kings, was accompanied with 
salutes of artillery. This made him 
less uneasy, it must be owned, than if 
the new-comer had proved to be a 
customs officer; but this supposition 
also disappeared like the first, when 
he beheld the perfect tranquillity of 
his recruit.

Edmond thus had the advantage of 
knowing what the owner was, without the 
owner knowing who he was; and however 
the old sailor and his crew tried to 
"pump" him, they extracted nothing more 
from him; he gave accurate descriptions 
of Naples and Malta, which he knew as 
well as Marseilles, and held stoutly to 
his first story. Thus the Genoese, 
subtle as he was, was duped by Edmond, 
in whose favor his mild demeanor, his 
nautical skill, and his admirable 
dissimulation, pleaded. Moreover, it is 
possible that the Genoese was one of 
those shrewd persons who know nothing 
but what they should know, and believe 
nothing but what they should believe.

In this state of mutual understanding, 
they reached Leghorn. Here Edmond was 
to undergo another trial; he was to 
find out whether he could recognize 
himself, as he had not seen his own 
face for fourteen years. He had 
preserved a tolerably good remembrance 
of what the youth had been, and was now 
to find out what the man had become. 
His comrades believed that his vow was 
fulfilled. As he had twenty times 
touched at Leghorn, he remembered a 
barber in St. Ferdinand Street; he went 
there to have his beard and hair cut. 
The barber gazed in amazement at this 
man with the long, thick and black hair 
and beard, which gave his head the 
appearance of one of Titian's 
portraits. At this period it was not 
the fashion to wear so large a beard 
and hair so long; now a barber would 
only be surprised if a man gifted with 
such advantages should consent 
voluntarily to deprive himself of them. 
The Leghorn barber said nothing and 
went to work.

When the operation was concluded, and 
Edmond felt that his chin was 
completely smooth, and his hair reduced 
to its usual length, he asked for a 
hand-glass. He was now, as we have 
said, three-and-thirty years of age, 
and his fourteen years' imprisonment 
had produced a great transformation in 
his appearance. Dantes had entered the 
Chateau d'If with the round, open, 
smiling face of a young and happy man, 
with whom the early paths of life have 
been smooth. and who anticipates a 
future corresponding with his past. 
This was now all changed. The oval face 
was lengthened, his smiling mouth had 
assumed the firm and marked lines which 
betoken resolution; his eyebrows were 
arched beneath a brow furrowed with 
thought; his eyes were full of 
melancholy, and from their depths 
occasionally sparkled gloomy fires of 
misanthropy and hatred; his complexion, 
so long kept from the sun, had now that 
pale color which produces, when the 
features are encircled with black hair, 
the aristocratic beauty of the man of 
the north; the profound learning he had 
acquired had besides diffused over his 
features a refined intellectual 
expression; and he had also acquired, 
being naturally of a goodly stature, 
that vigor which a frame possesses 
which has so long concentrated all its 
force within itself.

To the elegance of a nervous and slight 
form had succeeded the solidity of a 
rounded and muscular figure. As to his 
voice, prayers, sobs, and imprecations 
had changed it so that at times it was 
of a singularly penetrating sweetness, 
and at others rough and almost hoarse. 
Moreover, from being so long in 
twilight or darkness, his eyes had 
acquired the faculty of distinguishing 
objects in the night, common to the 
hyena and the wolf. Edmond smiled when 
he beheld himself: it was impossible 
that his best friend -- if, indeed, he 
had any friend left -- could recognize 
him; he could not recognize himself.

The master of The Young Amelia, who was 
very desirous of retaining amongst his 
crew a man of Edmond's value, had 
offered to advance him funds out of his 
future profits, which Edmond had 
accepted. His next care on leaving the 
barber's who had achieved his first 
metamorphosis was to enter a shop and 
buy a complete sailor's suit -- a garb, 
as we all know, very simple, and 
consisting of white trousers, a striped 
shirt, and a cap. It was in this 
costume, and bringing back to Jacopo 
the shirt and trousers he had lent him, 
that Edmond reappeared before the 
captain of the lugger, who had made him 
tell his story over and over again 
before he could believe him, or 
recognize in the neat and trim sailor 
the man with thick and matted beard, 
hair tangled with seaweed, and body 
soaking in seabrine, whom he had picked 
up naked and nearly drowned. Attracted 
by his prepossessing appearance, he 
renewed his offers of an engagement to 
Dantes; but Dantes, who had his own 
projects, would not agree for a longer 
time than three months.

The Young Amelia had a very active 
crew, very obedient to their captain, 
who lost as little time as possible. He 
had scarcely been a week at Leghorn 
before the hold of his vessel was 
filled with printed muslins, contraband 
cottons, English powder, and tobacco on 
which the excise had forgotten to put 
its mark. The master was to get all 
this out of Leghorn free of duties, and 
land it on the shores of Corsica, where 
certain speculators undertook to 
forward the cargo to France. They 
sailed; Edmond was again cleaving the 
azure sea which had been the first 
horizon of his youth, and which he had 
so often dreamed of in prison. He left 
Gorgone on his right and La Pianosa on 
his left, and went towards the country 
of Paoli and Napoleon. The next morning 
going on deck, as he always did at an 
early hour, the patron found Dantes 
leaning against the bulwarks gazing 
with intense earnestness at a pile of 
granite rocks, which the rising sun 
tinged with rosy light. It was the 
Island of Monte Cristo. The Young 
Amelia left it three-quarters of a 
league to the larboard, and kept on for 
Corsica.

Dantes thought, as they passed so 
closely to the island whose name was so 
interesting to him, that he had only to 
leap into the sea and in half an hour 
be at the promised land. But then what 
could he do without instruments to 
discover his treasure, without arms to 
defend himself? Besides, what would the 
sailors say? What would the patron 
think? He must wait.

Fortunately, Dantes had learned how to 
wait; he had waited fourteen years for 
his liberty, and now he was free he 
could wait at least six months or a 
year for wealth. Would he not have 
accepted liberty without riches if it 
had been offered to him? Besides, were 
not those riches chimerical? -- 
offspring of the brain of the poor Abbe 
Faria, had they not died with him? It 
is true, the letter of the Cardinal 
Spada was singularly circumstantial, 
and Dantes repeated it to himself, from 
one end to the other, for he had not 
forgotten a word.

Evening came, and Edmond saw the island 
tinged with the shades of twilight, and 
then disappear in the darkness from all 
eyes but his own, for he, with vision 
accustomed to the gloom of a prison, 
continued to behold it last of all, for 
he remained alone upon deck. The next 
morn broke off the coast of Aleria; all 
day they coasted, and in the evening 
saw fires lighted on land; the position 
of these was no doubt a signal for 
landing, for a ship's lantern was hung 
up at the mast-head instead of the 
streamer, and they came to within a 
gunshot of the shore. Dantes noticed 
that the captain of The Young Amelia 
had, as he neared the land, mounted two 
small culverins, which, without making 
much noise, can throw a four ounce ball 
a thousand paces or so.

But on this occasion the precaution was 
superfluous, and everything proceeded 
with the utmost smoothness and 
politeness. Four shallops came off with 
very little noise alongside the lugger, 
which, no doubt, in acknowledgement of 
the compliment, lowered her own shallop 
into the sea, and the five boats worked 
so well that by two o'clock in the 
morning all the cargo was out of The 
Young Amelia and on terra firma. The 
same night, such a man of regularity 
was the patron of The Young Amelia, the 
profits were divided, and each man had 
a hundred Tuscan livres, or about 
eighty francs. But the voyage was not 
ended. They turned the bowsprit towards 
Sardinia, where they intended to take 
in a cargo, which was to replace what 
had been discharged. The second 
operation was as successful as the 
first, The Young Amelia was in luck. 
This new cargo was destined for the 
coast of the Duchy of Lucca, and 
consisted almost entirely of Havana 
cigars, sherry, and Malaga wines.

There they had a bit of a skirmish in 
getting rid of the duties; the excise 
was, in truth, the everlasting enemy of 
the patron of The Young Amelia. A 
customs officer was laid low, and two 
sailors wounded; Dantes was one of the 
latter, a ball having touched him in 
the left shoulder. Dantes was almost 
glad of this affray, and almost pleased 
at being wounded, for they were rude 
lessons which taught him with what eye 
he could view danger, and with what 
endurance he could bear suffering. He 
had contemplated danger with a smile, 
and when wounded had exclaimed with the 
great philosopher, "Pain, thou art not 
an evil." He had, moreover. looked upon 
the customs officer wounded to death, 
and, whether from heat of blood 
produced by the encounter, or the chill 
of human sentiment, this sight had made 
but slight impression upon him. Dantes 
was on the way he desired to follow, 
and was moving towards the end he 
wished to achieve; his heart was in a 
fair way of petrifying in his bosom. 
Jacopo, seeing him fall, had believed 
him killed, and rushing towards him 
raised him up, and then attended to him 
with all the kindness of a devoted 
comrade.

This world was not then so good as 
Doctor Pangloss believed it, neither 
was it so wicked as Dantes thought it, 
since this man, who had nothing to 
expect from his comrade but the 
inheritance of his share of the 
prize-money, manifested so much sorrow 
when he saw him fall. Fortunately, as 
we have said, Edmond was only wounded, 
and with certain herbs gathered at 
certain seasons, and sold to the 
smugglers by the old Sardinian women, 
the wound soon closed. Edmond then 
resolved to try Jacopo, and offered him 
in return for his attention a share of 
his prize-money, but Jacopo refused it 
indignantly.

As a result of the sympathetic devotion 
which Jacopo had from the first 
bestowed on Edmond, the latter was 
moved to a certain degree of affection. 
But this sufficed for Jacopo, who 
instinctively felt that Edmond had a 
right to superiority of position -- a 
superiority which Edmond had concealed 
from all others. And from this time the 
kindness which Edmond showed him was 
enough for the brave seaman.

Then in the long days on board ship, 
when the vessel, gliding on with 
security over the azure sea, required 
no care but the hand of the helmsman, 
thanks to the favorable winds that 
swelled her sails, Edmond, with a chart 
in his hand, became the instructor of 
Jacopo, as the poor Abbe Faria had been 
his tutor. He pointed out to him the 
bearings of the coast, explained to him 
the variations of the compass, and 
taught him to read in that vast book 
opened over our heads which they call 
heaven, and where God writes in azure 
with letters of diamonds. And when 
Jacopo inquired of him, "What is the 
use of teaching all these things to a 
poor sailor like me?" Edmond replied, 
"Who knows? You may one day be the 
captain of a vessel. Your 
fellow-countryman, Bonaparte, became 
emperor." We had forgotten to say that 
Jacopo was a Corsican.

Two months and a half elapsed in these 
trips, and Edmond had become as skilful 
a coaster as he had been a hardy 
seaman; he had formed an acquaintance 
with all the smugglers on the coast, 
and learned all the Masonic signs by 
which these half pirates recognize each 
other. He had passed and re-passed his 
Island of Monte Cristo twenty times, 
but not once had he found an 
opportunity of landing there. He then 
formed a resolution. As soon as his 
engagement with the patron of The Young 
Amelia ended, he would hire a small 
vessel on his own account -- for in his 
several voyages he had amassed a 
hundred piastres -- and under some 
pretext land at the Island of Monte 
Cristo. Then he would be free to make 
his researches, not perhaps entirely at 
liberty, for he would be doubtless 
watched by those who accompanied him. 
But in this world we must risk 
something. Prison had made Edmond 
prudent, and he was desirous of running 
no risk whatever. But in vain did he 
rack his imagination; fertile as it 
was, he could not devise any plan for 
reaching the island without 
companionship.

Dantes was tossed about on these doubts 
and wishes, when the patron, who had 
great confidence in him, and was very 
desirous of retaining him in his 
service, took him by the arm one 
evening and led him to a tavern on the 
Via del' Oglio, where the leading 
smugglers of Leghorn used to congregate 
and discuss affairs connected with 
their trade. Already Dantes had visited 
this maritime Bourse two or three 
times, and seeing all these hardy 
free-traders, who supplied the whole 
coast for nearly two hundred leagues in 
extent, he had asked himself what power 
might not that man attain who should 
give the impulse of his will to all 
these contrary and diverging minds. 
This time it was a great matter that 
was under discussion, connected with a 
vessel laden with Turkey carpets, 
stuffs of the Levant, and cashmeres. It 
was necessary to find some neutral 
ground on which an exchange could be 
made, and then to try and land these 
goods on the coast of France. If the 
venture was successful the profit would 
be enormous, there would be a gain of 
fifty or sixty piastres each for the 
crew.

The patron of The Young Amelia proposed 
as a place of landing the Island of 
Monte Cristo, which being completely 
deserted, and having neither soldiers 
nor revenue officers, seemed to have 
been placed in the midst of the ocean 
since the time of the heathen Olympus 
by Mercury, the god of merchants and 
robbers, classes of mankind which we in 
modern times have separated if not made 
distinct, but which antiquity appears 
to have included in the same category. 
At the mention of Monte Cristo Dantes 
started with joy; he rose to conceal 
his emotion, and took a turn around the 
smoky tavern, where all the languages 
of the known world were jumbled in a 
lingua franca. When he again joined the 
two persons who had been discussing the 
matter, it had been decided that they 
should touch at Monte Cristo and set 
out on the following night. Edmond, 
being consulted, was of opinion that 
the island afforded every possible 
security, and that great enterprises to 
be well done should be done quickly. 
Nothing then was altered in the plan, 
and orders were given to get under 
weigh next night, and, wind and weather 
permitting, to make the neutral island 
by the following day. 

 Chapter 23 The Island of Monte Cristo.

Thus, at length, by one of the 
unexpected strokes of fortune which 
sometimes befall those who have for a 
long time been the victims of an evil 
destiny, Dantes was about to secure the 
opportunity he wished for, by simple 
and natural means, and land on the 
island without incurring any suspicion. 
One night more and he would be on his 
way.

The night was one of feverish 
distraction, and in its progress 
visions good and evil passed through 
Dantes' mind. If he closed his eyes, he 
saw Cardinal Spada's letter written on 
the wall in characters of flame -- if 
he slept for a moment the wildest 
dreams haunted his brain. He ascended 
into grottos paved with emeralds, with 
panels of rubies, and the roof glowing 
with diamond stalactites. Pearls fell 
drop by drop, as subterranean waters 
filter in their caves. Edmond, amazed, 
wonderstruck, filled his pockets with 
the radiant gems and then returned to 
daylight, when be discovered that his 
prizes had all changed into common 
pebbles. He then endeavored to re-enter 
the marvellous grottos, but they had 
suddenly receded, and now the path 
became a labyrinth, and then the 
entrance vanished, and in vain did he 
tax his memory for the magic and 
mysterious word which opened the 
splendid caverns of Ali Baba to the 
Arabian fisherman. All was useless, the 
treasure disappeared, and had again 
reverted to the genii from whom for a 
moment he had hoped to carry it off. 
The day came at length, and was almost 
as feverish as the night had been, but 
it brought reason to the aid of 
imagination, and Dantes was then 
enabled to arrange a plan which had 
hitherto been vague and unsettled in 
his brain. Night came, and with it the 
preparation for departure, and these 
preparations served to conceal Dantes' 
agitation. He had by degrees assumed 
such authority over his companions that 
he was almost like a commander on 
board; and as his orders were always 
clear, distinct, and easy of execution, 
his comrades obeyed him with celerity 
and pleasure.

The old patron did not interfere, for 
he too had recognized the superiority 
of Dantes over the crew and himself. He 
saw in the young man his natural 
successor, and regretted that he had 
not a daughter, that he might have 
bound Edmond to him by a more secure 
alliance. At seven o'clock in the 
evening all was ready, and at ten 
minutes past seven they doubled the 
lighthouse just as the beacon was 
kindled. The sea was calm, and, with a 
fresh breeze from the south-east, they 
sailed beneath a bright blue sky, in 
which God also lighted up in turn his 
beacon lights, each of which is a 
world. Dantes told them that all hands 
might turn in, and he would take the 
helm. When the Maltese (for so they 
called Dantes) had said this, it was 
sufficient, and all went to their bunks 
contentedly. This frequently happened. 
Dantes, cast from solitude into the 
world, frequently experienced an 
imperious desire for solitude; and what 
solitude is more complete, or more 
poetical, then that of a ship floating 
in isolation on the sea during the 
obscurity of the night, in the silence 
of immensity, and under the eye of 
heaven?

Now this solitude was peopled with his 
thoughts, the night lighted up by his 
illusions, and the silence animated by 
his anticipations. When the patron 
awoke, the vessel was hurrying on with 
every sail set, and every sail full 
with the breeze. They were making 
nearly ten knots an hour. The Island of 
Monte Cristo loomed large in the 
horizon. Edmond resigned the lugger to 
the master's care, and went and lay 
down in his hammock; but, in spite of a 
sleepless night, he could not close his 
eyes for a moment. Two hours afterwards 
he came on deck, as the boat was about 
to double the Island of Elba. They were 
just abreast of Mareciana, and beyond 
the flat but verdant Island of La 
Pianosa. The peak of Monte Cristo 
reddened by the burning sun, was seen 
against the azure sky. Dantes ordered 
the helmsman to put down his helm, in 
order to leave La Pianosa to starboard, 
as he knew that he should shorten his 
course by two or three knots. About 
five o'clock in the evening the island 
was distinct, and everything on it was 
plainly perceptible, owing to that 
clearness of the atmosphere peculiar to 
the light which the rays of the sun 
cast at its setting.

Edmond gazed very earnestly at the mass 
of rocks which gave out all the variety 
of twilight colors, from the brightest 
pink to the deepest blue; and from time 
to time his cheeks flushed, his brow 
darkened, and a mist passed over his 
eyes. Never did gamester, whose whole 
fortune is staked on one cast of the 
die, experience the anguish which 
Edmond felt in his paroxysms of hope. 
Night came, and at ten o'clock they 
anchored. The Young Amelia was first at 
the rendezvous. In spite of his usual 
command over himself, Dantes could not 
restrain his impetuosity. He was the 
first to jump on shore; and had he 
dared, he would, like Lucius Brutus, 
have "kissed his mother earth." It was 
dark, but at eleven o'clock the moon 
rose in the midst of the ocean, whose 
every wave she silvered, and then, 
"ascending high," played in floods of 
pale light on the rocky hills of this 
second Pelion.

The island was familiar to the crew of 
The Young Amelia, -- it was one of her 
regular haunts. As to Dantes, he had 
passed it on his voyage to and from the 
Levant, but never touched at it. He 
questioned Jacopo. "Where shall we pass 
the night?" he inquired.

"Why, on board the tartan," replied the 
sailor.

"Should we not do better in the 
grottos?"

"What grottos?"

"Why, the grottos -- caves of the 
island."

"I do not know of any grottos," replied 
Jacopo. The cold sweat sprang forth on 
Dantes' brow.

"What, are there no grottos at Monte 
Cristo?" he asked.

"None."

For a moment Dantes was speechless; 
then he remembered that these caves 
might have been filled up by some 
accident, or even stopped up, for the 
sake of greater security, by Cardinal 
Spada. The point was, then, to discover 
the hidden entrance. It was useless to 
search at night, and Dantes therefore 
delayed all investigation until the 
morning. Besides, a signal made half a 
league out at sea, and to which The 
Young Amelia replied by a similar 
signal, indicated that the moment for 
business had come. The boat that now 
arrived, assured by the answering 
signal that all was well, soon came in 
sight, white and silent as a phantom, 
and cast anchor within a cable's length 
of shore.

Then the landing began. Dantes 
reflected, as he worked, on the shout 
of joy which, with a single word, he 
could evoke from all these men, if he 
gave utterance to the one unchanging 
thought that pervaded his heart; but, 
far from disclosing this precious 
secret, he almost feared that he had 
already said too much, and by his 
restlessness and continual questions, 
his minute observations and evident 
pre-occupation, aroused suspicions. 
Fortunately, as regarded this 
circumstance at least, his painful past 
gave to his countenance an indelible 
sadness, and the glimmerings of gayety 
seen beneath this cloud were indeed but 
transitory.

No one had the slightest suspicion; and 
when next day, taking a fowling-piece, 
powder, and shot, Dantes declared his 
intention to go and kill some of the 
wild goats that were seen springing 
from rock to rock, his wish was 
construed into a love of sport, or a 
desire for solitude. However, Jacopo 
insisted on following him, and Dantes 
did not oppose this, fearing if he did 
so that he might incur distrust. 
Scarcely, however, had they gone a 
quarter of a league when, having killed 
a kid, he begged Jacopo to take it to 
his comrades, and request them to cook 
it, and when ready to let him know by 
firing a gun. This and some dried 
fruits and a flask of Monte Pulciano, 
was the bill of fare. Dantes went on, 
looking from time to time behind and 
around about him. Having reached the 
summit of a rock, he saw, a thousand 
feet beneath him, his companions, whom 
Jacopo had rejoined, and who were all 
busy preparing the repast which 
Edmond's skill as a marksman had 
augmented with a capital dish.

Edmond looked at them for a moment with 
the sad and gentle smile of a man 
superior to his fellows. "In two hours' 
time," said he, "these persons will 
depart richer by fifty piastres each, 
to go and risk their lives again by 
endeavoring to gain fifty more; then 
they will return with a fortune of six 
hundred francs, and waste this treasure 
in some city with the pride of sultans 
and the insolence of nabobs. At this 
moment hope makes me despise their 
riches, which seem to me contemptible. 
Yet perchance to-morrow deception will 
so act on me, that I shall, on 
compulsion, consider such a 
contemptible possession as the utmost 
happiness. Oh, no!" exclaimed Edmond, 
"that will not be. The wise, unerring 
Faria could not be mistaken in this one 
thing. Besides, it were better to die 
than to continue to lead this low and 
wretched life." Thus Dantes, who but 
three months before had no desire but 
liberty had now not liberty enough, and 
panted for wealth. The cause was not in 
Dantes, but in providence, who, while 
limiting the power of man, has filled 
him with boundless desires.

Meanwhile, by a cleft between two walls 
of rock, following a path worn by a 
torrent, and which, in all human 
probability, human foot had never 
before trod, Dantes approached the spot 
where he supposed the grottos must have 
existed. Keeping along the shore, and 
examining the smallest object with 
serious attention, he thought he could 
trace, on certain rocks, marks made by 
the hand of man.

Time, which encrusts all physical 
substances with its mossy mantle, as it 
invests all things of the mind with 
forgetfulness, seemed to have respected 
these signs, which apparently had been 
made with some degree of regularity, 
and probably with a definite purpose. 
Occasionally the marks were hidden 
under tufts of myrtle, which spread 
into large bushes laden with blossoms, 
or beneath parasitical lichen. So 
Edmond had to separate the branches or 
brush away the moss to know where the 
guide-marks were. The sight of marks 
renewed Edmond fondest hopes. Might it 
not have been the cardinal himself who 
had first traced them, in order that 
they might serve as a guide for his 
nephew in the event of a catastrophe, 
which he could not foresee would have 
been so complete. This solitary place 
was precisely suited to the 
requirements of a man desirous of 
burying treasure. Only, might not these 
betraying marks have attracted other 
eyes than those for whom they were 
made? and had the dark and wondrous 
island indeed faithfully guarded its 
precious secret?

It seemed, however, to Edmond, who was 
hidden from his comrades by the 
inequalities of the ground, that at 
sixty paces from the harbor the marks 
ceased; nor did they terminate at any 
grotto. A large round rock, placed 
solidly on its base, was the only spot 
to which they seemed to lead. Edmond 
concluded that perhaps instead of 
having reached the end of the route he 
had only explored its beginning, and he 
therefore turned round and retraced his 
steps.

Meanwhile his comrades had prepared the 
repast, had got some water from a 
spring, spread out the fruit and bread, 
and cooked the kid. Just at the moment 
when they were taking the dainty animal 
from the spit, they saw Edmond 
springing with the boldness of a 
chamois from rock to rock, and they 
fired the signal agreed upon. The 
sportsman instantly changed his 
direction, and ran quickly towards 
them. But even while they watched his 
daring progress, Edmond's foot slipped, 
and they saw him stagger on the edge of 
a rock and disappear. They all rushed 
towards him, for all loved Edmond in 
spite of his superiority; yet Jacopo 
reached him first.

He found Edmond lying prone, bleeding, 
and almost senseless. He had rolled 
down a declivity of twelve or fifteen 
feet. They poured a little rum down his 
throat, and this remedy which had 
before been so beneficial to him, 
produced the same effect as formerly. 
Edmond opened his eyes, complained of 
great pain in his knee, a feeling of 
heaviness in his head, and severe pains 
in his loins. They wished to carry him 
to the shore; but when they touched 
him, although under Jacopo's 
directions, he declared, with heavy 
groans, that he could not bear to be 
moved.

It may be supposed that Dantes did not 
now think of his dinner, but he 
insisted that his comrades, who had not 
his reasons for fasting, should have 
their meal. As for himself, he declared 
that he had only need of a little rest, 
and that when they returned he should 
be easier. The sailors did not require 
much urging. They were hungry, and the 
smell of the roasted kid was very 
savory, and your tars are not very 
ceremonious. An hour afterwards they 
returned. All that Edmond had been able 
to do was to drag himself about a dozen 
paces forward to lean against a 
moss-grown rock.

But, instead of growing easier, Dantes' 
pains appeared to increase in violence. 
The old patron, who was obliged to sail 
in the morning in order to land his 
cargo on the frontiers of Piedmont and 
France, between Nice and Frejus, urged 
Dantes to try and rise. Edmond made 
great exertions in order to comply; but 
at each effort he fell back, moaning 
and turning pale.

"He has broken his ribs," said the 
commander, in a low voice. "No matter; 
he is an excellent fellow, and we must 
not leave him. We will try and carry 
him on board the tartan." Dantes 
declared, however, that he would rather 
die where he was than undergo the agony 
which the slightest movement cost him. 
"Well," said the patron, "let what may 
happen, it shall never be said that we 
deserted a good comrade like you. We 
will not go till evening." This very 
much astonished the sailors, although, 
not one opposed it. The patron was so 
strict that this was the first time 
they had ever seen him give up an 
enterprise, or even delay in its 
execution. Dantes would not allow that 
any such infraction of regular and 
proper rules should be made in his 
favor. "No, no," he said to the patron, 
"I was awkward, and it is just that I 
pay the penalty of my clumsiness. Leave 
me a small supply of biscuit, a gun, 
powder, and balls, to kill the kids or 
defend myself at need, and a pickaxe, 
that I may build a shelter if you delay 
in coming back for me."

"But you'll die of hunger," said the 
patron.

"I would rather do so," was Edmond 
reply, "than suffer the inexpressible 
agonies which the slightest movement 
causes me." The patron turned towards 
his vessel, which was rolling on the 
swell in the little harbor, and, with 
sails partly set, would be ready for 
sea when her toilet should be completed.

"What are we to do, Maltese?" asked the 
captain. "We cannot leave you here so, 
and yet we cannot stay."

"Go, go!" exclaimed Dantes.

"We shall be absent at least a week," 
said the patron, "and then we must run 
out of our course to come here and take 
you up again."

"Why," said Dantes, "if in two or three 
days you hail any fishing-boat, desire 
them to come here to me. I will pay 
twenty-five piastres for my passage 
back to Leghorn. If you do not come 
across one, return for me." The patron 
shook his head.

"Listen, Captain Baldi; there's one way 
of settling this," said Jacopo. "Do you 
go, and I will stay and take care of 
the wounded man."

"And give up your share of the 
venture," said Edmond, "to remain with 
me?"

"Yes," said Jacopo, "and without any 
hesitation."

"You are a good fellow and a 
kind-hearted messmate," replied Edmond, 
"and heaven will recompense you for 
your generous intentions; but I do not 
wish any one to stay with me. A day or 
two of rest will set me up, and I hope 
I shall find among the rocks certain 
herbs most excellent for bruises."

A peculiar smile passed over Dantes' 
lips; he squeezed Jacopo's hand warmly, 
but nothing could shake his 
determination to remain -- and remain 
alone. The smugglers left with Edmond 
what he had requested and set sail, but 
not without turning about several 
times, and each time making signs of a 
cordial farewell, to which Edmond 
replied with his hand only, as if he 
could not move the rest of his body. 
Then, when they had disappeared, he 
said with a smile, -- "'Tis strange 
that it should be among such men that 
we find proofs of friendship and 
devotion." Then he dragged himself 
cautiously to the top of a rock, from 
which he had a full view of the sea, 
and thence he saw the tartan complete 
her preparations for sailing, weigh 
anchor, and, balancing herself as 
gracefully as a water-fowl ere it takes 
to the wing, set sail. At the end of an 
hour she was completely out of sight; 
at least, it was impossible for the 
wounded man to see her any longer from 
the spot where he was. Then Dantes rose 
more agile and light than the kid among 
the myrtles and shrubs of these wild 
rocks, took his gun in one hand, his 
pickaxe in the other, and hastened 
towards the rock on which the marks he 
had noted terminated. "And now," he 
exclaimed, remembering the tale of the 
Arabian fisherman, which Faria had 
related to him, "now, open sesame!" 

 Chapter 24 The Secret Cave.

The sun had nearly reached the 
meridian, and his scorching rays fell 
full on the rocks, which seemed 
themselves sensible of the heat. 
Thousands of grasshoppers, hidden in 
the bushes, chirped with a monotonous 
and dull note; the leaves of the myrtle 
and olive trees waved and rustled in 
the wind. At every step that Edmond 
took he disturbed the lizards 
glittering with the hues of the 
emerald; afar off he saw the wild goats 
bounding from crag to crag. In a word, 
the island was inhabited, yet Edmond 
felt himself alone, guided by the hand 
of God. He felt an indescribable 
sensation somewhat akin to dread -- 
that dread of the daylight which even 
in the desert makes us fear we are 
watched and observed. This feeling was 
so strong that at the moment when 
Edmond was about to begin his labor, he 
stopped, laid down his pickaxe, seized 
his gun, mounted to the summit of the 
highest rock, and from thence gazed 
round in every direction.

But it was not upon Corsica, the very 
houses of which he could distinguish; 
or on Sardinia; or on the Island of 
Elba, with its historical associations; 
or upon the almost imperceptible line 
that to the experienced eye of a sailor 
alone revealed the coast of Genoa the 
proud, and Leghorn the commercial, that 
he gazed. It was at the brigantine that 
had left in the morning, and the tartan 
that had just set sail, that Edmond 
fixed his eyes. The first was just 
disappearing in the straits of 
Bonifacio; the other, following an 
opposite direction, was about to round 
the Island of Corsica. This sight 
reassured him. He then looked at the 
objects near him. He saw that he was on 
the highest point of the island, -- a 
statue on this vast pedestal of 
granite, nothing human appearing in 
sight, while the blue ocean beat 
against the base of the island, and 
covered it with a fringe of foam. Then 
he descended with cautious and slow 
step, for he dreaded lest an accident 
similar to that he had so adroitly 
feigned should happen in reality.

Dantes, as we have said, had traced the 
marks along the rocks, and he had 
noticed that they led to a small creek. 
which was hidden like the bath of some 
ancient nymph. This creek was 
sufficiently wide at its mouth, and 
deep in the centre, to admit of the 
entrance of a small vessel of the 
lugger class, which would be perfectly 
concealed from observation.

Then following the clew that, in the 
hands of the Abbe Faria, had been so 
skilfully used to guide him through the 
Daedalian labyrinth of probabilities, 
he thought that the Cardinal Spada, 
anxious not to be watched, had entered 
the creek, concealed his little barque, 
followed the line marked by the notches 
in the rock, and at the end of it had 
buried his treasure. It was this idea 
that had brought Dantes back to the 
circular rock. One thing only perplexed 
Edmond, and destroyed his theory. How 
could this rock, which weighed several 
tons, have been lifted to this spot, 
without the aid of many men? Suddenly 
an idea flashed across his mind. 
Instead of raising it, thought he, they 
have lowered it. And he sprang from the 
rock in order to inspect the base on 
which it had formerly stood. He soon 
perceived that a slope had been formed, 
and the rock had slid along this until 
it stopped at the spot it now occupied. 
A large stone had served as a wedge; 
flints and pebbles had been inserted 
around it, so as to conceal the 
orifice; this species of masonry had 
been covered with earth, and grass and 
weeds had grown there, moss had clung 
to the stones, myrtle-bushes had taken 
root, and the old rock seemed fixed to 
the earth.

Dantes dug away the earth carefully, 
and detected, or fancied he detected, 
the ingenious artifice. He attacked 
this wall, cemented by the hand of 
time, with his pickaxe. After ten 
minutes' labor the wall gave way, and a 
hole large enough to insert the arm was 
opened. Dantes went and cut the 
strongest olive-tree he could find, 
stripped off its branches, inserted it 
in the hole, and used it as a lever. 
But the rock was too heavy, and too 
firmly wedged, to be moved by any one 
man, were he Hercules himself. Dantes 
saw that he must attack the wedge. But 
how? He cast his eyes around, and saw 
the horn full of powder which his 
friend Jacopo had left him. He smiled; 
the infernal invention would serve him 
for this purpose. With the aid of his 
pickaxe, Dantes, after the manner of a 
labor-saving pioneer, dug a mine 
between the upper rock and the one that 
supported it, filled it with powder, 
then made a match by rolling his 
handkerchief in saltpetre. He lighted 
it and retired. The explosion soon 
followed; the upper rock was lifted 
from its base by the terrific force of 
the powder; the lower one flew into 
pieces; thousands of insects escaped 
from the aperture Dantes had previously 
formed, and a huge snake, like the 
guardian demon of the treasure, rolled 
himself along in darkening coils, and 
disappeared.

Dantes approached the upper rock, which 
now, without any support, leaned 
towards the sea. The intrepid 
treasure-seeker walked round it, and, 
selecting the spot from whence it 
appeared most susceptible to attack, 
placed his lever in one of the 
crevices, and strained every nerve to 
move the mass. The rock, already shaken 
by the explosion, tottered on its base. 
Dantes redoubled his efforts; he seemed 
like one of the ancient Titans, who 
uprooted the mountains to hurl against 
the father of the gods. The rock 
yielded, rolled over, bounded from 
point to point, and finally disappeared 
in the ocean.

On the spot it had occupied was a 
circular space, exposing an iron ring 
let into a square flag-stone. Dantes 
uttered a cry of joy and surprise; 
never had a first attempt been crowned 
with more perfect success. He would 
fain have continued, but his knees 
trembled, and his heart beat so 
violently, and his sight became so dim, 
that he was forced to pause. This 
feeling lasted but for a moment. Edmond 
inserted his lever in the ring and 
exerted all his strength; the 
flag-stone yielded, and disclosed steps 
that descended until they were lost in 
the obscurity of a subterraneous 
grotto. Any one else would have rushed 
on with a cry of joy. Dantes turned 
pale, hesitated, and reflected. "Come," 
said he to himself, "be a man. I am 
accustomed to adversity. I must not be 
cast down by the discovery that I have 
been deceived. What, then, would be the 
use of all I have suffered? The heart 
breaks when, after having been elated 
by flattering hopes, it sees all its 
illusions destroyed. Faria has dreamed 
this; the Cardinal Spada buried no 
treasure here; perhaps he never came 
here, or if he did, Caesar Borgia, the 
intrepid adventurer, the stealthy and 
indefatigable plunderer, has followed 
him, discovered his traces, pursued 
them as I have done, raised the stone, 
and descending before me, has left me 
nothing." He remained motionless and 
pensive, his eyes fixed on the gloomy 
aperture that was open at his feet.

"Now that I expect nothing, now that I 
no longer entertain the slightest 
hopes, the end of this adventure 
becomes simply a matter of curiosity." 
And he remained again motionless and 
thoughtful.

"Yes, yes; this is an adventure worthy 
a place in the varied career of that 
royal bandit. This fabulous event 
formed but a link in a long chain of 
marvels. Yes, Borgia has been here, a 
torch in one band, a sword in the 
other, and within twenty paces, at the 
foot of this rock, perhaps two guards 
kept watch on land and sea, while their 
master descended, as I am about to 
descend, dispelling the darkness before 
his awe-inspiring progress."

"But what was the fate of the guards 
who thus possessed his secret?" asked 
Dantes of himself.

"The fate," replied he, smiling, "of 
those who buried Alaric."

"Yet, had he come," thought Dantes, "he 
would have found the treasure, and 
Borgia, he who compared Italy to an 
artichoke, which he could devour leaf 
by leaf, knew too well the value of 
time to waste it in replacing this 
rock. I will go down."

Then he descended, a smile on his lips, 
and murmuring that last word of human 
philosophy, "Perhaps!" But instead of 
the darkness, and the thick and 
mephitic atmosphere he had expected to 
find, Dantes saw a dim and bluish 
light, which, as well as the air, 
entered, not merely by the aperture he 
had just formed, but by the interstices 
and crevices of the rock which were 
visible from without, and through which 
he could distinguish the blue sky and 
the waving branches of the evergreen 
oaks, and the tendrils of the creepers 
that grew from the rocks. After having 
stood a few minutes in the cavern, the 
atmosphere of which was rather warm 
than damp, Dantes' eye, habituated as 
it was to darkness, could pierce even 
to the remotest angles of the cavern, 
which was of granite that sparkled like 
diamonds. "Alas," said Edmond, smiling, 
"these are the treasures the cardinal 
has left; and the good abbe, seeing in 
a dream these glittering walls, has 
indulged in fallacious hopes."

But he called to mind the words of the 
will, which he knew by heart. "In the 
farthest angle of the second opening," 
said the cardinal's will. He had only 
found the first grotto; he had now to 
seek the second. Dantes continued his 
search. He reflected that this second 
grotto must penetrate deeper into the 
island; he examined the stones, and 
sounded one part of the wall where he 
fancied the opening existed, masked for 
precaution's sake. The pickaxe struck 
for a moment with a dull sound that 
drew out of Dantes' forehead large 
drops of perspiration. At last it 
seemed to him that one part of the wall 
gave forth a more hollow and deeper 
echo; he eagerly advanced, and with the 
quickness of perception that no one but 
a prisoner possesses, saw that there, 
in all probability, the opening must be.

However, he, like Caesar Borgia, knew 
the value of time; and, in order to 
avoid fruitless toil, he sounded all 
the other walls with his pickaxe, 
struck the earth with the butt of his 
gun, and finding nothing that appeared 
suspicious, returned to that part of 
the wall whence issued the consoling 
sound he had before heard. He again 
struck it, and with greater force. Then 
a singular thing occurred. As he struck 
the wall, pieces of stucco similar to 
that used in the ground work of 
arabesques broke off, and fell to the 
ground in flakes, exposing a large 
white stone. The aperture of the rock 
had been closed with stones, then this 
stucco had been applied, and painted to 
imitate granite. Dantes struck with the 
sharp end of his pickaxe, which entered 
someway between the interstices. It was 
there he must dig. But by some strange 
play of emotion, in proportion as the 
proofs that Faria, had not been 
deceived became stronger, so did his 
heart give way, and a feeling of 
discouragement stole over him. This 
last proof, instead of giving him fresh 
strength, deprived him of it; the 
pickaxe descended, or rather fell; he 
placed it on the ground, passed his 
hand over his brow, and remounted the 
stairs, alleging to himself, as an 
excuse, a desire to be assured that no 
one was watching him, but in reality 
because he felt that he was about to 
faint. The island was deserted, and the 
sun seemed to cover it with its fiery 
glance; afar off, a few small fishing 
boats studded the bosom of the blue 
ocean.

Dantes had tasted nothing, but he 
thought not of hunger at such a moment; 
he hastily swallowed a few drops of 
rum, and again entered the cavern. The 
pickaxe that had seemed so heavy, was 
now like a feather in his grasp; he 
seized it, and attacked the wall. After 
several blows he perceived that the 
stones were not cemented, but had been 
merely placed one upon the other, and 
covered with stucco; he inserted the 
point of his pickaxe, and using the 
handle as a lever, with joy soon saw 
the stone turn as if on hinges, and 
fall at his feet. He had nothing more 
to do now, but with the iron tooth of 
the pickaxe to draw the stones towards 
him one by one. The aperture was 
already sufficiently large for him to 
enter, but by waiting, he could still 
cling to hope, and retard the certainty 
of deception. At last, after renewed 
hesitation, Dantes entered the second 
grotto. The second grotto was lower and 
more gloomy than the first; the air 
that could only enter by the newly 
formed opening had the mephitic smell 
Dantes was surprised not to find in the 
outer cavern. He waited in order to 
allow pure air to displace the foul 
atmosphere, and then went on. At the 
left of the opening was a dark and deep 
angle. But to Dantes' eye there was no 
darkness. He glanced around this second 
grotto; it was, like the first, empty.

The treasure, if it existed, was buried 
in this corner. The time had at length 
arrived; two feet of earth removed, and 
Dantes' fate would be decided. He 
advanced towards the angle, and 
summoning all his resolution, attacked 
the ground with the pickaxe. At the 
fifth or sixth blow the pickaxe struck 
against an iron substance. Never did 
funeral knell, never did alarm-bell, 
produce a greater effect on the hearer. 
Had Dantes found nothing he could not 
have become more ghastly pale. He again 
struck his pickaxe into the earth, and 
encountered the same resistance, but 
not the same sound. "It is a casket of 
wood bound with iron," thought he. At 
this moment a shadow passed rapidly 
before the opening; Dantes seized his 
gun, sprang through the opening, and 
mounted the stair. A wild goat had 
passed before the mouth of the cave, 
and was feeding at a little distance. 
This would have been a favorable 
occasion to secure his dinner; but 
Dantes feared lest the report of his 
gun should attract attention.

He thought a moment, cut a branch of a 
resinous tree, lighted it at the fire 
at which the smugglers had prepared 
their breakfast, and descended with 
this torch. He wished to see 
everything. He approached the hole he 
had dug. and now, with the aid of the 
torch, saw that his pickaxe had in 
reality struck against iron and wood. 
He planted his torch in the ground and 
resumed his labor. In an instant a 
space three feet long by two feet broad 
was cleared, and Dantes could see an 
oaken coffer, bound with cut steel; in 
the middle of the lid he saw engraved 
on a silver plate, which was still 
untarnished, the arms of the Spada 
family -- viz., a sword, pale, on an 
oval shield, like all the Italian 
armorial bearings, and surmounted by a 
cardinal's hat; Dantes easily 
recognized them, Faria had so often 
drawn them for him. There was no longer 
any doubt: the treasure was there -- no 
one would have been at such pains to 
conceal an empty casket. In an instant 
he had cleared every obstacle away, and 
he saw successively the lock, placed 
between two padlocks, and the two 
handles at each end, all carved as 
things were carved at that epoch, when 
art rendered the commonest metals 
precious. Dantes seized the handles, 
and strove to lift the coffer; it was 
impossible. He sought to open it; lock 
and padlock were fastened; these 
faithful guardians seemed unwilling to 
surrender their trust. Dantes inserted 
the sharp end of the pickaxe between 
the coffer and the lid, and pressing 
with all his force on the handle, burst 
open the fastenings. The hinges yielded 
in their turn and fell, still holding 
in their grasp fragments of the wood, 
and the chest was open.

Edmond was seized with vertigo; he 
cocked his gun and laid it beside him. 
He then closed his eyes as children do 
in order that they may see in the 
resplendent night of their own 
imagination more stars than are visible 
in the firmament; then he re-opened 
them, and stood motionless with 
amazement. Three compartments divided 
the coffer. In the first, blazed piles 
of golden coin; in the second, were 
ranged bars of unpolished gold, which 
possessed nothing attractive save their 
value; in the third, Edmond grasped 
handfuls of diamonds, pearls, and 
rubies, which, as they fell on one 
another, sounded like hail against 
glass. After having touched, felt, 
examined these treasures, Edmond rushed 
through the caverns like a man seized 
with frenzy; he leaped on a rock, from 
whence he could behold the sea. He was 
alone -- alone with these countless, 
these unheard-of treasures! was he 
awake, or was it but a dream?

He would fain have gazed upon his gold, 
and yet he had not strength enough; for 
an instant he leaned his head in his 
hands as if to prevent his senses from 
leaving him, and then rushed madly 
about the rocks of Monte Cristo, 
terrifying the wild goats and scaring 
the sea-fowls with his wild cries and 
gestures; then he returned, and, still 
unable to believe the evidence of his 
senses, rushed into the grotto, and 
found himself before this mine of gold 
and jewels. This time he fell on his 
knees, and, clasping his hands 
convulsively, uttered a prayer 
intelligible to God alone. He soon 
became calmer and more happy, for only 
now did he begin to realize his 
felicity. He then set himself to work 
to count his fortune. There were a 
thousand ingots of gold, each weighing 
from two to three pounds; then he piled 
up twenty-five thousand crowns, each 
worth about eighty francs of our money, 
and bearing the effigies of Alexander 
VI. and his predecessors; and he saw 
that the complement was not half empty. 
And he measured ten double handfuls of 
pearls, diamonds, and other gems, many 
of which, mounted by the most famous 
workmen, were valuable beyond their 
intrinsic worth. Dantes saw the light 
gradually disappear, and fearing to be 
surprised in the cavern, left it, his 
gun in his hand. A piece of biscuit and 
a small quantity of rum formed his 
supper, and he snatched a few hours' 
sleep, lying over the mouth of the cave.

It was a night of joy and terror, such 
as this man of stupendous emotions had 
already experienced twice or thrice in 
his lifetime. 

 Chapter 25 The Unknown.

Day, for which Dantes had so eagerly 
and impatiently waited with open eyes, 
again dawned. With the first light 
Dantes resumed his search. Again he 
climbed the rocky height he had 
ascended the previous evening, and 
strained his view to catch every 
peculiarity of the landscape; but it 
wore the same wild, barren aspect when 
seen by the rays of the morning sun 
which it had done when surveyed by the 
fading glimmer of eve. Descending into 
the grotto, he lifted the stone, filled 
his pockets with gems, put the box 
together as well and securely as he 
could, sprinkled fresh sand over the 
spot from which it had been taken, and 
then carefully trod down the earth to 
give it everywhere a uniform 
appearance; then, quitting the grotto, 
he replaced the stone, heaping on it 
broken masses of rocks and rough 
fragments of crumbling granite, filling 
the interstices with earth, into which 
he deftly inserted rapidly growing 
plants, such as the wild myrtle and 
flowering thorn, then carefully 
watering these new plantations, he 
scrupulously effaced every trace of 
footsteps, leaving the approach to the 
cavern as savage-looking and untrodden 
as he had found it. This done, he 
impatiently awaited the return of his 
companions. To wait at Monte Cristo for 
the purpose of watching like a dragon 
over the almost incalculable richs that 
had thus fallen into his possession 
satisfied not the cravings of his 
heart, which yearned to return to dwell 
among mankind, and to assume the rank, 
power, and influence which are always 
accorded to wealth -- that first and 
greatest of all the forces within the 
grasp of man.

On the sixth day, the smugglers 
returned. From a distance Dantes 
recognized the rig and handling of The 
Young Amelia, and dragging himself with 
affected difficulty towards the 
landing-place, he met his companions 
with an assurance that, although 
considerably better than when they 
quitted him, he still suffered acutely 
from his late accident. He then 
inquired how they had fared in their 
trip. To this question the smugglers 
replied that, although successful in 
landing their cargo in safety, they had 
scarcely done so when they received 
intelligence that a guard-ship had just 
quitted the port of Toulon and was 
crowding all sail towards them. This 
obliged them to make all the speed they 
could to evade the enemy, when they 
could but lament the absence of Dantes, 
whose superior skill in the management 
of a vessel would have availed them so 
materially. In fact, the pursuing 
vessel had almost overtaken them when, 
fortunately, night came on, and enabled 
them to double the Cape of Corsica, and 
so elude all further pursuit. Upon the 
whole, however, the trip had been 
sufficiently successful to satisfy all 
concerned; while the crew, and 
particularly Jacopo, expressed great 
regrets that Dantes had not been an 
equal sharer with themselves in the 
profits, which amounted to no less a 
sum than fifty piastres each.

Edmond preserved the most admirable 
self-command, not suffering the 
faintest indication of a smile to 
escape him at the enumeration of all 
the benefits he would have reaped had 
he been able to quit the island; but as 
The Young Amelia had merely come to 
Monte Cristo to fetch him away, he 
embarked that same evening, and 
proceeded with the captain to Leghorn. 
Arrived at Leghorn, he repaired to the 
house of a Jew, a dealer in precious 
stones, to whom he disposed of four of 
his smallest diamonds for five thousand 
francs each. Dantes half feared that 
such valuable jewels in the hands of a 
poor sailor like himself might excite 
suspicion; but the cunning purchaser 
asked no troublesome questions 
concerning a bargain by which he gained 
a round profit of at least eighty per 
cent.

The following day Dantes presented 
Jacopo with an entirely new vessel, 
accompanying the gift by a donation of 
one hundred piastres, that he might 
provide himself with a suitable crew 
and other requisites for his outfit, 
upon condition that he would go at once 
to Marseilles for the purpose of 
inquiring after an old man named Louis 
Dantes, residing in the Allees de 
Meillan, and also a young woman called 
Mercedes, an inhabitant of the Catalan 
village. Jacopo could scarcely believe 
his senses at receiving this 
magnificent present, which Dantes 
hastened to account for by saying that 
he had merely been a sailor from whim 
and a desire to spite his family, who 
did not allow him as much money as he 
liked to spend; but that on his arrival 
at Leghorn he had come into possession 
of a large fortune, left him by an 
uncle, whose sole heir he was. The 
superior education of Dantes gave an 
air of such extreme probability to this 
statement that it never once occurred 
to Jacopo to doubt its accuracy. The 
term for which Edmond had engaged to 
serve on board The Young Amelia having 
expired, Dantes took leave of the 
captain, who at first tried all his 
powers of persuasion to induce him to 
remain as one of the crew, but having 
been told the history of the legacy, he 
ceased to importune him further. The 
following morning Jacopo set sail for 
Marseilles, with directions from Dantes 
to join him at the Island of Monte 
Cristo.

Having seen Jacopo fairly out of the 
harbor, Dantes proceeded to make his 
final adieus on board The Young Amelia, 
distributing so liberal a gratuity 
among her crew as to secure for him the 
good wishes of all, and expressions of 
cordial interest in all that concerned 
him. To the captain he promised to 
write when he had made up his mind as 
to his future plans. Then Dantes 
departed for Genoa. At the moment of 
his arrival a small yacht was under 
trial in the bay; this yacht had been 
built by order of an Englishman, who, 
having heard that the Genoese excelled 
all other builders along the shores of 
the Mediterranean in the construction 
of fast-sailing vessels, was desirous 
of possessing a specimen of their 
skill; the price agreed upon between 
the Englishman and the Genoese builder 
was forty thousand francs. Dantes, 
struck with the beauty and capability 
of the little vessel, applied to its 
owner to transfer it to him, offering 
sixty thousand francs, upon condition 
that he should be allowed to take 
immediate possession. The proposal was 
too advantageous to be refused, the 
more so as the person for whom the 
yacht was intended had gone upon a tour 
through Switzerland, and was not 
expected back in less than three weeks 
or a month, by which time the builder 
reckoned upon being able to complete 
another. A bargain was therefore 
struck. Dantes led the owner of the 
yacht to the dwelling of a Jew; retired 
with the latter for a few minutes to a 
small back parlor, and upon their 
return the Jew counted out to the 
shipbuilder the sum of sixty thousand 
francs in bright gold pieces.

The delighted builder then offered his 
services in providing a suitable crew 
for the little vessel, but this Dantes 
declined with many thanks, saying he 
was accustomed to cruise about quite 
alone, and his principal pleasure 
consisted in managing his yacht 
himself; the only thing the builder 
could oblige him in would be to 
contrive a sort of secret closet in the 
cabin at his bed's head, the closet to 
contain three divisions, so constructed 
as to be concealed from all but 
himself. The builder cheerfully 
undertook the commission, and promised 
to have these secret places completed 
by the next day, Dantes furnishing the 
dimensions and plan in accordance with 
which they were to be constructed.

The following day Dantes sailed with 
his yacht from Genoa, under the 
inspection of an immense crowd drawn 
together by curiosity to see the rich 
Spanish nobleman who preferred managing 
his own yacht. But their wonder was 
soon changed to admiration at seeing 
the perfect skill with which Dantes 
handled the helm. The boat, indeed, 
seemed to be animated with almost human 
intelligence, so promptly did it obey 
the slightest touch; and Dantes 
required but a short trial of his 
beautiful craft to acknowledge that the 
Genoese had not without reason attained 
their high reputation in the art of 
shipbuilding. The spectators followed 
the little vessel with their eyes as 
long as it remained visible; they then 
turned their conjectures upon her 
probable destination. Some insisted she 
was making for Corsica, others the 
Island of Elba; bets were offered to 
any amount that she was bound for 
Spain; while Africa was positively 
reported by many persons as her 
intended course; but no one thought of 
Monte Cristo. Yet thither it was that 
Dantes guided his vessel, and at Monte 
Cristo he arrived at the close of the 
second day; his boat had proved herself 
a first-class sailer, and had come the 
distance from Genoa in thirty-five 
hours. Dantes had carefully noted the 
general appearance of the shore, and, 
instead of landing at the usual place, 
he dropped anchor in the little creek. 
The island was utterly deserted, and 
bore no evidence of having been visited 
since he went away; his treasure was 
just as he had left it. Early on the 
following morning he commenced the 
removal of his riches, and ere 
nightfall the whole of his immense 
wealth was safely deposited in the 
compartments of the secret locker.

A week passed by. Dantes employed it in 
manoeuvring his yacht round the island, 
studying it as a skilful horseman would 
the animal he destined for some 
important service, till at the end of 
that time he was perfectly conversant 
with its good and bad qualities. The 
former Dantes proposed to augment, the 
latter to remedy.

Upon the eighth day he discerned a 
small vessel under full sail 
approaching Monte Cristo. As it drew 
near, he recognized it as the boat he 
had given to Jacopo. He immediately 
signalled it. His signal was returned, 
and in two hours afterwards the 
newcomer lay at anchor beside the 
yacht. A mournful answer awaited each 
of Edmond's eager inquiries as to the 
information Jacopo had obtained. Old 
Dantes was dead, and Mercedes had 
disappeared. Dantes listened to these 
melancholy tidings with outward 
calmness; but, leaping lightly ashore, 
he signified his desire to be quite 
alone. In a couple of hours he 
returned. Two of the men from Jacopo's 
boat came on board the yacht to assist 
in navigating it, and he gave orders 
that she should be steered direct to 
Marseilles. For his father's death he 
was in some manner prepared; but he 
knew not how to account for the 
mysterious disappearance of Mercedes.

Without divulging his secret, Dantes 
could not give sufficiently clear 
instructions to an agent. There were, 
besides, other particulars he was 
desirous of ascertaining, and those 
were of a nature he alone could 
investigate in a manner satisfactory to 
himself. His looking-glass had assured 
him, during his stay at Leghorn, that 
he ran no risk of recognition; 
moreover, he had now the means of 
adopting any disguise he thought 
proper. One fine morning, then, his 
yacht, followed by the little 
fishing-boat, boldly entered the port 
of Marseilles, and anchored exactly 
opposite the spot from whence, on the 
never-to-be-forgotten night of his 
departure for the Chateau d'If, he had 
been put on board the boat destined to 
convey him thither. Still Dantes could 
not view without a shudder the approach 
of a gendarme who accompanied the 
officers deputed to demand his bill of 
health ere the yacht was permitted to 
hold communication with the shore; but 
with that perfect self-possession he 
had acquired during his acquaintance 
with Faria, Dantes coolly presented an 
English passport he had obtained from 
Leghorn, and as this gave him a 
standing which a French passport would 
not have afforded, he was informed that 
there existed no obstacle to his 
immediate debarkation.

The first person to attract the 
attention of Dantes, as he landed on 
the Canebiere, was one of the crew 
belonging to the Pharaon. Edmond 
welcomed the meeting with this fellow 
-- who had been one of his own sailors 
-- as a sure means of testing the 
extent of the change which time had 
worked in his own appearance. Going 
straight towards him, he propounded a 
variety of questions on different 
subjects, carefully watching the man's 
countenance as he did so; but not a 
word or look implied that he had the 
slightest idea of ever having seen 
before the person with whom he was then 
conversing. Giving the sailor a piece 
of money in return for his civility, 
Dantes proceeded onwards; but ere he 
had gone many steps he heard the man 
loudly calling him to stop. Dantes 
instantly turned to meet him. "I beg 
your pardon, sir," said the honest 
fellow, in almost breathless haste, 
"but I believe you made a mistake; you 
intended to give me a two-franc piece, 
and see, you gave me a double Napoleon."

"Thank you, my good friend. I see that 
I have made a trifling mistake, as you 
say; but by way of rewarding your 
honesty I give you another double 
Napoleon, that you may drink to my 
health, and be able to ask your 
messmates to join you."

So extreme was the surprise of the 
sailor, that he was unable even to 
thank Edmond, whose receding figure he 
continued to gaze after in speechless 
astonishment. "Some nabob from India," 
was his comment.

Dantes, meanwhile, went on his way. 
Each step he trod oppressed his heart 
with fresh emotion; his first and most 
indelible recollections were there; not 
a tree, not a street, that he passed 
but seemed filled with dear and 
cherished memories. And thus he 
proceeded onwards till he arrived at 
the end of the Rue de Noailles, from 
whence a full view of the Allees de 
Meillan was obtained. At this spot, so 
pregnant with fond and filial 
remembrances, his heart beat almost to 
bursting, his knees tottered under him, 
a mist floated over his sight, and had 
he not clung for support to one of the 
trees, he would inevitably have fallen 
to the ground and been crushed beneath 
the many vehicles continually passing 
there. Recovering himself, however, he 
wiped the perspiration from his brows, 
and stopped not again till he found 
himself at the door of the house in 
which his father had lived.

The nasturtiums and other plants, which 
his father had delighted to train 
before his window, had all disappeared 
from the upper part of the house. 
Leaning against the tree, he gazed 
thoughtfully for a time at the upper 
stories of the shabby little house. 
Then he advanced to the door, and asked 
whether there were any rooms to be let. 
Though answered in the negative, he 
begged so earnestly to be permitted to 
visit those on the fifth floor, that, 
in despite of the oft-repeated 
assurance of the concierge that they 
were occupied, Dantes succeeded in 
inducing the man to go up to the 
tenants, and ask permission for a 
gentleman to be allowed to look at them.

The tenants of the humble lodging were 
a young couple who had been scarcely 
married a week; and seeing them, Dantes 
sighed heavily. Nothing in the two 
small chambers forming the apartments 
remained as it had been in the time of 
the elder Dantes; the very paper was 
different, while the articles of 
antiquated furniture with which the 
rooms had been filled in Edmond's time 
had all disappeared; the four walls 
alone remained as he had left them. The 
bed belonging to the present occupants 
was placed as the former owner of the 
chamber had been accustomed to have 
his; and, in spite of his efforts to 
prevent it, the eyes of Edmond were 
suffused in tears as he reflected that 
on that spot the old man had breathed 
his last, vainly calling for his son. 
The young couple gazed with 
astonishment at the sight of their 
visitor's emotion, and wondered to see 
the large tears silently chasing each 
other down his otherwise stern and 
immovable features; but they felt the 
sacredness of his grief, and kindly 
refrained from questioning him as to 
its cause, while, with instinctive 
delicacy, they left him to indulge his 
sorrow alone. When he withdrew from the 
scene of his painful recollections, 
they both accompanied him downstairs, 
reiterating their hope that he would 
come again whenever he pleased, and 
assuring him that their poor dwelling 
would ever be open to him. As Edmond 
passed the door on the fourth floor, he 
paused to inquire whether Caderousse 
the tailor still dwelt there; but he 
received, for reply, that the person in 
question had got into difficulties, and 
at the present time kept a small inn on 
the route from Bellegarde to Beaucaire.

Having obtained the address of the 
person to whom the house in the Allees 
de Meillan belonged, Dantes next 
proceeded thither, and, under the name 
of Lord Wilmore (the name and title 
inscribed on his passport), purchased 
the small dwelling for the sum of 
twenty-five thousand francs, at least 
ten thousand more than it was worth; 
but had its owner asked half a million, 
it would unhesitatingly have been 
given. The very same day the occupants 
of the apartments on the fifth floor of 
the house, now become the property of 
Dantes, were duly informed by the 
notary who had arranged the necessary 
transfer of deeds, etc., that the new 
landlord gave them their choice of any 
of the rooms in the house, without the 
least augmentation of rent, upon 
condition of their giving instant 
possession of the two small chambers 
they at present inhabited.

This strange event aroused great wonder 
and curiosity in the neighborhood of 
the Allees de Meillan, and a multitude 
of theories were afloat, none of which 
was anywhere near the truth. But what 
raised public astonishment to a climax, 
and set all conjecture at defiance, was 
the knowledge that the same stranger 
who had in the morning visited the 
Allees de Meillan had been seen in the 
evening walking in the little village 
of the Catalans, and afterwards 
observed to enter a poor fisherman's 
hut, and to pass more than an hour in 
inquiring after persons who had either 
been dead or gone away for more than 
fifteen or sixteen years. But on the 
following day the family from whom all 
these particulars had been asked 
received a handsome present, consisting 
of an entirely new fishing-boat, with 
two seines and a tender. The delighted 
recipients of these munificent gifts 
would gladly have poured out their 
thanks to their generous benefactor, 
but they had seen him, upon quitting 
the hut, merely give some orders to a 
sailor, and then springing lightly on 
horseback, leave Marseilles by the 
Porte d'Aix. 

 Chapter 26 The Pont du Gard Inn.

Such of my readers as have made a 
pedestrian excursion to the south of 
France may perchance have noticed, 
about midway between the town of 
Beaucaire and the village of 
Bellegarde, -- a little nearer to the 
former than to the latter, -- a small 
roadside inn, from the front of which 
hung, creaking and flapping in the 
wind, a sheet of tin covered with a 
grotesque representation of the Pont du 
Gard. This modern place of 
entertainment stood on the left-hand 
side of the post road, and backed upon 
the Rhone. It also boasted of what in 
Languedoc is styled a garden, 
consisting of a small plot of ground, 
on the side opposite to the main 
entrance reserved for the reception of 
guests. A few dingy olives and stunted 
fig-trees struggled hard for existence, 
but their withered dusty foliage 
abundantly proved how unequal was the 
conflict. Between these sickly shrubs 
grew a scanty supply of garlic, 
tomatoes, and eschalots; while, lone 
and solitary, like a forgotten 
sentinel, a tall pine raised its 
melancholy head in one of the corners 
of this unattractive spot, and 
displayed its flexible stem and 
fan-shaped summit dried and cracked by 
the fierce heat of the sub-tropical sun.

In the surrounding plain, which more 
resembled a dusty lake than solid 
ground, were scattered a few miserable 
stalks of wheat, the effect, no doubt, 
of a curious desire on the part of the 
agriculturists of the country to see 
whether such a thing as the raising of 
grain in those parched regions was 
practicable. Each stalk served as a 
perch for a grasshopper, which regaled 
the passers by through this Egyptian 
scene with its strident, monotonous 
note.

For about seven or eight years the 
little tavern had been kept by a man 
and his wife, with two servants, -- a 
chambermaid named Trinette, and a 
hostler called Pecaud. This small staff 
was quite equal to all the 
requirements, for a canal between 
Beaucaire and Aiguemortes had 
revolutionized transportation by 
substituting boats for the cart and the 
stagecoach. And, as though to add to 
the daily misery which this prosperous 
canal inflicted on the unfortunate 
inn-keeper, whose utter ruin it was 
fast accomplishing, it was situated 
between the Rhone from which it had its 
source and the post-road it had 
depleted, not a hundred steps from the 
inn, of which we have given a brief but 
faithful description.

The inn-keeper himself was a man of 
from forty to fifty-five years of age, 
tall, strong, and bony, a perfect 
specimen of the natives of those 
southern latitudes; he had dark, 
sparkling, and deep-set eyes, hooked 
nose, and teeth white as those of a 
carnivorous animal; his hair, like his 
beard, which he wore under his chin, 
was thick and curly, and in spite of 
his age but slightly interspersed with 
a few silvery threads. His naturally 
dark complexion had assumed a still 
further shade of brown from the habit 
the unfortunate man had acquired of 
stationing himself from morning till 
eve at the threshold of his door, on 
the lookout for guests who seldom came, 
yet there he stood, day after day, 
exposed to the meridional rays of a 
burning sun, with no other protection 
for his head than a red handkerchief 
twisted around it, after the manner of 
the Spanish muleteers. This man was our 
old acquaintance, Gaspard Caderousse. 
His wife, on the contrary, whose maiden 
name had been Madeleine Radelle, was 
pale, meagre, and sickly-looking. Born 
in the neighborhood of Arles, she had 
shared in the beauty for which its 
women are proverbial; but that beauty 
had gradually withered beneath the 
devastating influence of the slow fever 
so prevalent among dwellers by the 
ponds of Aiguemortes and the marshes of 
Camargue. She remained nearly always in 
her second-floor chamber, shivering in 
her chair, or stretched languid and 
feeble on her bed, while her husband 
kept his daily watch at the door -- a 
duty he performed with so much the 
greater willingness, as it saved him 
the necessity of listening to the 
endless plaints and murmurs of his 
helpmate, who never saw him without 
breaking out into bitter invectives 
against fate; to all of which her 
husband would calmly return an 
unvarying reply, in these philosophic 
words: --

"Hush, La Carconte. It is God's 
pleasure that things should be so."

The sobriquet of La Carconte had been 
bestowed on Madeleine Radelle from the 
fact that she had been born in a 
village, so called, situated between 
Salon and Lambesc; and as a custom 
existed among the inhabitants of that 
part of France where Caderousse lived 
of styling every person by some 
particular and distinctive appellation, 
her husband had bestowed on her the 
name of La Carconte in place of her 
sweet and euphonious name of Madeleine, 
which, in all probability, his rude 
gutteral language would not have 
enabled him to pronounce. Still, let it 
not be supposed that amid this affected 
resignation to the will of Providence, 
the unfortunate inn-keeper did not 
writhe under the double misery of 
seeing the hateful canal carry off his 
customers and his profits, and the 
daily infliction of his peevish 
partner's murmurs and lamentations.

Like other dwellers in the south, he 
was a man of sober habits and moderate 
desires, but fond of external show, 
vain, and addicted to display. During 
the days of his prosperity, not a 
festivity took place without himself 
and wife being among the spectators. He 
dressed in the picturesque costume worn 
upon grand occasions by the inhabitants 
of the south of France, bearing equal 
resemblance to the style adopted both 
by the Catalans and Andalusians; while 
La Carconte displayed the charming 
fashion prevalent among the women of 
Arles, a mode of attire borrowed 
equally from Greece and Arabia. But, by 
degrees, watch-chains, necklaces, 
parti-colored scarfs, embroidered 
bodices, velvet vests, elegantly worked 
stockings, striped gaiters, and silver 
buckles for the shoes, all disappeared; 
and Gaspard Caderousse, unable to 
appear abroad in his pristine splendor, 
had given up any further participation 
in the pomps and vanities, both for 
himself and wife, although a bitter 
feeling of envious discontent filled 
his mind as the sound of mirth and 
merry music from the joyous revellers 
reached even the miserable hostelry to 
which he still clung, more for the 
shelter than the profit it afforded.

Caderousse, then, was, as usual, at his 
place of observation before the door, 
his eyes glancing listlessly from a 
piece of closely shaven grass -- on 
which some fowls were industriously, 
though fruitlessly, endeavoring to turn 
up some grain or insect suited to their 
palate -- to the deserted road, which 
led away to the north and south, when 
he was aroused by the shrill voice of 
his wife, and grumbling to himself as 
he went, he mounted to her chamber, 
first taking care, however, to set the 
entrance door wide open, as an 
invitation to any chance traveller who 
might be passing.

At the moment Caderousse quitted his 
sentry-like watch before the door, the 
road on which he so eagerly strained 
his sight was void and lonely as a 
desert at mid-day. There it lay 
stretching out into one interminable 
line of dust and sand, with its sides 
bordered by tall, meagre trees, 
altogether presenting so uninviting an 
appearance, that no one in his senses 
could have imagined that any traveller, 
at liberty to regulate his hours for 
journeying, would choose to expose 
himself in such a formidable Sahara. 
Nevertheless, had Caderousse but 
retained his post a few minutes longer, 
he might have caught a dim outline of 
something approaching from the 
direction of Bellegarde; as the moving 
object drew nearer, he would easily 
have perceived that it consisted of a 
man and horse, between whom the kindest 
and most amiable understanding appeared 
to exist. The horse was of Hungarian 
breed, and ambled along at an easy 
pace. His rider was a priest, dressed 
in black, and wearing a three-cornered 
hat; and, spite of the ardent rays of a 
noonday sun, the pair came on with a 
fair degree of rapidity.

Having arrived before the Pont du Gard, 
the horse stopped, but whether for his 
own pleasure or that of his rider would 
have been difficult to say. However 
that might have been, the priest, 
dismounting, led his steed by the 
bridle in search of some place to which 
he could secure him. Availing himself 
of a handle that projected from a 
half-fallen door, he tied the animal 
safely and having drawn a red cotton 
handkerchief, from his pocket, wiped 
away the perspiration that streamed 
from his brow, then, advancing to the 
door, struck thrice with the end of his 
iron-shod stick. At this unusual sound, 
a huge black dog came rushing to meet 
the daring assailant of his ordinarily 
tranquil abode, snarling and displaying 
his sharp white teeth with a determined 
hostility that abundantly proved how 
little he was accustomed to society. At 
that moment a heavy footstep was heard 
descending the wooden staircase that 
led from the upper floor, and, with 
many bows and courteous smiles, mine 
host of the Pont du Gard besought his 
guest to enter.

"You are welcome, sir, most welcome!" 
repeated the astonished Caderousse. 
"Now, then, Margotin," cried he, 
speaking to the dog, "will you be 
quiet? Pray don't heed him, sir! -- he 
only barks, he never bites. I make no 
doubt a glass of good wine would be 
acceptable this dreadfully hot day." 
Then perceiving for the first time the 
garb of the traveller he had to 
entertain, Caderousse hastily 
exclaimed: "A thousand pardons! I 
really did not observe whom I had the 
honor to receive under my poor roof. 
What would the abbe please to have? 
What refreshment can I offer? All I 
have is at his service."

The priest gazed on the person 
addressing him with a long and 
searching gaze -- there even seemed a 
disposition on his part to court a 
similar scrutiny on the part of the 
inn-keeper; then, observing in the 
countenance of the latter no other 
expression than extreme surprise at his 
own want of attention to an inquiry so 
courteously worded, he deemed it as 
well to terminate this dumb show, and 
therefore said, speaking with a strong 
Italian accent, "You are, I presume, M. 
Caderousse?"

"Yes, sir," answered the host, even 
more surprised at the question than he 
had been by the silence which had 
preceded it; "I am Gaspard Caderousse, 
at your service."

"Gaspard Caderousse," rejoined the 
priest. "Yes, -- Christian and surname 
are the same. You formerly lived, I 
believe in the Allees de Meillan, on 
the fourth floor?"

"I did."

"And you followed the business of a 
tailor?"

"True, I was a tailor, till the trade 
fell off. It is so hot at Marseilles, 
that really I believe that the 
respectable inhabitants will in time go 
without any clothing whatever. But 
talking of heat, is there nothing I can 
offer you by way of refreshment?"

"Yes; let me have a bottle of your best 
wine, and then, with your permission, 
we will resume our conversation from 
where we left off."

"As you please, sir," said Caderousse, 
who, anxious not to lose the present 
opportunity of finding a customer for 
one of the few bottles of Cahors still 
remaining in his possession, hastily 
raised a trap-door in the floor of the 
apartment they were in, which served 
both as parlor and kitchen. Upon 
issuing forth from his subterranean 
retreat at the expiration of five 
minutes, he found the abbe seated upon 
a wooden stool, leaning his elbow on a 
table, while Margotin, whose animosity 
seemed appeased by the unusual command 
of the traveller for refreshments, had 
crept up to him, and had established 
himself very comfortably between his 
knees, his long, skinny neck resting on 
his lap, while his dim eye was fixed 
earnestly on the traveller's face.

"Are you quite alone?" inquired the 
guest, as Caderousse placed before him 
the bottle of wine and a glass.

"Quite, quite alone," replied the man 
-- "or, at least, practically so, for 
my poor wife, who is the only person in 
the house besides myself, is laid up 
with illness, and unable to render me 
the least assistance, poor thing!"

"You are married, then?" said the 
priest, with a show of interest, 
glancing round as he spoke at the 
scanty furnishings of the apartment.

"Ah, sir," said Caderousse with a sigh, 
"it is easy to perceive I am not a rich 
man; but in this world a man does not 
thrive the better for being honest." 
The abbe fixed on him a searching, 
penetrating glance.

"Yes, honest -- I can certainly say 
that much for myself," continued the 
inn-keeper, fairly sustaining the 
scrutiny of the abbe's gaze; "I can 
boast with truth of being an honest 
man; and," continued he significantly, 
with a hand on his breast and shaking 
his head, "that is more than every one 
can say nowadays."

"So much the better for you, if what 
you assert be true," said the abbe; 
"for I am firmly persuaded that, sooner 
or later, the good will be rewarded, 
and the wicked punished."

"Such words as those belong to your 
profession," answered Caderousse, "and 
you do well to repeat them; but," added 
he, with a bitter expression of 
countenance, "one is free to believe 
them or not, as one pleases."

"You are wrong to speak thus," said the 
abbe; "and perhaps I may, in my own 
person, be able to prove to you how 
completely you are in error."

"What mean you?" inquired Caderousse 
with a look of surprise.

"In the first place, I must be 
satisfied that you are the person I am 
in search of."

"What proofs do you require?"

"Did you, in the year 1814 or 1815, 
know anything of a young sailor named 
Dantes?"

"Dantes? Did I know poor dear Edmond? 
Why, Edmond Dantes and myself were 
intimate friends!" exclaimed 
Caderousse, whose countenance flushed 
darkly as he caught the penetrating 
gaze of the abbe fixed on him, while 
the clear, calm eye of the questioner 
seemed to dilate with feverish scrutiny.

"You remind me," said the priest, "that 
the young man concerning whom I asked 
you was said to bear the name of 
Edmond."

"Said to bear the name!" repeated 
Caderousse, becoming excited and eager. 
"Why, he was so called as truly as I 
myself bore the appellation of Gaspard 
Caderousse; but tell me, I pray, what 
has become of poor Edmond? Did you know 
him? Is he alive and at liberty? Is he 
prosperous and happy?"

"He died a more wretched, hopeless, 
heart-broken prisoner than the felons 
who pay the penalty of their crimes at 
the galleys of Toulon."

A deadly pallor followed the flush on 
the countenance of Caderousse, who 
turned away, and the priest saw him 
wiping the tears from his eyes with the 
corner of the red handkerchief twisted 
round his head.

"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" murmured 
Caderousse. "Well, there, sir, is 
another proof that good people are 
never rewarded on this earth, and that 
none but the wicked prosper. Ah," 
continued Caderousse, speaking in the 
highly colored language of the south, 
"the world grows worse and worse. Why 
does not God, if he really hates the 
wicked, as he is said to do, send down 
brimstone and fire, and consume them 
altogether?"

"You speak as though you had loved this 
young Dantes," observed the abbe, 
without taking any notice of his 
companion's vehemence.

"And so I did," replied Caderousse; 
"though once, I confess, I envied him 
his good fortune. But I swear to you, 
sir, I swear to you, by everything a 
man holds dear, I have, since then, 
deeply and sincerely lamented his 
unhappy fate." There was a brief 
silence, during which the fixed, 
searching eye of the abbe was employed 
in scrutinizing the agitated features 
of the inn-keeper.

"You knew the poor lad, then?" 
continued Caderousse.

"I was called to see him on his dying 
bed, that I might administer to him the 
consolations of religion."

"And of what did he die?" asked 
Caderousse in a choking voice.

"Of what, think you, do young and 
strong men die in prison, when they 
have scarcely numbered their thirtieth 
year, unless it be of imprisonment?" 
Caderousse wiped away the large beads 
of perspiration that gathered on his 
brow.

"But the strangest part of the story 
is," resumed the abbe, "that Dantes, 
even in his dying moments, swore by his 
crucified Redeemer, that he was utterly 
ignorant of the cause of his detention."

"And so he was," murmured Caderousse. 
"How should he have been otherwise? Ah, 
sir, the poor fellow told you the 
truth."

"And for that reason, he besought me to 
try and clear up a mystery he had never 
been able to penetrate, and to clear 
his memory should any foul spot or 
stain have fallen on it."

And here the look of the abbe, becoming 
more and more fixed, seemed to rest 
with ill-concealed satisfaction on the 
gloomy depression which was rapidly 
spreading over the countenance of 
Caderousse.

"A rich Englishman," continued the 
abbe, "who had been his companion in 
misfortune, but had been released from 
prison during the second restoration, 
was possessed of a diamond of immense 
value; this jewel he bestowed on Dantes 
upon himself quitting the prison, as a 
mark of his gratitude for the kindness 
and brotherly care with which Dantes 
had nursed him in a severe illness he 
underwent during his confinement. 
Instead of employing this diamond in 
attempting to bribe his jailers, who 
might only have taken it and then 
betrayed him to the governor, Dantes 
carefully preserved it, that in the 
event of his getting out of prison he 
might have wherewithal to live, for the 
sale of such a diamond would have quite 
sufficed to make his fortune."

"Then, I suppose," asked Caderousse, 
with eager, glowing looks, "that it was 
a stone of immense value?"

"Why, everything is relative," answered 
the abbe. "To one in Edmond's position 
the diamond certainly was of great 
value. It was estimated at fifty 
thousand francs."

"Bless me!" exclaimed Caderousse, 
"fifty thousand francs! Surely the 
diamond was as large as a nut to be 
worth all that."

"No," replied the abbe, "it was not of 
such a size as that; but you shall 
judge for yourself. I have it with me."

The sharp gaze of Caderousse was 
instantly directed towards the priest's 
garments, as though hoping to discover 
the location of the treasure. Calmly 
drawing forth from his pocket a small 
box covered with black shagreen, the 
abbe opened it, and displayed to the 
dazzled eyes of Caderousse the 
sparkling jewel it contained, set in a 
ring of admirable workmanship. "And 
that diamond," cried Caderousse, almost 
breathless with eager admiration, "you 
say, is worth fifty thousand francs?"

"It is, without the setting, which is 
also valuable," replied the abbe, as he 
closed the box, and returned it to his 
pocket, while its brilliant hues seemed 
still to dance before the eyes of the 
fascinated inn-keeper.

"But how comes the diamond in your 
possession, sir? Did Edmond make you 
his heir?"

"No, merely his testamentary executor. 
`I once possessed four dear and 
faithful friends, besides the maiden to 
whom I was betrothed' he said; `and I 
feel convinced they have all 
unfeignedly grieved over my loss. The 
name of one of the four friends is 
Caderousse.'" The inn-keeper shivered.

"`Another of the number,'" continued 
the abbe, without seeming to notice the 
emotion of Caderousse, "`is called 
Danglars; and the third, in spite of 
being my rival, entertained a very 
sincere affection for me.'" A fiendish 
smile played over the features of 
Caderousse, who was about to break in 
upon the abbe's speech, when the 
latter, waving his hand, said, "Allow 
me to finish first, and then if you 
have any observations to make, you can 
do so afterwards. `The third of my 
friends, although my rival, was much 
attached to me, -- his name was 
Fernand; that of my betrothed was' -- 
Stay, stay," continued the abbe, "I 
have forgotten what he called her."

"Mercedes," said Caderousse eagerly.

"True," said the abbe, with a stifled 
sigh, "Mercedes it was."

"Go on," urged Caderousse.

"Bring me a carafe of water," said the 
abbe.

Caderousse quickly performed the 
stranger's bidding; and after pouring 
some into a glass, and slowly 
swallowing its contents, the abbe, 
resuming his usual placidity of manner, 
said, as he placed his empty glass on 
the table, -- "Where did we leave off?"

"The name of Edmond's betrothed was 
Mercedes."

"To be sure. `You will go to 
Marseilles,' said Dantes, -- for you 
understand, I repeat his words just as 
he uttered them. Do you understand?"

"Perfectly."

"`You will sell this diamond; you will 
divide the money into five equal parts, 
and give an equal portion to these good 
friends, the only persons who have 
loved me upon earth.'"

"But why into five parts?" asked 
Caderousse; "you only mentioned four 
persons."

"Because the fifth is dead, as I hear. 
The fifth sharer in Edmond's bequest, 
was his own father."

"Too true, too true!" ejaculated 
Caderousse, almost suffocated by the 
contending passions which assailed him, 
"the poor old man did die."

"I learned so much at Marseilles," 
replied the abbe, making a strong 
effort to appear indifferent; "but from 
the length of time that has elapsed 
since the death of the elder Dantes, I 
was unable to obtain any particulars of 
his end. Can you enlighten me on that 
point?"

"I do not know who could if I could 
not," said Caderousse. "Why, I lived 
almost on the same floor with the poor 
old man. Ah, yes, about a year after 
the disappearance of his son the poor 
old man died."

"Of what did he die?"

"Why, the doctors called his complaint 
gastro-enteritis, I believe; his 
acquaintances say he died of grief; but 
I, who saw him in his dying moments, I 
say he died of" -- Caderousse paused.

"Of what?" asked the priest, anxiously 
and eagerly.

"Why, of downright starvation."

"Starvation!" exclaimed the abbe, 
springing from his seat. "Why, the 
vilest animals are not suffered to die 
by such a death as that. The very dogs 
that wander houseless and homeless in 
the streets find some pitying hand to 
cast them a mouthful of bread; and that 
a man, a Christian, should be allowed 
to perish of hunger in the midst of 
other men who call themselves 
Christians, is too horrible for belief. 
Oh, it is impossible -- utterly 
impossible!"

"What I have said, I have said," 
answered Caderousse.

"And you are a fool for having said 
anything about it," said a voice from 
the top of the stairs. "Why should you 
meddle with what does not concern you?"

The two men turned quickly, and saw the 
sickly countenance of La Carconte 
peering between the baluster rails; 
attracted by the sound of voices, she 
had feebly dragged herself down the 
stairs, and, seated on the lower step, 
head on knees, she had listened to the 
foregoing conversation. "Mind your own 
business, wife," replied Caderousse 
sharply. "This gentleman asks me for 
information, which common politeness 
will not permit me to refuse."

"Politeness, you simpleton!" retorted 
La Carconte. "What have you to do with 
politeness, I should like to know? 
Better study a little common prudence. 
How do you know the motives that person 
may have for trying to extract all he 
can from you?"

"I pledge you my word, madam," said the 
abbe, "that my intentions are good; and 
that you husband can incur no risk, 
provided he answers me candidly."

"Ah, that's all very fine," retorted 
the woman. "Nothing is easier than to 
begin with fair promises and assurances 
of nothing to fear; but when poor, 
silly folks, like my husband there, 
have been persuaded to tell all they 
know, the promises and assurances of 
safety are quickly forgotten; and at 
some moment when nobody is expecting 
it, behold trouble and misery, and all 
sorts of persecutions, are heaped on 
the unfortunate wretches, who cannot 
even see whence all their afflictions 
come."

"Nay, nay, my good woman, make yourself 
perfectly easy, I beg of you. Whatever 
evils may befall you, they will not be 
occasioned by my instrumentality, that 
I solemnly promise you."

La Carconte muttered a few inarticulate 
words, then let her head again drop 
upon her knees, and went into a fit of 
ague, leaving the two speakers to 
resume the conversation, but remaining 
so as to be able to hear every word 
they uttered. Again the abbe had been 
obliged to swallow a draught of water 
to calm the emotions that threatened to 
overpower him. When he had sufficiently 
recovered himself, he said, "It 
appears, then, that the miserable old 
man you were telling me of was forsaken 
by every one. Surely, had not such been 
the case, he would not have perished by 
so dreadful a death."

"Why, he was not altogether forsaken," 
continued Caderousse, "for Mercedes the 
Catalan and Monsieur Morrel were very 
kind to him; but somehow the poor old 
man had contracted a profound hatred 
for Fernand -- the very person," added 
Caderousse with a bitter smile, "that 
you named just now as being one of 
Dantes' faithful and attached friends."

"And was he not so?" asked the abbe.

"Gaspard, Gaspard!" murmured the woman, 
from her seat on the stairs, "mind what 
you are saying!" Caderousse made no 
reply to these words, though evidently 
irritated and annoyed by the 
interruption, but, addressing the abbe, 
said, "Can a man be faithful to another 
whose wife he covets and desires for 
himself? But Dantes was so honorable 
and true in his own nature, that he 
believed everybody's professions of 
friendship. Poor Edmond, he was cruelly 
deceived; but it was fortunate that he 
never knew, or he might have found it 
more difficult, when on his deathbed, 
to pardon his enemies. And, whatever 
people may say," continued Caderousse, 
in his native language, which was not 
altogether devoid of rude poetry, "I 
cannot help being more frightened at 
the idea of the malediction of the dead 
than the hatred of the living."

"Imbecile!" exclaimed La Carconte.

"Do you, then, know in what manner 
Fernand injured Dantes?" inquired the 
abbe of Caderousse.

"Do I? No one better."

"Speak out then, say what it was!"

"Gaspard!" cried La Carconte, "do as 
you will; you are master -- but if you 
take my advice you'll hold your tongue."

"Well, wife," replied Caderousse, "I 
don't know but what you're right!"

"So you will say nothing?" asked the 
abbe.

"Why, what good would it do?" asked 
Caderousse. "If the poor lad were 
living, and came to me and begged that 
I would candidly tell which were his 
true and which his false friends, why, 
perhaps, I should not hesitate. But you 
tell me he is no more, and therefore 
can have nothing to do with hatred or 
revenge, so let all such feeling be 
buried with him."

"You prefer, then," said the abbe, 
"that I should bestow on men you say 
are false and treacherous, the reward 
intended for faithful friendship?"

"That is true enough," returned 
Caderousse. "You say truly, the gift of 
poor Edmond was not meant for such 
traitors as Fernand and Danglars; 
besides, what would it be to them? no 
more than a drop of water in the ocean."

"Remember," chimed in La Carconte, 
"those two could crush you at a single 
blow!"

"How so?" inquired the abbe. "Are these 
persons, then, so rich and powerful?"

"Do you not know their history?"

"I do not. Pray relate it to me!" 
Caderousse seemed to reflect for a few 
moments, then said, "No, truly, it 
would take up too much time."

"Well, my good friend," returned the 
abbe, in a tone that indicated utter 
indifference on his part, "you are at 
liberty, either to speak or be silent, 
just as you please; for my own part, I 
respect your scruples and admire your 
sentiments; so let the matter end. I 
shall do my duty as conscientiously as 
I can, and fulfil my promise to the 
dying man. My first business will be to 
dispose of this diamond." So saying, 
the abbe again draw the small box from 
his pocket, opened it, and contrived to 
hold it in such a light, that a bright 
flash of brilliant hues passed before 
the dazzled gaze of Caderousse.

"Wife, wife!" cried he in a hoarse 
voice, "come here!"

"Diamond!" exclaimed La Carconte, 
rising and descending to the chamber 
with a tolerably firm step; "what 
diamond are you talking about?"

"Why, did you not hear all we said?" 
inquired Caderousse. "It is a beautiful 
diamond left by poor Edmond Dantes, to 
be sold, and the money divided between 
his father, Mercedes, his betrothed 
bride, Fernand, Danglars, and myself. 
The jewel is worth at least fifty 
thousand francs."

"Oh, what a magnificent jewel!" cried 
the astonished woman.

"The fifth part of the profits from 
this stone belongs to us then, does it 
not?" asked Caderousse.

"It does," replied the abbe; "with the 
addition of an equal division of that 
part intended for the elder Dantes, 
which I believe myself at liberty to 
divide equally with the four survivors."

"And why among us four?" inquired 
Caderousse.

"As being the friends Edmond esteemed 
most faithful and devoted to him."

"I don't call those friends who betray 
and ruin you," murmured the wife in her 
turn, in a low, muttering voice.

"Of course not!" rejoined Caderousse 
quickly; "no more do I, and that was 
what I was observing to this gentleman 
just now. I said I looked upon it as a 
sacrilegious profanation to reward 
treachery, perhaps crime."

"Remember," answered the abbe calmly, 
as he replaced the jewel and its case 
in the pocket of his cassock, "it is 
your fault, not mine, that I do so. You 
will have the goodness to furnish me 
with the address of both Fernand and 
Danglars, in order that I may execute 
Edmond's last wishes." The agitation of 
Caderousse became extreme, and large 
drops of perspiration rolled from his 
heated brow. As he saw the abbe rise 
from his seat and go towards the door, 
as though to ascertain if his horse 
were sufficiently refreshed to continue 
his journey, Caderousse and his wife 
exchanged looks of deep meaning.

"There, you see, wife," said the 
former, "this splendid diamond might 
all be ours, if we chose!"

"Do you believe it?"

"Why, surely a man of his holy 
profession would not deceive us!"

"Well," replied La Carconte, "do as you 
like. For my part, I wash my hands of 
the affair." So saying, she once more 
climbed the staircase leading to her 
chamber, her body convulsed with 
chills, and her teeth rattling in her 
head, in spite of the intense heat of 
the weather. Arrived at the top stair, 
she turned round, and called out, in a 
warning tone, to her husband, "Gaspard, 
consider well what you are about to do!"

"I have both reflected and decided," 
answered he. La Carconte then entered 
her chamber, the flooring of which 
creaked beneath her heavy, uncertain 
tread, as she proceeded towards her 
arm-chair, into which she fell as 
though exhausted.

"Well," asked the abbe, as he returned 
to the apartment below, "what have you 
made up your mind to do?"

"To tell you all I know," was the reply.

"I certainly think you act wisely in so 
doing," said the priest. "Not because I 
have the least desire to learn anything 
you may please to conceal from me, but 
simply that if, through your 
assistance, I could distribute the 
legacy according to the wishes of the 
testator, why, so much the better, that 
is all."

"I hope it may be so," replied 
Caderousse, his face flushed with 
cupidity.

"I am all attention," said the abbe.

"Stop a minute," answered Caderousse; 
"we might be interrupted in the most 
interesting part of my story, which 
would be a pity; and it is as well that 
your visit hither should be made known 
only to ourselves." With these words he 
went stealthily to the door, which he 
closed, and, by way of still greater 
precaution, bolted and barred it, as he 
was accustomed to do at night. During 
this time the abbe had chosen his place 
for listening at his ease. He removed 
his seat into a corner of the room, 
where he himself would be in deep 
shadow, while the light would be fully 
thrown on the narrator; then, with head 
bent down and hands clasped, or rather 
clinched together, he prepared to give 
his whole attention to Caderousse, who 
seated himself on the little stool, 
exactly opposite to him.

"Remember, this is no affair of mine," 
said the trembling voice of La 
Carconte, as though through the 
flooring of her chamber she viewed the 
scene that was enacting below.

"Enough, enough!" replied Caderousse; 
"say no more about it; I will take all 
the consequences upon myself." And he 
began his story. 

 Chapter 27 The Story.

"First, sir," said Caderousse, "you 
must make me a promise."

"What is that?" inquired the abbe.

"Why, if you ever make use of the 
details I am about to give you, that 
you will never let any one know that it 
was I who supplied them; for the 
persons of whom I am about to talk are 
rich and powerful, and if they only 
laid the tips of their fingers on me, I 
should break to pieces like glass."

"Make yourself easy, my friend," 
replied the abbe. "I am a priest, and 
confessions die in my breast. 
Recollect, our only desire is to carry 
out, in a fitting manner, the last 
wishes of our friend. Speak, then, 
without reserve, as without hatred; 
tell the truth, the whole truth; I do 
not know, never may know, the persons 
of whom you are about to speak; 
besides, I am an Italian, and not a 
Frenchman, and belong to God, and not 
to man, and I shall shortly retire to 
my convent, which I have only quitted 
to fulfil the last wishes of a dying 
man." This positive assurance seemed to 
give Caderousse a little courage.

"Well, then, under these 
circumstances," said Caderousse, "I 
will, I even believe I ought to 
undeceive you as to the friendship 
which poor Edmond thought so sincere 
and unquestionable."

"Begin with his father, if you please." 
said the abbe; "Edmond talked to me a 
great deal about the old man for whom 
he had the deepest love."

"The history is a sad one, sir," said 
Caderousse, shaking his head; "perhaps 
you know all the earlier part of it?"

"Yes." answered the abbe; "Edmond 
related to me everything until the 
moment when he was arrested in a small 
cabaret close to Marseilles."

"At La Reserve! Oh, yes; I can see it 
all before me this moment."

"Was it not his betrothal feast?"

"It was and the feast that began so 
gayly had a very sorrowful ending; a 
police commissary, followed by four 
soldiers, entered, and Dantes was 
arrested."

"Yes, and up to this point I know all," 
said the priest. "Dantes himself only 
knew that which personally concerned 
him, for he never beheld again the five 
persons I have named to you, or heard 
mention of any one of them."

"Well, when Dantes was arrested, 
Monsieur Morrel hastened to obtain the 
particulars, and they were very sad. 
The old man returned alone to his home, 
folded up his wedding suit with tears 
in his eyes, and paced up and down his 
chamber the whole day, and would not go 
to bed at all, for I was underneath him 
and heard him walking the whole night; 
and for myself, I assure you I could 
not sleep either, for the grief of the 
poor father gave me great uneasiness, 
and every step he took went to my heart 
as really as if his foot had pressed 
against my breast. The next day 
Mercedes came to implore the protection 
of M. de Villefort; she did not obtain 
it, however, and went to visit the old 
man; when she saw him so miserable and 
heart-broken, having passed a sleepless 
night, and not touched food since the 
previous day, she wished him to go with 
her that she might take care of him; 
but the old man would not consent. 
`No,' was the old man's reply, `I will 
not leave this house, for my poor dear 
boy loves me better than anything in 
the world; and if he gets out of prison 
he will come and see me the first 
thing, and what would he think if I did 
not wait here for him?' I heard all 
this from the window, for I was anxious 
that Mercedes should persuade the old 
man to accompany her, for his footsteps 
over my head night and day did not 
leave me a moment's repose."

"But did you not go up-stairs and try 
to console the poor old man?" asked the 
abbe.

"Ah, sir," replied Caderousse, "we 
cannot console those who will not be 
consoled, and he was one of these; 
besides, I know not why, but he seemed 
to dislike seeing me. One night, 
however, I heard his sobs, and I could 
not resist my desire to go up to him, 
but when I reached his door he was no 
longer weeping but praying. I cannot 
now repeat to you, sir, all the 
eloquent words and imploring language 
he made use of; it was more than piety, 
it was more than grief, and I, who am 
no canter, and hate the Jesuits, said 
then to myself, `It is really well, and 
I am very glad that I have not any 
children; for if I were a father and 
felt such excessive grief as the old 
man does, and did not find in my memory 
or heart all he is now saying, I should 
throw myself into the sea at once, for 
I could not bear it.'"

"Poor father!" murmured the priest.

"From day to day he lived on alone, and 
more and more solitary. M. Morrel and 
Mercedes came to see him, but his door 
was closed; and, although I was certain 
he was at home, he would not make any 
answer. One day, when, contrary to his 
custom, he had admitted Mercedes, and 
the poor girl, in spite of her own 
grief and despair, endeavored to 
console him, he said to her, -- `Be 
assured, my dear daughter, he is dead; 
and instead of expecting him, it is he 
who is awaiting us; I am quite happy, 
for I am the oldest, and of course 
shall see him first.' However well 
disposed a person may be, why you see 
we leave off after a time seeing 
persons who are in sorrow, they make 
one melancholy; and so at last old 
Dantes was left all to himself, and I 
only saw from time to time strangers go 
up to him and come down again with some 
bundle they tried to hide; but I 
guessed what these bundles were, and 
that he sold by degrees what he had to 
pay for his subsistence. At length the 
poor old fellow reached the end of all 
he had; he owed three quarters' rent, 
and they threatened to turn him out; he 
begged for another week, which was 
granted to him. I know this, because 
the landlord came into my apartment 
when he left his. For the first three 
days I heard him walking about as 
usual, but, on the fourth I heard 
nothing. I then resolved to go up to 
him at all risks. The door was closed, 
but I looked through the keyhole, and 
saw him so pale and haggard, that 
believing him very ill, I went and told 
M. Morrel and then ran on to Mercedes. 
They both came immediately, M. Morrel 
bringing a doctor, and the doctor said 
it was inflammation of the bowels, and 
ordered him a limited diet. I was 
there, too, and I never shall forget 
the old man's smile at this 
prescription. From that time he 
received all who came; he had an excuse 
for not eating any more; the doctor had 
put him on a diet." The abbe uttered a 
kind of groan. "The story interests 
you, does it not, sir?" inquired 
Caderousse.

"Yes," replied the abbe, "it is very 
affecting."

"Mercedes came again, and she found him 
so altered that she was even more 
anxious than before to have him taken 
to her own home. This was M. Morrel's 
wish also, who would fain have conveyed 
the old man against his consent; but 
the old man resisted, and cried so that 
they were actually frightened. Mercedes 
remained, therefore, by his bedside, 
and M. Morrel went away, making a sign 
to the Catalan that he had left his 
purse on the chimney-piece. But 
availing himself of the doctor's order, 
the old man would not take any 
sustenance; at length (after nine days 
of despair and fasting), the old man 
died, cursing those who had caused his 
misery, and saying to Mercedes, `If you 
ever see my Edmond again, tell him I 
die blessing him.'" The abbe rose from 
his chair, made two turns round the 
chamber, and pressed his trembling hand 
against his parched throat. "And you 
believe he died" --

"Of hunger, sir, of hunger," said 
Caderousse. "I am as certain of it as 
that we two are Christians."

The abbe, with a shaking hand, seized a 
glass of water that was standing by him 
half-full, swallowed it at one gulp, 
and then resumed his seat, with red 
eyes and pale cheeks. "This was, 
indeed, a horrid event." said he in a 
hoarse voice.

"The more so, sir, as it was men's and 
not God's doing."

"Tell me of those men," said the abbe, 
"and remember too," he added in an 
almost menacing tone, "you have 
promised to tell me everything. Tell 
me, therefore, who are these men who 
killed the son with despair, and the 
father with famine?"

"Two men jealous of him, sir; one from 
love, and the other from ambition, -- 
Fernand and Danglars."

"How was this jealousy manifested? 
Speak on."

"They denounced Edmond as a Bonapartist 
agent."

"Which of the two denounced him? Which 
was the real delinquent?"

"Both, sir; one with a letter, and the 
other put it in the post."

"And where was this letter written?"

"At La Reserve, the day before the 
betrothal feast."

"'Twas so, then -- 'twas so, then," 
murmured the abbe. "Oh, Faria, Faria, 
how well did you judge men and things!"

"What did you please to say, sir?" 
asked Caderousse.

"Nothing, nothing," replied the priest; 
"go on."

"It was Danglars who wrote the 
denunciation with his left hand, that 
his writing might not be recognized, 
and Fernand who put it in the post."

"But," exclaimed the abbe suddenly, 
"you were there yourself."

"I!" said Caderousse, astonished; "who 
told you I was there?"

The abbe saw he had overshot the mark, 
and he added quickly, -- "No one; but 
in order to have known everything so 
well, you must have been an 
eye-witness."

"True, true!" said Caderousse in a 
choking voice, "I was there."

"And did you not remonstrate against 
such infamy?" asked the abbe; "if not, 
you were an accomplice."

"Sir," replied Caderousse, "they had 
made me drink to such an excess that I 
nearly lost all perception. I had only 
an indistinct understanding of what was 
passing around me. I said all that a 
man in such a state could say; but they 
both assured me that it was a jest they 
were carrying on, and perfectly 
harmless."

"Next day -- next day, sir, you must 
have seen plain enough what they had 
been doing, yet you said nothing, 
though you were present when Dantes was 
arrested."

"Yes, sir, I was there, and very 
anxious to speak; but Danglars 
restrained me. `If he should really be 
guilty,' said he, `and did really put 
in to the Island of Elba; if he is 
really charged with a letter for the 
Bonapartist committee at Paris, and if 
they find this letter upon him, those 
who have supported him will pass for 
his accomplices.' I confess I had my 
fears, in the state in which politics 
then were, and I held my tongue. It was 
cowardly, I confess, but it was not 
criminal."

"I understand -- you allowed matters to 
take their course, that was all."

"Yes, sir," answered Caderousse; "and 
remorse preys on me night and day. I 
often ask pardon of God, I swear to 
you, because this action, the only one 
with which I have seriously to reproach 
myself in all my life, is no doubt the 
cause of my abject condition. I am 
expiating a moment of selfishness, and 
so I always say to La Carconte, when 
she complains, `Hold your tongue, 
woman; it is the will of God.'" And 
Caderousse bowed his head with every 
sign of real repentance.

"Well, sir," said the abbe, "you have 
spoken unreservedly; and thus to accuse 
yourself is to deserve pardon."

"Unfortunately, Edmond is dead, and has 
not pardoned me."

"He did not know," said the abbe.

"But he knows it all now," interrupted 
Caderousse; "they say the dead know 
everything." There was a brief silence; 
the abbe rose and paced up and down 
pensively, and then resumed his seat. 
"You have two or three times mentioned 
a M. Morrel," he said; "who was he?"

"The owner of the Pharaon and patron of 
Dantes."

"And what part did he play in this sad 
drama?" inquired the abbe.

"The part of an honest man, full of 
courage and real regard. Twenty times 
he interceded for Edmond. When the 
emperor returned, he wrote, implored, 
threatened, and so energetically, that 
on the second restoration he was 
persecuted as a Bonapartist. Ten times, 
as I told you, he came to see Dantes' 
father, and offered to receive him in 
his own house; and the night or two 
before his death, as I have already 
said, he left his purse on the 
mantelpiece, with which they paid the 
old man's debts, and buried him 
decently; and so Edmond's father died, 
as he had lived, without doing harm to 
any one. I have the purse still by me 
-- a large one, made of red silk."

"And," asked the abbe, "is M. Morrel 
still alive?"

"Yes," replied Caderousse.

"In that case," replied the abbe, "he 
should be rich, happy."

Caderousse smiled bitterly. "Yes, happy 
as myself," said he.

"What! M. Morrel unhappy?" exclaimed 
the abbe.

"He is reduced almost to the last 
extremity -- nay, he is almost at the 
point of dishonor."

"How?"

"Yes," continued Caderousse, "so it is; 
after five and twenty years of labor, 
after having acquired a most honorable 
name in the trade of Marseilles, M. 
Morrel is utterly ruined; he has lost 
five ships in two years, has suffered 
by the bankruptcy of three large 
houses, and his only hope now is in 
that very Pharaon which poor Dantes 
commanded, and which is expected from 
the Indies with a cargo of cochineal 
and indigo. If this ship founders, like 
the others, he is a ruined man."

"And has the unfortunate man wife or 
children?" inquired the abbe.

"Yes, he has a wife, who through 
everything has behaved like an angel; 
he has a daughter, who was about to 
marry the man she loved, but whose 
family now will not allow him to wed 
the daughter of a ruined man; he has, 
besides, a son, a lieutenant in the 
army; and, as you may suppose, all 
this, instead of lessening, only 
augments his sorrows. If he were alone 
in the world he would blow out his 
brains, and there would be an end."

"Horrible!" ejaculated the priest.

"And it is thus heaven recompenses 
virtue, sir," added Caderousse. "You 
see, I, who never did a bad action but 
that I have told you of -- am in 
destitution, with my poor wife dying of 
fever before my very eyes, and I unable 
to do anything in the world for her; I 
shall die of hunger, as old Dantes did, 
while Fernand and Danglars are rolling 
in wealth."

"How is that?"

"Because their deeds have brought them 
good fortune, while honest men have 
been reduced to misery."

"What has become of Danglars, the 
instigator, and therefore the most 
guilty?"

"What has become of him? Why, he left 
Marseilles, and was taken, on the 
recommendation of M. Morrel, who did 
not know his crime, as cashier into a 
Spanish bank. During the war with Spain 
he was employed in the commissariat of 
the French army, and made a fortune; 
then with that money he speculated in 
the funds, and trebled or quadrupled 
his capital; and, having first married 
his banker's daughter, who left him a 
widower, he has married a second time, 
a widow, a Madame de Nargonne, daughter 
of M. de Servieux, the king's 
chamberlain, who is in high favor at 
court. He is a millionaire, and they 
have made him a baron, and now he is 
the Baron Danglars, with a fine 
residence in the Rue de Mont-Blanc, 
with ten horses in his stables, six 
footmen in his ante-chamber, and I know 
not how many millions in his strongbox."

"Ah!" said the abbe, in a peculiar 
tone, "he is happy."

"Happy? Who can answer for that? 
Happiness or unhappiness is the secret 
known but to one's self and the walls 
-- walls have ears but no tongue; but 
if a large fortune produces happiness, 
Danglars is happy."

"And Fernand?"

"Fernand? Why, much the same story."

"But how could a poor Catalan 
fisher-boy, without education or 
resources, make a fortune? I confess 
this staggers me."

"And it has staggered everybody. There 
must have been in his life some strange 
secret that no one knows."

"But, then, by what visible steps has 
he attained this high fortune or high 
position?"

"Both, sir -- he has both fortune and 
position -- both."

"This must be impossible!"

"It would seem so; but listen, and you 
will understand. Some days before the 
return of the emperor, Fernand was 
drafted. The Bourbons left him quietly 
enough at the Catalans, but Napoleon 
returned, a special levy was made, and 
Fernand was compelled to join. I went 
too; but as I was older than Fernand, 
and had just married my poor wife, I 
was only sent to the coast. Fernand was 
enrolled in the active troop, went to 
the frontier with his regiment, and was 
at the battle of Ligny. The night after 
that battle he was sentry at the door 
of a general who carried on a secret 
correspondence with the enemy. That 
same night the general was to go over 
to the English. He proposed to Fernand 
to accompany him; Fernand agreed to do 
so, deserted his post, and followed the 
general. Fernand would have been 
court-martialed if Napoleon had 
remained on the throne, but his action 
was rewarded by the Bourbons. He 
returned to France with the epaulet of 
sub-lieutenant, and as the protection 
of the general, who is in the highest 
favor, was accorded to him, he was a 
captain in 1823, during the Spanish war 
-- that is to say, at the time when 
Danglars made his early speculations. 
Fernand was a Spaniard, and being sent 
to Spain to ascertain the feeling of 
his fellow-countrymen, found Danglars 
there, got on very intimate terms with 
him, won over the support of the 
royalists at the capital and in the 
provinces, received promises and made 
pledges on his own part, guided his 
regiment by paths known to himself 
alone through the mountain gorges which 
were held by the royalists, and, in 
fact, rendered such services in this 
brief campaign that, after the taking 
of Trocadero, he was made colonel, and 
received the title of count and the 
cross of an officer of the Legion of 
Honor."

"Destiny! destiny!" murmured the abbe.

"Yes, but listen: this was not all. The 
war with Spain being ended, Fernand's 
career was checked by the long peace 
which seemed likely to endure 
throughout Europe. Greece only had 
risen against Turkey, and had begun her 
war of independence; all eyes were 
turned towards Athens -- it was the 
fashion to pity and support the Greeks. 
The French government, without 
protecting them openly, as you know, 
gave countenance to volunteer 
assistance. Fernand sought and obtained 
leave to go and serve in Greece, still 
having his name kept on the army roll. 
Some time after, it was stated that the 
Comte de Morcerf (this was the name he 
bore) had entered the service of Ali 
Pasha with the rank of 
instructor-general. Ali Pasha was 
killed, as you know, but before he died 
he recompensed the services of Fernand 
by leaving him a considerable sum, with 
which he returned to France, when he 
was gazetted lieutenant-general."

"So that now?" -- inquired the abbe.

"So that now," continued Caderousse, 
"he owns a magnificent house -- No. 27, 
Rue du Helder, Paris." The abbe opened 
his mouth, hesitated for a moment, 
then, making an effort at self-control, 
he said, "And Mercedes -- they tell me 
that she has disappeared?"

"Disappeared," said Caderousse, "yes, 
as the sun disappears, to rise the next 
day with still more splendor."

"Has she made a fortune also?" inquired 
the abbe, with an ironical smile.

"Mercedes is at this moment one of the 
greatest ladies in Paris," replied 
Caderousse.

"Go on," said the abbe; "it seems as if 
I were listening to the story of a 
dream. But I have seen things so 
extraordinary, that what you tell me 
seems less astonishing than it 
otherwise might."

"Mercedes was at first in the deepest 
despair at the blow which deprived her 
of Edmond. I have told you of her 
attempts to propitiate M. de Villefort, 
her devotion to the elder Dantes. In 
the midst of her despair, a new 
affliction overtook her. This was the 
departure of Fernand -- of Fernand, 
whose crime she did not know, and whom 
she regarded as her brother. Fernand 
went, and Mercedes remained alone. 
Three months passed and still she wept 
-- no news of Edmond, no news of 
Fernand, no companionship save that of 
an old man who was dying with despair. 
One evening, after a day of accustomed 
vigil at the angle of two roads leading 
to Marseilles from the Catalans, she 
returned to her home more depressed 
than ever. Suddenly she heard a step 
she knew, turned anxiously around, the 
door opened, and Fernand, dressed in 
the uniform of a sub-lieutenant, stood 
before her. It was not the one she 
wished for most, but it seemed as if a 
part of her past life had returned to 
her. Mercedes seized Fernand's hands 
with a transport which he took for 
love, but which was only joy at being 
no longer alone in the world, and 
seeing at last a friend, after long 
hours of solitary sorrow. And then, it 
must be confessed, Fernand had never 
been hated -- he was only not precisely 
loved. Another possessed all Mercedes' 
heart; that other was absent, had 
disappeared, perhaps was dead. At this 
last thought Mercedes burst into a 
flood of tears, and wrung her hands in 
agony; but the thought, which she had 
always repelled before when it was 
suggested to her by another, came now 
in full force upon her mind; and then, 
too, old Dantes incessantly said to 
her, `Our Edmond is dead; if he were 
not, he would return to us.' The old 
man died, as I have told you; had he 
lived, Mercedes, perchance, had not 
become the wife of another, for he 
would have been there to reproach her 
infidelity. Fernand saw this, and when 
he learned of the old man's death he 
returned. He was now a lieutenant. At 
his first coming he had not said a word 
of love to Mercedes; at the second he 
reminded her that he loved her. 
Mercedes begged for six months more in 
which to await and mourn for Edmond."

"So that," said the abbe, with a bitter 
smile, "that makes eighteen months in 
all. What more could the most devoted 
lover desire?" Then he murmured the 
words of the English poet, "`Frailty, 
thy name is woman.'"

"Six months afterwards," continued 
Caderousse, "the marriage took place in 
the church of Accoules."

"The very church in which she was to 
have married Edmond," murmured the 
priest; "there was only a change of 
bride-grooms."

"Well, Mercedes was married," proceeded 
Caderousse; "but although in the eyes 
of the world she appeared calm, she 
nearly fainted as she passed La 
Reserve, where, eighteen months before, 
the betrothal had been celebrated with 
him whom she might have known she still 
loved had she looked to the bottom of 
her heart. Fernand, more happy, but not 
more at his ease -- for I saw at this 
time he was in constant dread of 
Edmond's return -- Fernand was very 
anxious to get his wife away, and to 
depart himself. There were too many 
unpleasant possibilities associated 
with the Catalans, and eight days after 
the wedding they left Marseilles."

"Did you ever see Mercedes again?" 
inquired the priest.

"Yes, during the Spanish war, at 
Perpignan, where Fernand had left her; 
she was attending to the education of 
her son." The abbe started. "Her son?" 
said he.

"Yes," replied Caderousse, "little 
Albert."

"But, then, to be able to instruct her 
child," continued the abbe, "she must 
have received an education herself. I 
understood from Edmond that she was the 
daughter of a simple fisherman, 
beautiful but uneducated."

"Oh," replied Caderousse, "did he know 
so little of his lovely betrothed? 
Mercedes might have been a queen, sir, 
if the crown were to be placed on the 
heads of the loveliest and most 
intelligent. Fernand's fortune was 
already waxing great, and she developed 
with his growing fortune. She learned 
drawing, music -- everything. Besides, 
I believe, between ourselves, she did 
this in order to distract her mind, 
that she might forget; and she only 
filled her head in order to alleviate 
the weight on her heart. But now her 
position in life is assured," continued 
Caderousse; "no doubt fortune and 
honors have comforted her; she is rich, 
a countess, and yet" -- Caderousse 
paused.

"And yet what?" asked the abbe.

"Yet, I am sure, she is not happy," 
said Caderousse.

"What makes you believe this?"

"Why, when I found myself utterly 
destitute, I thought my old friends 
would, perhaps, assist me. So I went to 
Danglars, who would not even receive 
me. I called on Fernand, who sent me a 
hundred francs by his valet-de-chambre."

"Then you did not see either of them?"

"No, but Madame de Morcerf saw me."

"How was that?"

"As I went away a purse fell at my feet 
-- it contained five and twenty louis; 
I raised my head quickly, and saw 
Mercedes, who at once shut the blind."

"And M. de Villefort?" asked the abbe.

"Oh, he never was a friend of mine, I 
did not know him, and I had nothing to 
ask of him."

"Do you not know what became of him, 
and the share he had in Edmond's 
misfortunes?"

"No; I only know that some time after 
Edmond's arrest, he married 
Mademoiselle de Saint-Meran, and soon 
after left Marseilles; no doubt he has 
been as lucky as the rest; no doubt he 
is as rich as Danglars, as high in 
station as Fernand. I only, as you see, 
have remained poor, wretched, and 
forgotten."

"You are mistaken, my friend," replied 
the abbe; "God may seem sometimes to 
forget for a time, while his justice 
reposes, but there always comes a 
moment when he remembers -- and behold 
-- a proof!" As he spoke, the abbe took 
the diamond from his pocket, and giving 
it to Caderousse, said, -- "Here, my 
friend, take this diamond, it is yours."

"What, for me only?" cried Caderousse, 
"ah, sir, do not jest with me!"

"This diamond was to have been shared 
among his friends. Edmond had one 
friend only, and thus it cannot be 
divided. Take the diamond, then, and 
sell it; it is worth fifty thousand 
francs, and I repeat my wish that this 
sum may suffice to release you from 
your wretchedness."

"Oh, sir," said Caderousse, putting out 
one hand timidly, and with the other 
wiping away the perspiration which 
bedewed his brow, -- "Oh, sir, do not 
make a jest of the happiness or despair 
of a man."

"I know what happiness and what despair 
are, and I never make a jest of such 
feelings. Take it, then, but in 
exchange -- "

Caderousse, who touched the diamond, 
withdrew his hand. The abbe smiled. "In 
exchange," he continued, "give me the 
red silk purse that M. Morrel left on 
old Dantes' chimney-piece, and which 
you tell me is still in your hands." 
Caderousse, more and more astonished, 
went toward a large oaken cupboard, 
opened it, and gave the abbe a long 
purse of faded red silk, round which 
were two copper runners that had once 
been gilt. The abbe took it, and in 
return gave Caderousse the diamond.

"Oh, you are a man of God, sir," cried 
Caderousse; "for no one knew that 
Edmond had given you this diamond, and 
you might have kept it."

"Which," said the abbe to himself, "you 
would have done." The abbe rose, took 
his hat and gloves. "Well," he said, 
"all you have told me is perfectly 
true, then, and I may believe it in 
every particular."

"See, sir," replied Caderousse, "in 
this corner is a crucifix in holy wood 
-- here on this shelf is my wife's 
testament; open this book, and I will 
swear upon it with my hand on the 
crucifix. I will swear to you by my 
soul's salvation, my faith as a 
Christian, I have told everything to 
you as it occurred, and as the 
recording angel will tell it to the ear 
of God at the day of the last judgment!"

"'Tis well," said the abbe, convinced 
by his manner and tone that Caderousse 
spoke the truth. "'Tis well, and may 
this money profit you! Adieu; I go far 
from men who thus so bitterly injure 
each other." The abbe with difficulty 
got away from the enthusiastic thanks 
of Caderousse, opened the door himself, 
got out and mounted his horse, once 
more saluted the innkeeper, who kept 
uttering his loud farewells, and then 
returned by the road he had travelled 
in coming. When Caderousse turned 
around, he saw behind him La Carconte, 
paler and trembling more than ever. 
"Is, then, all that I have heard really 
true?" she inquired.

"What? That he has given the diamond to 
us only?" inquired Caderousse, half 
bewildered with joy; "yes, nothing more 
true! See, here it is." The woman gazed 
at it a moment, and then said, in a 
gloomy voice, "Suppose it's false?" 
Caderousse started and turned pale. 
"False!" he muttered. "False! Why 
should that man give me a false 
diamond?"

"To get your secret without paying for 
it, you blockhead!"

Caderousse remained for a moment aghast 
under the weight of such an idea. "Oh!" 
he said, taking up his hat, which he 
placed on the red handkerchief tied 
round his head, "we will soon find out."

"In what way?"

"Why, the fair is on at Beaucaire, 
there are always jewellers from Paris 
there, and I will show it to them. Look 
after the house, wife, and I shall be 
back in two hours," and Caderousse left 
the house in haste, and ran rapidly in 
the direction opposite to that which 
the priest had taken. "Fifty thousand 
francs!" muttered La Carconte when left 
alone; "it is a large sum of money, but 
it is not a fortune." 

 Chapter 28 The Prison Register.

The day after that in which the scene 
we have just described had taken place 
on the road between Bellegarde and 
Beaucaire, a man of about thirty or two 
and thirty, dressed in a bright blue 
frock coat, nankeen trousers, and a 
white waistcoat, having the appearance 
and accent of an Englishman, presented 
himself before the mayor of Marseilles. 
"Sir," said he, "I am chief clerk of 
the house of Thomson & French, of Rome. 
We are, and have been these ten years, 
connected with the house of Morrel & 
Son, of Marseilles. We have a hundred 
thousand francs or thereabouts loaned 
on their securities, and we are a 
little uneasy at reports that have 
reached us that the firm is on the 
brink of ruin. I have come, therefore, 
express from Rome, to ask you for 
information."

"Sir," replied the mayor. "I know very 
well that during the last four or five 
years misfortune has seemed to pursue 
M. Morrel. He has lost four or five 
vessels, and suffered by three or four 
bankruptcies; but it is not for me, 
although I am a creditor myself to the 
amount of ten thousand francs, to give 
any information as to the state of his 
finances. Ask of me, as mayor, what is 
my opinion of M. Morrel, and I shall 
say that he is a man honorable to the 
last degree, and who has up to this 
time fulfilled every engagement with 
scrupulous punctuality. This is all I 
can say, sir; if you wish to learn 
more, address yourself to M. de 
Boville, the inspector of prisons, No. 
15, Rue de Nouailles; he has, I 
believe, two hundred thousand francs in 
Morrel's hands, and if there be any 
grounds for apprehension, as this is a 
greater amount than mine, you will most 
probably find him better informed than 
myself."

The Englishman seemed to appreciate 
this extreme delicacy, made his bow and 
went away, proceeding with a 
characteristic British stride towards 
the street mentioned. M. de Boville was 
in his private room, and the 
Englishman, on perceiving him, made a 
gesture of surprise, which seemed to 
indicate that it was not the first time 
he had been in his presence. As to M. 
de Boville, he was in such a state of 
despair, that it was evident all the 
faculties of his mind, absorbed in the 
thought which occupied him at the 
moment, did not allow either his memory 
or his imagination to stray to the 
past. The Englishman, with the coolness 
of his nation, addressed him in terms 
nearly similar to those with which he 
had accosted the mayor of Marseilles. 
"Oh, sir," exclaimed M. de Boville, 
"your fears are unfortunately but too 
well founded, and you see before you a 
man in despair. I had two hundred 
thousand francs placed in the hands of 
Morrel & Son; these two hundred 
thousand francs were the dowry of my 
daughter, who was to be married in a 
fortnight, and these two hundred 
thousand francs were payable, half on 
the 15th of this month, and the other 
half on the 15th of next month. I had 
informed M. Morrel of my desire to have 
these payments punctually, and he has 
been here within the last half-hour to 
tell me that if his ship, the Pharaon, 
did not come into port on the 15th, he 
would be wholly unable to make this 
payment."

"But," said the Englishman, "this looks 
very much like a suspension of payment."

"It looks more like bankruptcy!" 
exclaimed M. de Boville despairingly.

The Englishman appeared to reflect a 
moment, and then said, -- "From which 
it would appear, sir, that this credit 
inspires you with considerable 
apprehension?"

"To tell you the truth, I consider it 
lost."

"Well, then, I will buy it of you!"

"You?"

"Yes, I!"

"But at a tremendous discount, of 
course?"

"No, for two hundred thousand francs. 
Our house," added the Englishman with a 
laugh, "does not do things in that way."

"And you will pay" --

"Ready money." And the Englishman drew 
from his pocket a bundle of bank-notes, 
which might have been twice the sum M. 
de Boville feared to lose. A ray of joy 
passed across M. de Boville's 
countenance, yet he made an effort at 
self-control, and said, -- "Sir, I 
ought to tell you that, in all 
probability, you will not realize six 
per cent of this sum."

"That's no affair of mine," replied the 
Englishman, "that is the affair of the 
house of Thomson & French, in whose 
name I act. They have, perhaps, some 
motive to serve in hastening the ruin 
of a rival firm. But all I know, sir, 
is, that I am ready to hand you over 
this sum in exchange for your 
assignment of the debt. I only ask a 
brokerage."

"Of course, that is perfectly just," 
cried M. de Boville. "The commission is 
usually one and a half; will you have 
two -- three -- five per cent, or even 
more? Whatever you say."

"Sir," replied the Englishman, 
laughing, "I am like my house, and do 
not do such things -- no, the 
commission I ask is quite different."

"Name it, sir, I beg."

"You are the inspector of prisons?"

"I have been so these fourteen years."

"You keep the registers of entries and 
departures?"

"I do."

"To these registers there are added 
notes relative to the prisoners?"

"There are special reports on every 
prisoner."

"Well, sir, I was educated at home by a 
poor devil of an abbe, who disappeared 
suddenly. I have since learned that he 
was confined in the Chateau d'If, and I 
should like to learn some particulars 
of his death."

"What was his name?"

"The Abbe Faria."

"Oh, I recollect him perfectly," cried 
M. de Boville; "he was crazy."

"So they said."

"Oh, he was, decidedly."

"Very possibly; but what sort of 
madness was it?"

"He pretended to know of an immense 
treasure, and offered vast sums to the 
government if they would liberate him."

"Poor devil! -- and he is dead?"

"Yes, sir, five or six months ago -- 
last February."

"You have a good memory, sir, to 
recollect dates so well."

"I recollect this, because the poor 
devil's death was accompanied by a 
singular incident."

"May I ask what that was?" said the 
Englishman with an expression of 
curiosity, which a close observer would 
have been astonished at discovering in 
his phlegmatic countenance.

"Oh dear, yes, sir; the abbe's dungeon 
was forty or fifty feet distant from 
that of one of Bonaparte's emissaries, 
-- one of those who had contributed the 
most to the return of the usurper in 
1815, -- a very resolute and very 
dangerous man."

"Indeed!" said the Englishman.

"Yes," replied M. de Boville; "I myself 
had occasion to see this man in 1816 or 
1817, and we could only go into his 
dungeon with a file of soldiers. That 
man made a deep impression on me; I 
shall never forget his countenance!" 
The Englishman smiled imperceptibly.

"And you say, sir," he interposed, 
"that the two dungeons" --

"Were separated by a distance of fifty 
feet; but it appears that this Edmond 
Dantes" --

"This dangerous man's name was" --

"Edmond Dantes. It appears, sir, that 
this Edmond Dantes had procured tools, 
or made them, for they found a tunnel 
through which the prisoners held 
communication with one another."

"This tunnel was dug, no doubt, with an 
intention of escape?"

"No doubt; but unfortunately for the 
prisoners, the Abbe Faria had an attack 
of catalepsy, and died."

"That must have cut short the projects 
of escape."

"For the dead man, yes," replied M. de 
Boville, "but not for the survivor; on 
the contrary, this Dantes saw a means 
of accelerating his escape. He, no 
doubt, thought that prisoners who died 
in the Chateau d'If were interred in an 
ordinary burial-ground, and he conveyed 
the dead man into his own cell, took 
his place in the sack in which they had 
sewed up the corpse, and awaited the 
moment of interment."

"It was a bold step, and one that 
showed some courage," remarked the 
Englishman.

"As I have already told you, sir, he 
was a very dangerous man; and, 
fortunately, by his own act 
disembarrassed the government of the 
fears it had on his account."

"How was that?"

"How? Do you not comprehend?"

"No."

"The Chateau d'If has no cemetery, and 
they simply throw the dead into the 
sea, after fastening a thirty-six pound 
cannon-ball to their feet."

"Well," observed the Englishman as if 
he were slow of comprehension.

"Well, they fastened a thirty-six pound 
ball to his feet, and threw him into 
the sea."

"Really!" exclaimed the Englishman.

"Yes, sir," continued the inspector of 
prisons. "You may imagine the amazement 
of the fugitive when he found himself 
flung headlong over the rocks! I should 
like to have seen his face at that 
moment."

"That would have been difficult."

"No matter," replied De Boville, in 
supreme good-humor at the certainty of 
recovering his two hundred thousand 
francs, -- "no matter, I can fancy it." 
And he shouted with laughter.

"So can I," said the Englishman, and he 
laughed too; but he laughed as the 
English do, "at the end of his teeth."

"And so," continued the Englishman who 
first gained his composure, "he was 
drowned?"

"Unquestionably."

"So that the governor got rid of the 
dangerous and the crazy prisoner at the 
same time?"

"Precisely."

"But some official document was drawn 
up as to this affair, I suppose?" 
inquired the Englishman.

"Yes, yes, the mortuary deposition. You 
understand, Dantes' relations, if he 
had any, might have some interest in 
knowing if he were dead or alive."

"So that now, if there were anything to 
inherit from him, they may do so with 
easy conscience. He is dead, and no 
mistake about it."

"Oh, yes; and they may have the fact 
attested whenever they please."

"So be it," said the Englishman. "But 
to return to these registers."

"True, this story has diverted our 
attention from them. Excuse me."

"Excuse you for what? For the story? By 
no means; it really seems to me very 
curious."

"Yes, indeed. So, sir, you wish to see 
all relating to the poor abbe, who 
really was gentleness itself."

"Yes, you will much oblige me."

"Go into my study here, and I will show 
it to you." And they both entered M. de 
Boville's study. Everything was here 
arranged in perfect order; each 
register had its number, each file of 
papers its place. The inspector begged 
the Englishman to seat himself in an 
arm-chair, and placed before him the 
register and documents relative to the 
Chateau d'If, giving him all the time 
he desired for the examination, while 
De Boville seated himself in a corner, 
and began to read his newspaper. The 
Englishman easily found the entries 
relative to the Abbe Faria; but it 
seemed that the history which the 
inspector had related interested him 
greatly, for after having perused the 
first documents he turned over the 
leaves until he reached the deposition 
respecting Edmond Dantes. There he 
found everything arranged in due order, 
-- the accusation, examination, 
Morrel's petition, M. de Villefort's 
marginal notes. He folded up the 
accusation quietly, and put it as 
quietly in his pocket; read the 
examination, and saw that the name of 
Noirtier was not mentioned in it; 
perused, too, the application dated 
10th April, 1815, in which Morrel, by 
the deputy procureur's advice, 
exaggerated with the best intentions 
(for Napoleon was then on the throne) 
the services Dantes had rendered to the 
imperial cause -- services which 
Villefort's certificates rendered 
indispensable. Then he saw through the 
whole thing. This petition to Napoleon, 
kept back by Villefort, had become, 
under the second restoration, a 
terrible weapon against him in the 
hands of the king's attorney. He was no 
longer astonished when he searched on 
to find in the register this note, 
placed in a bracket against his name: --

Edmond Dantes.

An inveterate Bonapartist; took an 
active part in the return from the 
Island of Elba.

To be kept in strict solitary 
confinement, and to be closely watched 
and guarded.

Beneath these lines was written in 
another hand: "See note above -- 
nothing can be done." He compared the 
writing in the bracket with the writing 
of the certificate placed beneath 
Morrel's petition, and discovered that 
the note in the bracket was the some 
writing as the certificate -- that is 
to say, was in Villefort's handwriting. 
As to the note which accompanied this, 
the Englishman understood that it might 
have been added by some inspector who 
had taken a momentary interest in 
Dantes' situation, but who had, from 
the remarks we have quoted, found it 
impossible to give any effect to the 
interest he had felt.

As we have said, the inspector, from 
discretion, and that he might not 
disturb the Abbe Faria's pupil in his 
researches, had seated himself in a 
corner, and was reading Le Drapeau 
Blanc. He did not see the Englishman 
fold up and place in his pocket the 
accusation written by Danglars under 
the arbor of La Reserve, and which had 
the postmark, "Marseilles, 27th Feb., 
delivery 6 o'clock, P.M." But it must 
be said that if he had seen it, he 
attached so little importance to this 
scrap of paper, and so much importance 
to his two hundred thousand francs, 
that he would not have opposed whatever 
the Englishman might do, however 
irregular it might be.

"Thanks," said the latter, closing the 
register with a slam, "I have all I 
want; now it is for me to perform my 
promise. Give me a simple assignment of 
your debt; acknowledge therein the 
receipt of the cash, and I will hand 
you over the money." He rose, gave his 
seat to M. de Boville, who took it 
without ceremony, and quickly drew up 
the required assignment, while the 
Englishman counted out the bank-notes 
on the other side of the desk. 

 Chapter 29 The House of Morrel & Son.

Any one who had quitted Marseilles a 
few years previously, well acquainted 
with the interior of Morrel's 
warehouse, and had returned at this 
date, would have found a great change. 
Instead of that air of life, of 
comfort, and of happiness that 
permeates a flourishing and prosperous 
business establishment -- instead of 
merry faces at the windows, busy clerks 
hurrying to and fro in the long 
corridors -- instead of the court 
filled with bales of goods, re-echoing 
with the cries and the jokes of 
porters, one would have immediately 
perceived all aspect of sadness and 
gloom. Out of all the numerous clerks 
that used to fill the deserted corridor 
and the empty office, but two remained. 
One was a young man of three or four 
and twenty, who was in love with M. 
Morrel's daughter, and had remained 
with him in spite of the efforts of his 
friends to induce him to withdraw; the 
other was an old one-eyed cashier, 
called "Cocles," or "Cock-eye," a 
nickname given him by the young men who 
used to throng this vast now almost 
deserted bee-hive, and which had so 
completely replaced his real name that 
he would not, in all probability, have 
replied to any one who addressed him by 
it.

Cocles remained in M. Morrel's service, 
and a most singular change had taken 
place in his position; he had at the 
same time risen to the rank of cashier, 
and sunk to the rank of a servant. He 
was, however, the same Cocles, good, 
patient, devoted, but inflexible on the 
subject of arithmetic, the only point 
on which he would have stood firm 
against the world, even against M. 
Morrel; and strong in the 
multiplication-table, which he had at 
his fingers' ends, no matter what 
scheme or what trap was laid to catch 
him. In the midst of the disasters that 
befell the house, Cocles was the only 
one unmoved. But this did not arise 
from a want of affection; on the 
contrary, from a firm conviction. Like 
the rats that one by one forsake the 
doomed ship even before the vessel 
weighs anchor, so all the numerous 
clerks had by degrees deserted the 
office and the warehouse. Cocles had 
seen them go without thinking of 
inquiring the cause of their departure. 
Everything was as we have said, a 
question of arithmetic to Cocles, and 
during twenty years he had always seen 
all payments made with such exactitude, 
that it seemed as impossible to him 
that the house should stop payment, as 
it would to a miller that the river 
that had so long turned his mill should 
cease to flow.

Nothing had as yet occurred to shake 
Cocles' belief; the last month's 
payment had been made with the most 
scrupulous exactitude; Cocles had 
detected an overbalance of fourteen 
sous in his cash, and the same evening 
he had brought them to M. Morrel, who, 
with a melancholy smile, threw them 
into an almost empty drawer, saying: --

"Thanks, Cocles; you are the pearl of 
cashiers "

Cocles went away perfectly happy, for 
this eulogium of M. Morrel, himself the 
pearl of the honest men of Marseilles, 
flattered him more than a present of 
fifty crowns. But since the end of the 
month M. Morrel had passed many an 
anxious hour. In order to meet the 
payments then due; he had collected all 
his resources, and, fearing lest the 
report of his distress should get 
bruited abroad at Marseilles when he 
was known to be reduced to such an 
extremity, he went to the Beaucaire 
fair to sell his wife's and daughter's 
jewels and a portion of his plate. By 
this means the end of the month was 
passed, but his resources were now 
exhausted. Credit, owing to the reports 
afloat, was no longer to be had; and to 
meet the one hundred thousand francs 
due on the 10th of the present month, 
and the one hundred thousand francs due 
on the 15th of the next month to M. de 
Boville, M. Morrel had, in reality, no 
hope but the return of the Pharaon, of 
whose departure he had learnt from a 
vessel which had weighed anchor at the 
same time, and which had already 
arrived in harbor. But this vessel 
which, like the Pharaon, came from 
Calcutta, had been in for a fortnight, 
while no intelligence had been received 
of the Pharaon.

Such was the state of affairs when, the 
day after his interview with M. de 
Boville, the confidential clerk of the 
house of Thomson & French of Rome, 
presented himself at M. Morrel's. 
Emmanuel received him; this young man 
was alarmed by the appearance of every 
new face, for every new face might be 
that of a new creditor, come in anxiety 
to question the head of the house. The 
young man, wishing to spare his 
employer the pain of this interview, 
questioned the new-comer; but the 
stranger declared that he had nothing 
to say to M. Emmanuel, and that his 
business was with M. Morrel in person. 
Emmanuel sighed, and summoned Cocles. 
Cocles appeared, and the young man bade 
him conduct the stranger to M. Morrel's 
apartment. Cocles went first, and the 
stranger followed him. On the staircase 
they met a beautiful girl of sixteen or 
seventeen, who looked with anxiety at 
the stranger.

"M. Morrel is in his room, is he not, 
Mademoiselle Julie?" said the cashier.

"Yes; I think so, at least," said the 
young girl hesitatingly. "Go and see, 
Cocles, and if my father is there, 
announce this gentleman."

"It will be useless to announce me, 
mademoiselle," returned the Englishman. 
"M. Morrel does not know my name; this 
worthy gentleman has only to announce 
the confidential clerk of the house of 
Thomson & French of Rome, with whom 
your father does business."

The young girl turned pale and 
continued to descend, while the 
stranger and Cocles continued to mount 
the staircase. She entered the office 
where Emmanuel was, while Cocles, by 
the aid of a key he possessed, opened a 
door in the corner of a landing-place 
on the second staircase, conducted the 
stranger into an ante-chamber, opened a 
second door, which he closed behind 
him, and after having left the clerk of 
the house of Thomson & French alone, 
returned and signed to him that he 
could enter. The Englishman entered, 
and found Morrel seated at a table, 
turning over the formidable columns of 
his ledger, which contained the list of 
his liabilities. At the sight of the 
stranger, M. Morrel closed the ledger, 
arose, and offered a seat to the 
stranger; and when he had seen him 
seated, resumed his own chair. Fourteen 
years had changed the worthy merchant, 
who, in his thirty-sixth year at the 
opening of this history, was now in his 
fiftieth; his hair had turned white, 
time and sorrow had ploughed deep 
furrows on his brow, and his look, once 
so firm and penetrating, was now 
irresolute and wandering, as if he 
feared being forced to fix his 
attention on some particular thought or 
person. The Englishman looked at him 
with an air of curiosity, evidently 
mingled with interest. "Monsieur," said 
Morrel, whose uneasiness was increased 
by this examination, "you wish to speak 
to me?"

"Yes, monsieur; you are aware from whom 
I come?"

"The house of Thomson & French; at 
least, so my cashier tells me."

"He has told you rightly. The house of 
Thomson & French had 300,000 or 400,000 
francs to pay this month in France; 
and, knowing your strict punctuality, 
have collected all the bills bearing 
your signature, and charged me as they 
became due to present them, and to 
employ the money otherwise." Morrel 
sighed deeply, and passed his hand over 
his forehead, which was covered with 
perspiration.

"So then, sir," said Morrel, "you hold 
bills of mine?"

"Yes, and for a considerable sum."

"What is the amount?" asked Morrel with 
a voice he strove to render firm.

"Here is," said the Englishman, taking 
a quantity of papers from his pocket, 
"an assignment of 200,000 francs to our 
house by M. de Boville, the inspector 
of prisons, to whom they are due. You 
acknowledge, of course, that you owe 
this sum to him?"

"Yes; he placed the money in my hands 
at four and a half per cent nearly five 
years ago."

"When are you to pay?"

"Half the 15th of this month, half the 
15th of next."

"Just so; and now here are 32,500 
francs payable shortly; they are all 
signed by you, and assigned to our 
house by the holders."

"I recognize them," said Morrel, whose 
face was suffused, as he thought that, 
for the first time in his life, he 
would be unable to honor his own 
signature. "Is this all?"

"No, I have for the end of the month 
these bills which have been assigned to 
us by the house of Pascal, and the 
house of Wild & Turner of Marseilles, 
amounting to nearly 55,000 francs; in 
all, 287,500 francs." It is impossible 
to describe what Morrel suffered during 
this enumeration. "Two hundred and 
eighty-seven thousand five hundred 
francs," repeated he.

"Yes, sir," replied the Englishman. "I 
will not," continued he, after a 
moment's silence, "conceal from you, 
that while your probity and exactitude 
up to this moment are universally 
acknowledged, yet the report is current 
in Marseilles that you are not able to 
meet your liabilities." At this almost 
brutal speech Morrel turned deathly 
pale. "Sir," said he, "up to this time 
-- and it is now more than 
four-and-twenty years since I received 
the direction of this house from my 
father, who had himself conducted it 
for five and thirty years -- never has 
anything bearing the signature of 
Morrel & Son been dishonored."

"I know that," replied the Englishman. 
"But as a man of honor should answer 
another, tell me fairly, shall you pay 
these with the same punctuality?" 
Morrel shuddered, and looked at the 
man, who spoke with more assurance than 
he had hitherto shown. "To questions 
frankly put," said he, "a 
straightforward answer should be given. 
Yes, I shall pay, if, as I hope, my 
vessel arrives safely; for its arrival 
will again procure me the credit which 
the numerous accidents, of which I have 
been the victim, have deprived me; but 
if the Pharaon should be lost, and this 
last resource be gone" -- the poor 
man's eyes filled with tears.

"Well," said the other, "if this last 
resource fail you?"

"Well," returned Morrel, "it is a cruel 
thing to be forced to say, but, already 
used to misfortune, I must habituate 
myself to shame. I fear I shall be 
forced to suspend payment."

"Have you no friends who could assist 
you?" Morrel smiled mournfully. "In 
business, sir," said he, "one has no 
friends, only correspondents."

"It is true," murmured the Englishman; 
"then you have but one hope."

"But one."

"The last?"

"The last."

"So that if this fail" --

"I am ruined, -- completely ruined!"

"As I was on my way here, a vessel was 
coming into port."

"I know it, sir; a young man, who still 
adheres to my fallen fortunes, passes a 
part of his time in a belvidere at the 
top of the house, in hopes of being the 
first to announce good news to me; he 
has informed me of the arrival of this 
ship."

"And it is not yours?"

"No, she is a Bordeaux vessel, La 
Gironde; she comes from India also; but 
she is not mine."

"Perhaps she has spoken the Pharaon, 
and brings you some tidings of her?"

"Shall I tell you plainly one thing, 
sir? I dread almost as much to receive 
any tidings of my vessel as to remain 
in doubt. uncertainty is still hope." 
Then in a low voice Morrel added, -- 
"This delay is not natural. The Pharaon 
left Calcutta the 5th February; she 
ought to have been here a month ago."

"What is that?" said the Englishman. 
"What is the meaning of that noise?"

"Oh, oh!" cried Morrel, turning pale, 
"what is it?" A loud noise was heard on 
the stairs of people moving hastily, 
and half-stifled sobs. Morrel rose and 
advanced to the door; but his strength 
failed him and he sank into a chair. 
The two men remained opposite one 
another, Morrel trembling in every 
limb, the stranger gazing at him with 
an air of profound pity. The noise had 
ceased; but it seemed that Morrel 
expected something -- something had 
occasioned the noise, and something 
must follow. The stranger fancied he 
heard footsteps on the stairs; and that 
the footsteps, which were those of 
several persons, stopped at the door. A 
key was inserted in the lock of the 
first door, and the creaking of hinges 
was audible.

"There are only two persons who have 
the key to that door," murmured Morrel, 
"Cocles and Julie." At this instant the 
second door opened, and the young girl, 
her eyes bathed with tears, appeared. 
Morrel rose tremblingly, supporting 
himself by the arm of the chair. He 
would have spoken, but his voice failed 
him. "Oh, father!" said she, clasping 
her hands, "forgive your child for 
being the bearer of evil tidings."

Morrel again changed color. Julie threw 
herself into his arms.

"Oh, father, father!" murmured she, 
"courage!"

"The Pharaon has gone down, then?" said 
Morrel in a hoarse voice. The young 
girl did not speak; but she made an 
affirmative sign with her head as she 
lay on her father's breast.

"And the crew?" asked Morrel.

"Saved," said the girl; "saved by the 
crew of the vessel that has just 
entered the harbor." Morrel raised his 
two hands to heaven with an expression 
of resignation and sublime gratitude. 
"Thanks, my God," said he, "at least 
thou strikest but me alone." A tear 
moistened the eye of the phlegmatic 
Englishman.

"Come in, come in," said Morrel, "for I 
presume you are all at the door."

Scarcely had he uttered those words 
than Madame Morrel entered weeping 
bitterly. Emmanuel followed her, and in 
the antechamber were visible the rough 
faces of seven or eight half-naked 
sailors. At the sight of these men the 
Englishman started and advanced a step; 
then restrained himself, and retired 
into the farthest and most obscure 
corner of the apartment. Madame Morrel 
sat down by her husband and took one of 
his hands in hers, Julie still lay with 
her head on his shoulder, Emmanuel 
stood in the centre of the chamber and 
seemed to form the link between 
Morrel's family and the sailors at the 
door.

"How did this happen?" said Morrel.

"Draw nearer, Penelon," said the young 
man, "and tell us all about it."

An old seaman, bronzed by the tropical 
sun, advanced, twirling the remains of 
a tarpaulin between his hands. 
"Good-day, M. Morrel," said he, as if 
he had just quitted Marseilles the 
previous evening, and had just returned 
from Aix or Toulon.

"Good-day, Penelon," returned Morrel, 
who could not refrain from smiling 
through his tears, "where is the 
captain?"

"The captain, M. Morrel, -- he has 
stayed behind sick at Palma; but please 
God, it won't be much, and you will see 
him in a few days all alive and hearty."

"Well, now tell your story, Penelon."

Penelon rolled his quid in his cheek, 
placed his hand before his mouth, 
turned his head, and sent a long jet of 
tobacco-juice into the antechamber, 
advanced his foot, balanced himself, 
and began, -- "You see, M. Morrel," 
said he, "we were somewhere between 
Cape Blanc and Cape Boyador, sailing 
with a fair breeze, south-south-west 
after a week's calm, when Captain 
Gaumard comes up to me -- I was at the 
helm I should tell you -- and says, 
`Penelon, what do you think of those 
clouds coming up over there?' I was 
just then looking at them myself. `What 
do I think, captain? Why I think that 
they are rising faster than they have 
any business to do, and that they would 
not be so black if they didn't mean 
mischief.' -- `That's my opinion too,' 
said the captain, `and I'll take 
precautions accordingly. We are 
carrying too much canvas. Avast, there, 
all hands! Take in the studding-sl's 
and stow the flying jib.' It was time; 
the squall was on us, and the vessel 
began to heel. `Ah,' said the captain, 
`we have still too much canvas set; all 
hands lower the mains'l!' Five minutes 
after, it was down; and we sailed under 
mizzen-tops'ls and to'gall'nt sails. 
`Well, Penelon,' said the captain, 
`what makes you shake your head?' 
`Why,' I says, `I still think you've 
got too much on.' `I think you're 
right,' answered he, `we shall have a 
gale.' `A gale? More than that, we 
shall have a tempest, or I don't know 
what's what.' You could see the wind 
coming like the dust at Montredon; 
luckily the captain understood his 
business. `Take in two reefs in the 
tops'ls,' cried the captain; `let go 
the bowlin's, haul the brace, lower the 
to'gall'nt sails, haul out the 
reef-tackles on the yards.'"

"That was not enough for those 
latitudes," said the Englishman; "I 
should have taken four reefs in the 
topsails and furled the spanker."

His firm, sonorous, and unexpected 
voice made every one start. Penelon put 
his hand over his eyes, and then stared 
at the man who thus criticized the 
manoeuvres of his captain. "We did 
better than that, sir," said the old 
sailor respectfully; "we put the helm 
up to run before the tempest; ten 
minutes after we struck our tops'ls and 
scudded under bare poles."

"The vessel was very old to risk that," 
said the Englishman.

"Eh, it was that that did the business; 
after pitching heavily for twelve hours 
we sprung a leak. `Penelon,' said the 
captain, `I think we are sinking, give 
me the helm, and go down into the 
hold.' I gave him the helm, and 
descended; there was already three feet 
of water. `All hands to the pumps!' I 
shouted; but it was too late, and it 
seemed the more we pumped the more came 
in. `Ah,' said I, after four hours' 
work, `since we are sinking, let us 
sink; we can die but once.' `That's the 
example you set, Penelon,' cries the 
captain; `very well, wait a minute.' He 
went into his cabin and came back with 
a brace of pistols. `I will blow the 
brains out of the first man who leaves 
the pump,' said he."

"Well done!" said the Englishman.

"There's nothing gives you so much 
courage as good reasons," continued the 
sailor; "and during that time the wind 
had abated, and the sea gone down, but 
the water kept rising; not much, only 
two inches an hour, but still it rose. 
Two inches an hour does not seem much, 
but in twelve hours that makes two 
feet, and three we had before, that 
makes five. `Come,' said the captain, 
`we have done all in our power, and M. 
Morrel will have nothing to reproach us 
with, we have tried to save the ship, 
let us now save ourselves. To the 
boats, my lads, as quick as you can.' 
Now," continued Penelon, "you see, M. 
Morrel, a sailor is attached to his 
ship, but still more to his life, so we 
did not wait to be told twice; the more 
so, that the ship was sinking under us, 
and seemed to say, `Get along -- save 
yourselves.' We soon launched the boat, 
and all eight of us got into it. The 
captain descended last, or rather, he 
did not descend, he would not quit the 
vessel; so I took him round the waist, 
and threw him into the boat, and then I 
jumped after him. It was time, for just 
as I jumped the deck burst with a noise 
like the broadside of a man-of-war. Ten 
minutes after she pitched forward, then 
the other way, spun round and round, 
and then good-by to the Pharaon. As for 
us, we were three days without anything 
to eat or drink, so that we began to 
think of drawing lots who should feed 
the rest, when we saw La Gironde; we 
made signals of distress, she perceived 
us, made for us, and took us all on 
board. There now, M. Morrel, that's the 
whole truth, on the honor of a sailor; 
is not it true, you fellows there?" A 
general murmur of approbation showed 
that the narrator had faithfully 
detailed their misfortunes and 
sufferings.

"Well, well," said M. Morrel, "I know 
there was no one in fault but destiny. 
It was the will of God that this should 
happen, blessed be his name. What wages 
are due to you?"

"Oh, don't let us talk of that, M. 
Morrel."

"Yes, but we will talk of it."

"Well, then, three months," said 
Penelon.

"Cocles, pay two hundred francs to each 
of these good fellows," said Morrel. 
"At another time," added be, "I should 
have said, Give them, besides, two 
hundred francs over as a present; but 
times are changed, and the little money 
that remains to me is not my own."

Penelon turned to his companions, and 
exchanged a few words with them.

"As for that, M. Morrel," said he, 
again turning his quid, "as for that" --

"As for what?"

"The money."

"Well" --

"Well, we all say that fifty francs 
will be enough for us at present, and 
that we will wait for the rest."

"Thanks, my friends, thanks!" cried 
Morrel gratefully; "take it -- take it; 
and if you can find another employer, 
enter his service; you are free to do 
so." These last words produced a 
prodigious effect on the seaman. 
Penelon nearly swallowed his quid; 
fortunately he recovered. "What, M. 
Morrel!" said he in a low voice, "you 
send us away; you are then angry with 
us!"

"No, no," said M. Morrel, "I am not 
angry, quite the contrary, and I do not 
send you away; but I have no more 
ships, and therefore I do not want any 
sailors."

"No more ships!" returned Penelon; 
"well, then, you'll build some; we'll 
wait for you."

"I have no money to build ships with, 
Penelon," said the poor owner 
mournfully, "so I cannot accept your 
kind offer."

"No more money? Then you must not pay 
us; we can scud, like the Pharaon, 
under bare poles."

"Enough, enough!" cried Morrel, almost 
overpowered; "leave me, I pray you; we 
shall meet again in a happier time. 
Emmanuel, go with them, and see that my 
orders are executed."

"At least, we shall see each other 
again, M. Morrel?" asked Penelon.

"Yes; I hope so, at least. Now go." He 
made a sign to Cocles, who went first; 
the seamen followed him and Emmanuel 
brought up the rear. "Now," said the 
owner to his wife and daughter, "leave 
me; I wish to speak with this 
gentleman." And he glanced towards the 
clerk of Thomson & French, who had 
remained motionless in the corner 
during this scene, in which he had 
taken no part, except the few words we 
have mentioned. The two women looked at 
this person whose presence they had 
entirely forgotten, and retired; but, 
as she left the apartment, Julie gave 
the stranger a supplicating glance, to 
which he replied by a smile that an 
indifferent spectator would have been 
surprised to see on his stern features. 
The two men were left alone. "Well, 
sir," said Morrel, sinking into a 
chair, "you have heard all, and I have 
nothing further to tell you."

"I see," returned the Englishman, "that 
a fresh and unmerited misfortune his 
overwhelmed you, and this only 
increases my desire to serve you."

"Oh, sir!" cried Morrel.

"Let me see," continued the stranger, 
"I am one of your largest creditors."

"Your bills, at least, are the first 
that will fall due."

"Do you wish for time to pay?"

"A delay would save my honor, and 
consequently my life."

"How long a delay do you wish for?" -- 
Morrel reflected. "Two months," said he.

"I will give you three," replied the 
stranger.

"But," asked Morrel, "will the house of 
Thomson & French consent?"

"Oh, I take everything on myself. 
To-day is the 5th of June."

"Yes."

"Well, renew these bills up to the 5th 
of September; and on the 5th of 
September at eleven o'clock (the hand 
of the clock pointed to eleven), I 
shall come to receive the money."

"I shall expect you," returned Morrel; 
"and I will pay you -- or I shall he 
dead." These last words were uttered in 
so low a tone that the stranger could 
not hear them. The bills were renewed, 
the old ones destroyed, and the poor 
ship-owner found himself with three 
months before him to collect his 
resources. The Englishman received his 
thanks with the phlegm peculiar to his 
nation; and Morrel, overwhelming him 
with grateful blessings, conducted him 
to the staircase. The stranger met 
Julie on the stairs; she pretended to 
be descending, but in reality she was 
waiting for him. "Oh, sir" -- said she, 
clasping her hands.

"Mademoiselle," said the stranger, "one 
day you will receive a letter signed 
`Sinbad the Sailor.' Do exactly what 
the letter bids you, however strange it 
may appear."

"Yes, sir," returned Julie.

"Do you promise?"

"I swear to you I will."

"It is well. Adieu, mademoiselle. 
Continue to be the good, sweet girl you 
are at present, and I have great hopes 
that heaven will reward you by giving 
you Emmanuel for a husband."

Julie uttered a faint cry, blushed like 
a rose, and leaned against the 
baluster. The stranger waved his hand, 
and continued to descend. In the court 
he found Penelon, who, with a rouleau 
of a hundred francs in either hand, 
seemed unable to make up his mind to 
retain them. "Come with me, my friend," 
said the Englishman; "I wish to speak 
to you." 

 Chapter 30 The Fifth of September.

The extension provided for by the agent 
of Thomson & French, at the moment when 
Morrel expected it least, was to the 
poor shipowner so decided a stroke of 
good fortune that he almost dared to 
believe that fate was at length grown 
weary of wasting her spite upon him. 
The same day he told his wife, 
Emmanuel, and his daughter all that had 
occurred; and a ray of hope, if not of 
tranquillity, returned to the family. 
Unfortunately, however, Morrel had not 
only engagements with the house of 
Thomson & French, who had shown 
themselves so considerate towards him; 
and, as he had said, in business he had 
correspondents, and not friends. When 
he thought the matter over, he could by 
no means account for this generous 
conduct on the part of Thomson & French 
towards him; and could only attribute 
it to some such selfish argument as 
this: -- "We had better help a man who 
owes us nearly 300,000 francs, and have 
those 300,000 francs at the end of 
three months than hasten his ruin, and 
get only six or eight per cent of our 
money back again." Unfortunately, 
whether through envy or stupidity, all 
Morrel's correspondents did not take 
this view; and some even came to a 
contrary decision. The bills signed by 
Morrel were presented at his office 
with scrupulous exactitude, and, thanks 
to the delay granted by the Englishman, 
were paid by Cocles with equal 
punctuality. Cocles thus remained in 
his accustomed tranquillity. It was 
Morrel alone who remembered with alarm, 
that if he had to repay on the 15th the 
50,000 francs of M. de Boville, and on 
the 30th the 32,500 francs of bills, 
for which, as well as the debt due to 
the inspector of prisons, he had time 
granted, he must be a ruined man.

The opinion of all the commercial men 
was that, under the reverses which had 
successively weighed down Morrel, it 
was impossible for him to remain 
solvent. Great, therefore, was the 
astonishment when at the end of the 
month, he cancelled all his obligations 
with his usual punctuality. Still 
confidence was not restored to all 
minds, and the general opinion was that 
the complete ruin of the unfortunate 
shipowner had been postponed only until 
the end of the month. The month passed, 
and Morrel made extraordinary efforts 
to get in all his resources. Formerly 
his paper, at any date, was taken with 
confidence, and was even in request. 
Morrel now tried to negotiate bills at 
ninety days only, and none of the banks 
would give him credit. Fortunately, 
Morrel had some funds coming in on 
which he could rely; and, as they 
reached him, he found himself in a 
condition to meet his engagements when 
the end of July came. The agent of 
Thomson & French had not been again 
seen at Marseilles; the day after, or 
two days after his visit to Morrel, he 
had disappeared; and as in that city he 
had had no intercourse but with the 
mayor, the inspector of prisons, and M. 
Morrel, his departure left no trace 
except in the memories of these three 
persons. As to the sailors of the 
Pharaon, they must have found snug 
berths elsewhere, for they also had 
disappeared.

Captain Gaumard, recovered from his 
illness, had returned from Palma. He 
delayed presenting himself at Morrel's, 
but the owner, hearing of his arrival, 
went to see him. The worthy shipowner 
knew, from Penelon's recital, of the 
captain's brave conduct during the 
storm, and tried to console him. He 
brought him also the amount of his 
wages, which Captain Gaumard had not 
dared to apply for. As he descended the 
staircase, Morrel met Penelon, who was 
going up. Penelon had, it would seem, 
made good use of his money, for he was 
newly clad. When he saw his employer, 
the worthy tar seemed much embarrassed, 
drew on one side into the corner of the 
landing-place, passed his quid from one 
cheek to the other, stared stupidly 
with his great eyes, and only 
acknowledged the squeeze of the hand 
which Morrel as usual gave him by a 
slight pressure in return. Morrel 
attributed Penelon's embarrassment to 
the elegance of his attire; it was 
evident the good fellow had not gone to 
such an expense on his own account; he 
was, no doubt, engaged on board some 
other vessel, and thus his bashfulness 
arose from the fact of his not having, 
if we may so express ourselves, worn 
mourning for the Pharaon longer. 
Perhaps he had come to tell Captain 
Gaumard of his good luck, and to offer 
him employment from his new master. 
"Worthy fellows!" said Morrel, as he 
went away, "may your new master love 
you as I loved you, and be more 
fortunate than I have been!"

August rolled by in unceasing efforts 
on the part of Morrel to renew his 
credit or revive the old. On the 20th 
of August it was known at Marseilles 
that he had left town in the mailcoach, 
and then it was said that the bills 
would go to protest at the end of the 
month, and that Morrel had gone away 
and left his chief clerk Emmanuel, and 
his cashier Cocles, to meet the 
creditors. But, contrary to all 
expectation, when the 31st of August 
came, the house opened as usual, and 
Cocles appeared behind the grating of 
the counter, examined all bills 
presented with the usual scrutiny, and, 
from first to last, paid all with the 
usual precision. There came in, 
moreover, two drafts which M. Morrel 
had fully anticipated, and which Cocles 
paid as punctually as the bills which 
the shipowner had accepted. All this 
was incomprehensible, and then, with 
the tenacity peculiar to prophets of 
bad news, the failure was put off until 
the end of September. On the 1st, 
Morrel returned; he was awaited by his 
family with extreme anxiety, for from 
this journey to Paris they hoped great 
things. Morrel had thought of Danglars, 
who was now immensely rich, and had 
lain under great obligations to Morrel 
in former days, since to him it was 
owing that Danglars entered the service 
of the Spanish banker, with whom he had 
laid the foundations of his vast 
wealth. It was said at this moment that 
Danglars was worth from six to eight 
millions of francs, and had unlimited 
credit. Danglars, then, without taking 
a crown from his pocket, could save 
Morrel; he had but to pass his word for 
a loan, and Morrel was saved. Morrel 
had long thought of Danglars, but had 
kept away from some instinctive motive, 
and had delayed as long as possible 
availing himself of this last resource. 
And Morrel was right, for he returned 
home crushed by the humiliation of a 
refusal. Yet, on his arrival, Morrel 
did not utter a complaint, or say one 
harsh word. He embraced his weeping 
wife and daughter, pressed Emmanuel's 
hand with friendly warmth, and then 
going to his private room on the second 
floor had sent for Cocles. "Then," said 
the two women to Emmanuel, "we are 
indeed ruined."

It was agreed in a brief council held 
among them, that Julie should write to 
her brother, who was in garrison at 
Nimes, to come to them as speedily as 
possible. The poor women felt 
instinctively that they required all 
their strength to support the blow that 
impended. Besides, Maximilian Morrel, 
though hardly two and twenty, had great 
influence over his father. He was a 
strong-minded, upright young man. At 
the time when he decided on his 
profession his father had no desire to 
choose for him, but had consulted young 
Maximilian's taste. He had at once 
declared for a military life, and had 
in consequence studied hard, passed 
brilliantly through the Polytechnic 
School, and left it as sub-lieutenant 
of the 53d of the line. For a year he 
had held this rank, and expected 
promotion on the first vacancy. In his 
regiment Maximilian Morrel was noted 
for his rigid observance, not only of 
the obligations imposed on a soldier, 
but also of the duties of a man; and he 
thus gained the name of "the stoic." We 
need hardly say that many of those who 
gave him this epithet repeated it 
because they had heard it, and did not 
even know what it meant. This was the 
young man whom his mother and sister 
called to their aid to sustain them 
under the serious trial which they felt 
they would soon have to endure. They 
had not mistaken the gravity of this 
event, for the moment after Morrel had 
entered his private office with Cocles, 
Julie saw the latter leave it pale, 
trembling, and his features betraying 
the utmost consternation. She would 
have questioned him as he passed by 
her, but the worthy creature hastened 
down the staircase with unusual 
precipitation, and only raised his 
hands to heaven and exclaimed, "Oh, 
mademoiselle, mademoiselle, what a 
dreadful misfortune! Who could ever 
have believed it!" A moment afterwards 
Julie saw him go up-stairs carrying two 
or three heavy ledgers, a portfolio, 
and a bag of money.

Morrel examined the ledgers, opened the 
portfolio, and counted the money. All 
his funds amounted to 6,000, or 8,000 
francs, his bills receivable up to the 
5th to 4,000 or 5,000, which, making 
the best of everything, gave him 14,000 
francs to meet debts amounting to 
287,500 francs. He had not even the 
means for making a possible settlement 
on account. However, when Morrel went 
down to his dinner, he appeared very 
calm. This calmness was more alarming 
to the two women than the deepest 
dejection would have been. After dinner 
Morrel usually went out and used to 
take his coffee at the Phocaean club, 
and read the Semaphore; this day he did 
not leave the house, but returned to 
his office.

As to Cocles, he seemed completely 
bewildered. For part of the day he went 
into the court-yard, seated himself on 
a stone with his head bare and exposed 
to the blazing sun. Emmanuel tried to 
comfort the women, but his eloquence 
faltered. The young man was too well 
acquainted with the business of the 
house, not to feel that a great 
catastrophe hung over the Morrel 
family. Night came, the two women had 
watched, hoping that when he left his 
room Morrel would come to them, but 
they heard him pass before their door, 
and trying to conceal the noise of his 
footsteps. They listened; he went into 
his sleeping-room, and fastened the 
door inside. Madame Morrel sent her 
daughter to bed, and half an hour after 
Julie had retired, she rose, took off 
her shoes, and went stealthily along 
the passage, to see through the keyhole 
what her husband was doing. In the 
passage she saw a retreating shadow; it 
was Julie, who, uneasy herself, had 
anticipated her mother. The young lady 
went towards Madame Morrel.

"He is writing," she said. They had 
understood each other without speaking. 
Madame Morrel looked again through the 
keyhole, Morrel was writing; but Madame 
Morrel remarked, what her daughter had 
not observed, that her husband was 
writing on stamped paper. The terrible 
idea that he was writing his will 
flashed across her; she shuddered, and 
yet had not strength to utter a word. 
Next day M. Morrel seemed as calm as 
ever, went into his office as usual, 
came to his breakfast punctually, and 
then, after dinner, he placed his 
daughter beside him, took her head in 
his arms, and held her for a long time 
against his bosom. In the evening, 
Julie told her mother, that although he 
was apparently so calm, she had noticed 
that her father's heart beat violently. 
The next two days passed in much the 
same way. On the evening of the 4th of 
September, M. Morrel asked his daughter 
for the key of his study. Julie 
trembled at this request, which seemed 
to her of bad omen. Why did her father 
ask for this key which she always kept, 
and which was only taken from her in 
childhood as a punishment? The young 
girl looked at Morrel.

"What have I done wrong, father," she 
said, "that you should take this key 
from me?"

"Nothing, my dear," replied the unhappy 
man, the tears starting to his eyes at 
this simple question, -- "nothing, only 
I want it." Julie made a pretence to 
feel for the key. "I must have left it 
in my room," she said. And she went 
out, but instead of going to her 
apartment she hastened to consult 
Emmanuel. "Do not give this key to your 
father," said he, "and to-morrow 
morning, if possible, do not quit him 
for a moment." She questioned Emmanuel, 
but he knew nothing, or would not say 
what he knew. During the night, between 
the 4th and 5th of September, Madame 
Morrel remained listening for every 
sound, and, until three o'clock in the 
morning, she heard her husband pacing 
the room in great agitation. It was 
three o'clock when he threw himself on 
the bed. The mother and daughter passed 
the night together. They had expected 
Maximilian since the previous evening. 
At eight o'clock in the morning Morrel 
entered their chamber. He was calm; but 
the agitation of the night was legible 
in his pale and careworn visage. They 
did not dare to ask him how he had 
slept. Morrel was kinder to his wife, 
more affectionate to his daughter, than 
he had ever been. He could not cease 
gazing at and kissing the sweet girl. 
Julie, mindful of Emmanuel's request, 
was following her father when he 
quitted the room, but he said to her 
quickly, -- "Remain with your mother, 
dearest." Julie wished to accompany 
him. "I wish you to do so," said he.

This was the first time Morrel had ever 
so spoken, but he said it in a tone of 
paternal kindness, and Julie did not 
dare to disobey. She remained at the 
same spot standing mute and motionless. 
An instant afterwards the door opened, 
she felt two arms encircle her, and a 
mouth pressed her forehead. She looked 
up and uttered an exclamation of joy.

"Maximilian, my dearest brother!" she 
cried. At these words Madame Morrel 
rose, and threw herself into her son's 
arms. "Mother," said the young man, 
looking alternately at Madame Morrel 
and her daughter, "what has occurred -- 
what has happened? Your letter has 
frightened me, and I have come hither 
with all speed."

"Julie," said Madame Morrel, making a 
sign to the young man, "go and tell 
your father that Maximilian has just 
arrived." The young lady rushed out of 
the apartment, but on the first step of 
the staircase she found a man holding a 
letter in his hand.

"Are you not Mademoiselle Julie 
Morrel?" inquired the man, with a 
strong Italian accent.

"Yes, sir," replied Julie with 
hesitation; "what is your pleasure? I 
do not know you."

"Read this letter," he said, handing it 
to her. Julie hesitated. "It concerns 
the best interests of your father," 
said the messenger.

The young girl hastily took the letter 
from him. She opened it quickly and 
read: --

"Go this moment to the Allees de 
Meillan, enter the house No. 15, ask 
the porter for the key of the room on 
the fifth floor, enter the apartment, 
take from the corner of the mantelpiece 
a purse netted in red silk, and give it 
to your father. It is important that he 
should receive it before eleven 
o'clock. You promised to obey me 
implicitly. Remember your oath.

"Sinbad the Sailor."

The young girl uttered a joyful cry, 
raised her eyes, looked round to 
question the messenger, but he had 
disappeared. She cast her eyes again 
over the note to peruse it a second 
time, and saw there was a postscript. 
She read: --

"It is important that you should fulfil 
this mission in person and alone. If 
you go accompanied by any other person, 
or should any one else go in your 
place, the porter will reply that he 
does not know anything about it."

This postscript decreased greatly the 
young girl's happiness. Was there 
nothing to fear? was there not some 
snare laid for her? Her innocence had 
kept her in ignorance of the dangers 
that might assail a young girl of her 
age. But there is no need to know 
danger in order to fear it; indeed, it 
may be observed, that it is usually 
unknown perils that inspire the 
greatest terror.

Julie hesitated, and resolved to take 
counsel. Yet, through a singular 
impulse, it was neither to her mother 
nor her brother that she applied, but 
to Emmanuel. She hastened down and told 
him what had occurred on the day when 
the agent of Thomson & French had come 
to her father's, related the scene on 
the staircase, repeated the promise she 
had made, and showed him the letter. 
"You must go, then, mademoiselle," said 
Emmanuel.

"Go there?" murmured Julie.

"Yes; I will accompany you."

"But did you not read that I must be 
alone?" said Julie.

"And you shall be alone," replied the 
young man. "I will await you at the 
corner of the Rue de Musee, and if you 
are so long absent as to make me 
uneasy, I will hasten to rejoin you, 
and woe to him of whom you shall have 
cause to complain to me!"

"Then, Emmanuel?" said the young girl 
with hesitation, "it is your opinion 
that I should obey this invitation?"

"Yes. Did not the messenger say your 
father's safety depended upon it?"

"But what danger threatens him, then, 
Emmanuel?" she asked.

Emmanuel hesitated a moment, but his 
desire to make Julie decide immediately 
made him reply.

"Listen," he said; "to-day is the 5th 
of September, is it not?"

"Yes."

"To-day, then, at eleven o'clock, your 
father has nearly three hundred 
thousand francs to pay?"

"Yes, we know that."

"Well, then," continued Emmanuel, "we 
have not fifteen thousand francs in the 
house."

"What will happen then?"

"Why, if to-day before eleven o'clock 
your father has not found someone who 
will come to his aid, he will be 
compelled at twelve o'clock to declare 
himself a bankrupt."

"Oh, come, then, come!" cried she, 
hastening away with the young man. 
During this time, Madame Morrel had 
told her son everything. The young man 
knew quite well that, after the 
succession of misfortunes which had 
befallen his father, great changes had 
taken place in the style of living and 
housekeeping; but he did not know that 
matters had reached such a point. He 
was thunderstruck. Then, rushing 
hastily out of the apartment, he ran 
up-stairs, expecting to find his father 
in his study, but he rapped there in 
vain.

While he was yet at the door of the 
study he heard the bedroom door open, 
turned, and saw his father. Instead of 
going direct to his study, M. Morrel 
had returned to his bed-chamber, which 
he was only this moment quitting. 
Morrel uttered a cry of surprise at the 
sight of his son, of whose arrival he 
was ignorant. He remained motionless on 
the spot, pressing with his left hand 
something he had concealed under his 
coat. Maximilian sprang down the 
staircase, and threw his arms round his 
father's neck; but suddenly he 
recoiled, and placed his right hand on 
Morrel's breast. "Father," he 
exclaimed, turning pale as death, "what 
are you going to do with that brace of 
pistols under your coat?"

"Oh, this is what I feared!" said 
Morrel.

"Father, father, in heaven's name," 
exclaimed the young man, "what are 
these weapons for?"

"Maximilian," replied Morrel, looking 
fixedly at his son, "you are a man, and 
a man of honor. Come, and I will 
explain to you."

And with a firm step Morrel went up to 
his study, while Maximilian followed 
him, trembling as he went. Morrel 
opened the door, and closed it behind 
his son; then, crossing the anteroom, 
went to his desk on which he placed the 
pistols, and pointed with his finger to 
an open ledger. In this ledger was made 
out an exact balance-sheet of his 
affair's. Morrel had to pay, within 
half an hour, 287,500 francs. All he 
possessed was 15,257 francs. "Read!" 
said Morrel.

The young man was overwhelmed as he 
read. Morrel said not a word. What 
could he say? What need he add to such 
a desperate proof in figures? "And have 
you done all that is possible, father, 
to meet this disastrous result?" asked 
the young man, after a moment's pause. 
"I have," replied Morrel.

"You have no money coming in on which 
you can rely?"

"None."

"You have exhausted every resource?"

"All."

"And in half an hour," said Maximilian 
in a gloomy voice, "our name is 
dishonored!"

"Blood washes out dishonor," said 
Morrel.

"You are right, father; I understand 
you." Then extending his hand towards 
one of the pistols, he said, "There is 
one for you and one for me -- thanks!" 
Morrel caught his hand. "Your mother -- 
your sister! Who will support them?" A 
shudder ran through the young man's 
frame. "Father," he said, "do you 
reflect that you are bidding me to 
live?"

"Yes, I do so bid you," answered 
Morrel, "it is your duty. You have a 
calm, strong mind, Maximilian. 
Maximilian, you are no ordinary man. I 
make no requests or commands; I only 
ask you to examine my position as if it 
were your own, and then judge for 
yourself."

The young man reflected for a moment, 
then an expression of sublime 
resignation appeared in his eyes, and 
with a slow and sad gesture he took off 
his two epaulets, the insignia of his 
rank. "Be it so, then, my father," he 
said, extending his hand to Morrel, 
"die in peace, my father; I will live." 
Morrel was about to cast himself on his 
knees before his son, but Maximilian 
caught him in his arms, and those two 
noble hearts were pressed against each 
other for a moment. "You know it is not 
my fault," said Morrel. Maximilian 
smiled. "I know, father, you are the 
most honorable man I have ever known."

"Good, my son. And now there is no more 
to be said; go and rejoin your mother 
and sister."

"My father," said the young man, 
bending his knee, "bless me!" Morrel 
took the head of his son between his 
two hands, drew him forward, and 
kissing his forehead several times 
said, "Oh, yes, yes, I bless you in my 
own name, and in the name of three 
generations of irreproachable men, who 
say through me, `The edifice which 
misfortune has destroyed, providence 
may build up again.' On seeing me die 
such a death, the most inexorable will 
have pity on you. To you, perhaps, they 
will accord the time they have refused 
to me. Then do your best to keep our 
name free from dishonor. Go to work, 
labor, young man, struggle ardently and 
courageously; live, yourself, your 
mother and sister, with the most rigid 
economy, so that from day to day the 
property of those whom I leave in your 
hands may augment and fructify. Reflect 
how glorious a day it will be, how 
grand, how solemn, that day of complete 
restoration, on which you will say in 
this very office, `My father died 
because he could not do what I have 
this day done; but he died calmly and 
peaceably, because in dying he knew 
what I should do.'"

"My father, my father!" cried the young 
man, "why should you not live?"

"If I live, all would be changed; if I 
live, interest would be converted into 
doubt, pity into hostility; if I live I 
am only a man who his broken his word, 
failed in his engagements -- in fact, 
only a bankrupt. If, on the contrary, I 
die, remember, Maximilian, my corpse is 
that of an honest but unfortunate man. 
Living, my best friends would avoid my 
house; dead, all Marseilles will follow 
me in tears to my last home. Living, 
you would feel shame at my name; dead, 
you may raise your head and say, `I am 
the son of him you killed, because, for 
the first time, he has been compelled 
to break his word.'"

The young man uttered a groan, but 
appeared resigned.

"And now," said Morrel, "leave me 
alone, and endeavor to keep your mother 
and sister away."

"Will you not see my sister once more?" 
asked Maximilian. A last but final hope 
was concealed by the young man in the 
effect of this interview, and therefore 
he had suggested it. Morrel shook his 
head. "I saw her this morning, and bade 
her adieu."

"Have you no particular commands to 
leave with me, my father?" inquired 
Maximilian in a faltering voice.

"Yes; my son, and a sacred command."

"Say it, my father."

"The house of Thomson & French is the 
only one who, from humanity, or, it may 
be, selfishness -- it is not for me to 
read men's hearts -- has had any pity 
for me. Its agent, who will in ten 
minutes present himself to receive the 
amount of a bill of 287,500 francs, I 
will not say granted, but offered me 
three months. Let this house be the 
first repaid, my son, and respect this 
man."

"Father, I will," said Maximilian.

"And now, once more, adieu," said 
Morrel. "Go, leave me; I would be 
alone. You will find my will in the 
secretary in my bedroom."

The young man remained standing and 
motionless, having but the force of 
will and not the power of execution.

"Hear me, Maximilian," said his father. 
"Suppose I was a soldier like you, and 
ordered to carry a certain redoubt, and 
you knew I must be killed in the 
assault, would you not say to me, as 
you said just now, `Go, father; for you 
are dishonored by delay, and death is 
preferable to shame!'"

"Yes, yes," said the young man, "yes;" 
and once again embracing his father 
with convulsive pressure, he said, "Be 
it so, my father."

And he rushed out of the study. When 
his son had left him, Morrel remained 
an instant standing with his eyes fixed 
on the door; then putting forth his 
arm, he pulled the bell. After a 
moment's interval, Cocles appeared.

It was no longer the same man -- the 
fearful revelations of the three last 
days had crushed him. This thought -- 
the house of Morrel is about to stop 
payment -- bent him to the earth more 
than twenty years would otherwise have 
done.

"My worthy Cocles," said Morrel in a 
tone impossible to describe, "do you 
remain in the ante-chamber. When the 
gentleman who came three months ago -- 
the agent of Thomson & French -- 
arrives, announce his arrival to me." 
Cocles made no reply; he made a sign 
with his head, went into the anteroom, 
and seated himself. Morrel fell back in 
his chair, his eyes fixed on the clock; 
there were seven minutes left, that was 
all. The hand moved on with incredible 
rapidity, he seemed to see its motion.

What passed in the mind of this man at 
the supreme moment of his agony cannot 
be told in words. He was still 
comparatively young, he was surrounded 
by the loving care of a devoted family, 
but he had convinced himself by a 
course of reasoning, illogical perhaps, 
yet certainly plausible, that he must 
separate himself from all he held dear 
in the world, even life itself. To form 
the slightest idea of his feelings, one 
must have seen his face with its 
expression of enforced resignation and 
its tear-moistened eyes raised to 
heaven. The minute hand moved on. The 
pistols were loaded; he stretched forth 
his hand, took one up, and murmured his 
daughter's name. Then he laid it down 
seized his pen, and wrote a few words. 
It seemed to him as if he had not taken 
a sufficient farewell of his beloved 
daughter. Then he turned again to the 
clock, counting time now not by 
minutes, but by seconds. He took up the 
deadly weapon again, his lips parted 
and his eyes fixed on the clock, and 
then shuddered at the click of the 
trigger as he cocked the pistol. At 
this moment of mortal anguish the cold 
sweat came forth upon his brow, a pang 
stronger than death clutched at his 
heart-strings. He heard the door of the 
staircase creak on its hinges -- the 
clock gave its warning to strike eleven 
-- the door of his study opened; Morrel 
did not turn round -- he expected these 
words of Cocles, "The agent of Thomson 
& French."

He placed the muzzle of the pistol 
between his teeth. Suddenly he heard a 
cry -- it was his daughter's voice. He 
turned and saw Julie. The pistol fell 
from his hands. "My father!" cried the 
young girl, out of breath, and half 
dead with joy -- "saved, you are 
saved!" And she threw herself into his 
arms, holding in her extended hand a 
red, netted silk purse.

"Saved, my child!" said Morrel; "what 
do you mean?"

"Yes, saved -- saved! See, see!" said 
the young girl.

Morrel took the purse, and started as 
he did so, for a vague remembrance 
reminded him that it once belonged to 
himself. At one end was the receipted 
bill for the 287,000 francs, and at the 
other was a diamond as large as a 
hazel-nut, with these words on a small 
slip of parchment: -- Julie's Dowry.

Morrel passed his hand over his brow; 
it seemed to him a dream. At this 
moment the clock struck eleven. He felt 
as if each stroke of the hammer fell 
upon his heart. "Explain, my child," he 
said, "Explain, my child," he said, 
"explain -- where did you find this 
purse?"

"In a house in the Allees de Meillan, 
No. 15, on the corner of a mantelpiece 
in a small room on the fifth floor."

"But," cried Morrel, "this purse is not 
yours!" Julie handed to her father the 
letter she had received in the morning.

"And did you go alone?" asked Morrel, 
after he had read it.

"Emmanuel accompanied me, father. He 
was to have waited for me at the corner 
of the Rue de Musee, but, strange to 
say, he was not there when I returned."

"Monsieur Morrel!" exclaimed a voice on 
the stairs. -- "Monsieur Morrel!"

"It is his voice!" said Julie. At this 
moment Emmanuel entered, his 
countenance full of animation and joy. 
"The Pharaon!" he cried; "the Pharaon!"

"What -- what -- the Pharaon! Are you 
mad, Emmanuel? You know the vessel is 
lost."

"The Pharaon, sir -- they signal the 
Pharaon! The Pharaon is entering the 
harbor!" Morrel fell back in his chair, 
his strength was failing him; his 
understanding weakened by such events, 
refused to comprehend such incredible, 
unheard-of, fabulous facts. But his son 
came in. "Father," cried Maximilian, 
"how could you say the Pharaon was 
lost? The lookout has signalled her, 
and they say she is now coming into 
port."

"My dear friends," said Morrel, "if 
this be so, it must be a miracle of 
heaven! Impossible, impossible!"

But what was real and not less 
incredible was the purse he held in his 
hand, the acceptance receipted -- the 
splendid diamond.

"Ah, sir," exclaimed Cocles, "what can 
it mean? -- the Pharaon?"

"Come, dear ones," said Morrel, rising 
from his seat, "let us go and see, and 
heaven have pity upon us if it be false 
intelligence!" They all went out, and 
on the stairs met Madame Morrel, who 
had been afraid to go up into the 
study. In a moment they were at the 
Cannebiere. There was a crowd on the 
pier. All the crowd gave way before 
Morrel. "The Pharaon, the Pharaon!" 
said every voice.

And, wonderful to see, in front of the 
tower of Saint-Jean, was a ship bearing 
on her stern these words, printed in 
white letters, "The Pharaon, Morrel & 
Son, of Marseilles." She was the exact 
duplicate of the other Pharaon, and 
loaded, as that had been, with 
cochineal and indigo. She cast anchor, 
clued up sails, and on the deck was 
Captain Gaumard giving orders, and good 
old Penelon making signals to M. 
Morrel. To doubt any longer was 
impossible; there was the evidence of 
the senses, and ten thousand persons 
who came to corroborate the testimony. 
As Morrel and his son embraced on the 
pier-head, in the presence and amid the 
applause of the whole city witnessing 
this event, a man, with his face 
half-covered by a black beard, and who, 
concealed behind the sentry-box, 
watched the scene with delight, uttered 
these words in a low tone: "Be happy, 
noble heart, be blessed for all the 
good thou hast done and wilt do 
hereafter, and let my gratitude remain 
in obscurity like your good deeds."

And with a smile expressive of supreme 
content, he left his hiding-place, and 
without being observed, descended one 
of the flights of steps provided for 
debarkation, and hailing three times, 
shouted "Jacopo, Jacopo, Jacopo!" Then 
a launch came to shore, took him on 
board, and conveyed him to a yacht 
splendidly fitted up, on whose deck he 
sprung with the activity of a sailor; 
thence he once again looked towards 
Morrel, who, weeping with joy, was 
shaking hands most cordially with all 
the crowd around him, and thanking with 
a look the unknown benefactor whom he 
seemed to be seeking in the skies. "And 
now," said the unknown, "farewell 
kindness, humanity, and gratitude! 
Farewell to all the feelings that 
expand the heart! I have been heaven's 
substitute to recompense the good -- 
now the god of vengeance yields to me 
his power to punish the wicked!" At 
these words he gave a signal, and, as 
if only awaiting this signal, the yacht 
instantly put out to sea. 

 Chapter 31 Italy: Sinbad the Sailor.

Towards the beginning of the year 1838, 
two young men belonging to the first 
society of Paris, the Vicomte Albert de 
Morcerf and the Baron Franz d'Epinay, 
were at Florence. They had agreed to 
see the Carnival at Rome that year, and 
that Franz, who for the last three or 
four years had inhabited Italy, should 
act as cicerone to Albert. As it is no 
inconsiderable affair to spend the 
Carnival at Rome, especially when you 
have no great desire to sleep on the 
Piazza del Popolo, or the Campo 
Vaccino, they wrote to Signor Pastrini, 
the proprietor of the Hotel de Londres, 
Piazza di Spagna, to reserve 
comfortable apartments for them. Signor 
Pastrini replied that he had only two 
rooms and a parlor on the third floor, 
which he offered at the low charge of a 
louis per diem. They accepted his 
offer; but wishing to make the best use 
of the time that was left, Albert 
started for Naples. As for Franz, he 
remained at Florence, and after having 
passed a few days in exploring the 
paradise of the Cascine, and spending 
two or three evenings at the houses of 
the Florentine nobility, he took a 
fancy into his head (having already 
visited Corsica, the cradle of 
Bonaparte) to visit Elba, the 
waiting-place of Napoleon.

One evening he cast off the painter of 
a sailboat from the iron ring that 
secured it to the dock at Leghorn, 
wrapped himself in his coat and lay 
down, and said to the crew, -- "To the 
Island of Elba!" The boat shot out of 
the harbor like a bird and the next 
morning Franz disembarked at 
Porto-Ferrajo. He traversed the island, 
after having followed the traces which 
the footsteps of the giant have left, 
and re-embarked for Marciana. Two hours 
after he again landed at Pianosa, where 
he was assured that red partridges 
abounded. The sport was bad; Franz only 
succeeded in killing a few partridges, 
and, like every unsuccessful sportsman, 
he returned to the boat very much out 
of temper. "Ah, if your excellency 
chose," said the captain, "you might 
have capital sport."

"Where?"

"Do you see that island?" continued the 
captain, pointing to a conical pile 
rising from the indigo sea.

"Well, what is this island?"

"The Island of Monte Cristo."

"But I have no permission to shoot over 
this island."

"Your excellency does not require a 
permit, for the island is uninhabited."

"Ah, indeed!" said the young man. "A 
desert island in the midst of the 
Mediterranean must be a curiosity."

"It is very natural; this island is a 
mass of rocks, and does not contain an 
acre of land capable of cultivation."

"To whom does this island belong?"

"To Tuscany."

"What game shall I find there!"

"Thousands of wild goats."

"Who live upon the stones, I suppose," 
said Franz with an incredulous smile.

"No, but by browsing the shrubs and 
trees that grow out of the crevices of 
the rocks."

"Where can I sleep?"

"On shore in the grottos, or on board 
in your cloak; besides, if your 
excellency pleases, we can leave as 
soon as you like -- we can sail as well 
by night as by day, and if the wind 
drops we can use our oars."

As Franz had sufficient time, and his 
apartments at Rome were not yet 
available, he accepted the proposition. 
Upon his answer in the affirmative, the 
sailors exchanged a few words together 
in a low tone. "Well," asked he, "what 
now? Is there any difficulty in the 
way?"

"No." replied the captain, "but we must 
warn your excellency that the island is 
an infected port."

"What do you mean?"

"Monte Cristo although uninhabited, yet 
serves occasionally as a refuge for the 
smugglers and pirates who come from 
Corsica, Sardinia, and Africa, and if 
it becomes known that we have been 
there, we shall have to perform 
quarantine for six days on our return 
to Leghorn."

"The deuce! That puts a different face 
on the matter. Six days! Why, that's as 
long as the Almighty took to make the 
world! Too long a wait -- too long."

"But who will say your excellency has 
been to Monte Cristo?"

"Oh, I shall not," cried Franz.

"Nor I, nor I," chorused the sailors.

"Then steer for Monte Cristo."

The captain gave his orders, the helm 
was put up, and the boat was soon 
sailing in the direction of the island. 
Franz waited until all was in order, 
and when the sail was filled, and the 
four sailors had taken their places -- 
three forward, and one at the helm -- 
he resumed the conversation. "Gaetano," 
said he to the captain, "you tell me 
Monte Cristo serves as a refuge for 
pirates, who are, it seems to me, a 
very different kind of game from the 
goats."

"Yes, your excellency, and it is true."

"I knew there were smugglers, but I 
thought that since the capture of 
Algiers, and the destruction of the 
regency, pirates existed only in the 
romances of Cooper and Captain Marryat."

"Your excellency is mistaken; there are 
pirates, like the bandits who were 
believed to have been exterminated by 
Pope Leo XII., and who yet, every day, 
rob travellers at the gates of Rome. 
Has not your excellency heard that the 
French charge d'affaires was robbed six 
months ago within five hundred paces of 
Velletri?"

"Oh, yes, I heard that."

"Well, then, if, like us, your 
excellency lived at Leghorn, you would 
hear, from time to time, that a little 
merchant vessel, or an English yacht 
that was expected at Bastia, at 
Porto-Ferrajo, or at Civita Vecchia, 
has not arrived; no one knows what has 
become of it, but, doubtless, it has 
struck on a rock and foundered. Now 
this rock it has met has been a long 
and narrow boat, manned by six or eight 
men, who have surprised and plundered 
it, some dark and stormy night, near 
some desert and gloomy island, as 
bandits plunder a carriage in the 
recesses of a forest."

"But," asked Franz, who lay wrapped in 
his cloak at the bottom of the boat, 
"why do not those who have been 
plundered complain to the French, 
Sardinian, or Tuscan governments?"

"Why?" said Gaetano with a smile.

"Yes, why?"

"Because, in the first place, they 
transfer from the vessel to their own 
boat whatever they think worth taking, 
then they bind the crew hand and foot, 
they attach to every one's neck a four 
and twenty pound ball, a large hole is 
chopped in the vessel's bottom, and 
then they leave her. At the end of ten 
minutes the vessel begins to roll 
heavily and settle down. First one 
gun'l goes under, then the other. Then 
they lift and sink again, and both go 
under at once. All at once there's a 
noise like a cannon -- that's the air 
blowing up the deck. Soon the water 
rushes out of the scupper-holes like a 
whale spouting, the vessel gives a last 
groan, spins round and round, and 
disappears, forming a vast whirlpool in 
the ocean, and then all is over, so 
that in five minutes nothing but the 
eye of God can see the vessel where she 
lies at the bottom of the sea. Do you 
understand now," said the captain, "why 
no complaints are made to the 
government, and why the vessel never 
reaches port?"

It is probable that if Gaetano had 
related this previous to proposing the 
expedition, Franz would have hesitated, 
but now that they had started, he 
thought it would be cowardly to draw 
back. He was one of those men who do 
not rashly court danger, but if danger 
presents itself, combat it with the 
most unalterable coolness. Calm and 
resolute, he treated any peril as he 
would an adversary in a duel, -- 
calculated its probable method of 
approach; retreated, if at all, as a 
point of strategy and not from 
cowardice; was quick to see an opening 
for attack, and won victory at a single 
thrust. "Bah!" said he, "I have 
travelled through Sicily and Calabria 
-- I have sailed two months in the 
Archipelago, and yet I never saw even 
the shadow of a bandit or a pirate."

"I did not tell your excellency this to 
deter you from your project," replied 
Gaetano, "but you questioned me, and I 
have answered; that's all."

"Yes, and your conversation is most 
interesting; and as I wish to enjoy it 
as long as possible, steer for Monte 
Cristo."

The wind blew strongly, the boat made 
six or seven knots an hour, and they 
were rapidly reaching the end of their 
voyage. As they drew near the island 
seemed to lift from the sea, and the 
air was so clear that they could 
already distinguish the rocks heaped on 
one another, like cannon balls in an 
arsenal, with green bushes and trees 
growing in the crevices. As for the 
sailors, although they appeared 
perfectly tranquil yet it was evident 
that they were on the alert, and that 
they carefully watched the glassy 
surface over which they were sailing, 
and on which a few fishing-boats, with 
their white sails, were alone visible. 
They were within fifteen miles of Monte 
Cristo when the sun began to set behind 
Corsica, whose mountains appeared 
against the sky, showing their rugged 
peaks in bold relief; this mass of 
rock, like the giant Adamastor, rose 
dead ahead, a formidable barrier, and 
intercepting the light that gilded its 
massive peaks so that the voyagers were 
in shadow. Little by little the shadow 
rose higher and seemed to drive before 
it the last rays of the expiring day; 
at last the reflection rested on the 
summit of the mountain, where it paused 
an instant, like the fiery crest of a 
volcano, then gloom gradually covered 
the summit as it had covered the base, 
and the island now only appeared to be 
a gray mountain that grew continually 
darker; half an hour after, the night 
was quite dark.

Fortunately, the mariners were used to 
these latitudes, and knew every rock in 
the Tuscan Archipelago; for in the 
midst of this obscurity Franz was not 
without uneasiness -- Corsica had long 
since disappeared, and Monte Cristo 
itself was invisible; but the sailors 
seemed, like the lynx, to see in the 
dark, and the pilot who steered did not 
evince the slightest hesitation. An 
hour had passed since the sun had set, 
when Franz fancied he saw, at a quarter 
of a mile to the left, a dark mass, but 
he could not precisely make out what it 
was, and fearing to excite the mirth of 
the sailors by mistaking a floating 
cloud for land, he remained silent; 
suddenly a great light appeared on the 
strand; land might resemble a cloud, 
but the fire was not a meteor. "What is 
this light?" asked he.

"Hush!" said the captain; "it is a 
fire."

"But you told me the island was 
uninhabited?"

"l said there were no fixed habitations 
on it, but I said also that it served 
sometimes as a harbor for smugglers."

"And for pirates?"

"And for pirates," returned Gaetano, 
repeating Franz's words. "It is for 
that reason I have given orders to pass 
the island, for, as you see, the fire 
is behind us."

"But this fire?" continued Franz. "It 
seems to me rather reassuring than 
otherwise; men who did not wish to be 
seen would not light a fire."

"Oh, that goes for nothing," said 
Gaetano. "If you can guess the position 
of the island in the darkness, you will 
see that the fire cannot be seen from 
the side or from Pianosa, but only from 
the sea."

"You think, then, this fire indicates 
the presence of unpleasant neighbors?"

"That is what we must find out," 
returned Gaetano, fixing his eyes on 
this terrestrial star.

"How can you find out?"

"You shall see." Gaetano consulted with 
his companions, and after five minutes' 
discussion a manoeuvre was executed 
which caused the vessel to tack about, 
they returned the way they had come, 
and in a few minutes the fire 
disappeared, hidden by an elevation of 
the land. The pilot again changed the 
course of the boat, which rapidly 
approached the island, and was soon 
within fifty paces of it. Gaetano 
lowered the sail, and the boat came to 
rest. All this was done in silence, and 
from the moment that their course was 
changed not a word was spoken.

Gaetano, who had proposed the 
expedition, had taken all the 
responsibility on himself; the four 
sailors fixed their eyes on him, while 
they got out their oars and held 
themselves in readiness to row away, 
which, thanks to the darkness, would 
not be difficult. As for Franz, he 
examined his arms with the utmost 
coolness; he had two double-barrelled 
guns and a rifle; he loaded them, 
looked at the priming, and waited 
quietly. During this time the captain 
had thrown off his vest and shirt, and 
secured his trousers round his waist; 
his feet were naked, so he had no shoes 
and stockings to take off; after these 
preparations he placed his finger on 
his lips, and lowering himself 
noiselessly into the sea, swam towards 
the shore with such precaution that it 
was impossible to hear the slightest 
sound; he could only be traced by the 
phosphorescent line in his wake. This 
track soon disappeared; it was evident 
that he had touched the shore. Every 
one on board remained motionless for 
half an hour, when the same luminous 
track was again observed, and the 
swimmer was soon on board. "Well?" 
exclaimed Franz and the sailors in 
unison.

"They are Spanish smugglers," said he; 
"they have with them two Corsican 
bandits."

"And what are these Corsican bandits 
doing here with Spanish smugglers?"

"Alas," returned the captain with an 
accent of the most profound pity, "we 
ought always to help one another. Very 
often the bandits are hard pressed by 
gendarmes or carbineers; well, they see 
a vessel, and good fellows like us on 
board, they come and demand hospitality 
of us; you can't refuse help to a poor 
hunted devil; we receive them, and for 
greater security we stand out to sea. 
This costs us nothing, and saves the 
life, or at least the liberty, of a 
fellow-creature, who on the first 
occasion returns the service by 
pointing out some safe spot where we 
can land our goods without 
interruption."

"Ah!" said Franz, "then you are a 
smuggler occasionally, Gaetano?"

"Your excellency, we must live 
somehow," returned the other, smiling 
impenetrably.

"Then you know the men who are now on 
Monte Cristo?"

"Oh, yes, we sailors are like 
freemasons, and recognize each other by 
signs."

"And do you think we have nothing to 
fear if we land?"

"Nothing at all; smugglers are not 
thieves."

"But these two Corsican bandits?" said 
Franz, calculating the chances of peril.

"It is not their fault that they are 
bandits, but that of the authorities."

"How so?"

"Because they are pursued for having 
made a stiff, as if it was not in a 
Corsican's nature to revenge himself."

"What do you mean by having made a 
stiff? -- having assassinated a man?" 
said Franz, continuing his 
investigation.

"I mean that they have killed an enemy, 
which is a very different thing," 
returned the captain.

"Well," said the young man, "let us 
demand hospitality of these smugglers 
and bandits. Do you think they will 
grant it?"

"Without doubt."

"How many are they?"

"Four, and the two bandits make six."

"Just our number, so that if they prove 
troublesome, we shall be able to hold 
them in check; so, for the last time, 
steer to Monte Cristo."

"Yes, but your excellency will permit 
us to take all due precautions."

"By all means, be as wise as Nestor and 
as prudent as Ulysses; I do more than 
permit, I exhort you."

"Silence, then!" said Gaetano.

Every one obeyed. For a man who, like 
Franz, viewed his position in its true 
light, it was a grave one. He was alone 
in the darkness with sailors whom he 
did not know, and who had no reason to 
be devoted to him; who knew that he had 
several thousand francs in his belt, 
and who had often examined his weapons, 
-- which were very beautiful, -- if not 
with envy, at least with curiosity. On 
the other hand, he was about to land, 
without any other escort than these 
men, on an island which had, indeed, a 
very religious name, but which did not 
seem to Franz likely to afford him much 
hospitality, thanks to the smugglers 
and bandits. The history of the 
scuttled vessels, which had appeared 
improbable during the day, seemed very 
probable at night; placed as he was 
between two possible sources of danger, 
he kept his eye on the crew, and his 
gun in his hand. The sailors had again 
hoisted sail, and the vessel was once 
more cleaving the waves. Through the 
darkness Franz, whose eyes were now 
more accustomed to it, could see the 
looming shore along which the boat was 
sailing, and then, as they rounded a 
rocky point, he saw the fire more 
brilliant than ever, and about it five 
or six persons seated. The blaze 
illumined the sea for a hundred paces 
around. Gaetano skirted the light, 
carefully keeping the boat in the 
shadow; then, when they were opposite 
the fire, he steered to the centre of 
the circle, singing a fishing song, of 
which his companions sung the chorus. 
At the first words of the song the men 
seated round the fire arose and 
approached the landing-place, their 
eyes fixed on the boat, evidently 
seeking to know who the new-comers were 
and what were their intentions. They 
soon appeared satisfied and returned 
(with the exception of one, who 
remained at the shore) to their fire, 
at which the carcass of a goat was 
roasting. When the boat was within 
twenty paces of the shore, the man on 
the beach, who carried a carbine, 
presented arms after the manner of a 
sentinel, and cried, "Who comes there?" 
in Sardinian. Franz coolly cocked both 
barrels. Gaetano then exchanged a few 
words with this man which the traveller 
did not understand, but which evidently 
concerned him. "Will your excellency 
give your name, or remain incognito?" 
asked the captain.

"My name must rest unknown, -- merely 
say I am a Frenchman travelling for 
pleasure." As soon as Gaetano had 
transmitted this answer, the sentinel 
gave an order to one of the men seated 
round the fire, who rose and 
disappeared among the rocks. Not a word 
was spoken, every one seemed occupied, 
Franz with his disembarkment, the 
sailors with their sails, the smugglers 
with their goat; but in the midst of 
all this carelessness it was evident 
that they mutually observed each other. 
The man who had disappeared returned 
suddenly on the opposite side to that 
by which he had left; he made a sign 
with his head to the sentinel, who, 
turning to the boat, said, 
"S'accommodi." The Italian s'accommodi 
is untranslatable; it means at once, 
"Come, enter, you are welcome; make 
yourself at home; you are the master." 
It is like that Turkish phrase of 
Moliere's that so astonished the 
bourgeois gentleman by the number of 
things implied in its utterance. The 
sailors did not wait for a second 
invitation; four strokes of the oar 
brought them to land; Gaetano sprang to 
shore, exchanged a few words with the 
sentinel, then his comrades 
disembarked, and lastly came Franz. One 
of his guns was swung over his 
shoulder, Gaetano had the other, and a 
sailor held his rifle; his dress, half 
artist, half dandy, did not excite any 
suspicion, and, consequently, no 
disquietude. The boat was moored to the 
shore, and they advanced a few paces to 
find a comfortable bivouac; but, 
doubtless, the spot they chose did not 
suit the smuggler who filled the post 
of sentinel, for he cried out, "Not 
that way, if you please."

Gaetano faltered an excuse, and 
advanced to the opposite side, while 
two sailors kindled torches at the fire 
to light them on their way. They 
advanced about thirty paces, and then 
stopped at a small esplanade surrounded 
with rocks, in which seats had been 
cut, not unlike sentry-boxes. Around in 
the crevices of the rocks grew a few 
dwarf oaks and thick bushes of myrtles. 
Franz lowered a torch, and saw by the 
mass of cinders that had accumulated 
that he was not the first to discover 
this retreat, which was, doubtless, one 
of the halting-places of the wandering 
visitors of Monte Cristo. As for his 
suspicions, once on terra firma, once 
that he had seen the indifferent, if 
not friendly, appearance of his hosts, 
his anxiety had quite disappeared, or 
rather, at sight of the goat, had 
turned to appetite. He mentioned this 
to Gaetano, who replied that nothing 
could be more easy than to prepare a 
supper when they had in their boat, 
bread, wine, half a dozen partridges, 
and a good fire to roast them by. 
"Besides," added he, "if the smell of 
their roast meat tempts you, I will go 
and offer them two of our birds for a 
slice."

"You are a born diplomat," returned 
Franz; "go and try."

Meanwhile the sailors had collected 
dried sticks and branches with which 
they made a fire. Franz waited 
impatiently, inhaling the aroma of the 
roasted meat, when the captain returned 
with a mysterious air.

"Well," said Franz, "anything new? -- 
do they refuse?"

"On the contrary," returned Gaetano, 
"the chief, who was told you were a 
young Frenchman, invites you to sup 
with him."

"Well," observed Franz, "this chief is 
very polite, and I see no objection -- 
the more so as I bring my share of the 
supper."

"Oh, it is not that; he has plenty, and 
to spare, for supper; but he makes one 
condition, and rather a peculiar one, 
before he will receive you at his 
house."

"His house? Has he built one here, 
then?"

"No; but he has a very comfortable one 
all the same, so they say."

"You know this chief, then?"

"I have heard talk of him."

"Favorably or otherwise?"

"Both."

"The deuce! -- and what is this 
condition?"

"That you are blindfolded, and do not 
take off the bandage until he himself 
bids you." Franz looked at Gaetano, to 
see, if possible, what he thought of 
this proposal. "Ah," replied he, 
guessing Franz's thought, "I know this 
is a serious matter."

"What should you do in my place?"

"I, who have nothing to lose, -- I 
should go."

"You would accept?"

"Yes, were it only out of curiosity."

"There is something very peculiar about 
this chief, then?"

"Listen," said Gaetano, lowering his 
voice, "I do not know if what they say 
is true" -- he stopped to see if any 
one was near.

"What do they say?"

"That this chief inhabits a cavern to 
which the Pitti Palace is nothing."

"What nonsense!" said Franz, reseating 
himself.

"It is no nonsense; it is quite true. 
Cama, the pilot of the Saint Ferdinand, 
went in once, and he came back amazed, 
vowing that such treasures were only to 
be heard of in fairy tales."

"Do you know," observed Franz, "that 
with such stories you make me think of 
Ali Baba's enchanted cavern?"

"I tell you what I have been told."

"Then you advise me to accept?"

"Oh, I don't say that; your excellency 
will do as you please; I should be 
sorry to advise you in the matter." 
Franz pondered the matter for a few 
moments, concluded that a man so rich 
could not have any intention of 
plundering him of what little he had, 
and seeing only the prospect of a good 
supper, accepted. Gaetano departed with 
the reply. Franz was prudent, and 
wished to learn all he possibly could 
concerning his host. He turned towards 
the sailor, who, during this dialogue, 
had sat gravely plucking the partridges 
with the air of a man proud of his 
office, and asked him how these men had 
landed, as no vessel of any kind was 
visible.

"Never mind that," returned the sailor, 
"I know their vessel."

"Is it a very beautiful vessel?"

"I would not wish for a better to sail 
round the world."

"Of what burden is she?"

"About a hundred tons; but she is built 
to stand any weather. She is what the 
English call a yacht."

"Where was she built?"

"I know not; but my own opinion is she 
is a Genoese."

"And how did a leader of smugglers," 
continued Franz, "venture to build a 
vessel designed for such a purpose at 
Genoa?"

"I did not say that the owner was a 
smuggler," replied the sailor.

"No; but Gaetano did, I thought."

"Gaetano had only seen the vessel from 
a distance, he had not then spoken to 
any one."

"And if this person be not a smuggler, 
who is he?"

"A wealthy signor, who travels for his 
pleasure."

"Come," thought Franz, "he is still 
more mysterious, since the two accounts 
do not agree."

"What is his name?"

"If you ask him he says Sinbad the 
Sailor; but I doubt if it be his real 
name."

"Sinbad the Sailor?"

"Yes."

"And where does he reside?"

"On the sea."

"What country does he come from?"

"I do not know."

"Have you ever seen him?"

"Sometimes."

"What sort of a man is he?"

"Your excellency will judge for 
yourself."

"Where will he receive me?"

"No doubt in the subterranean palace 
Gaetano told you of."

"Have you never had the curiosity, when 
you have landed and found this island 
deserted, to seek for this enchanted 
palace?"

"Oh, yes, more than once, but always in 
vain; we examined the grotto all over, 
but we never could find the slightest 
trace of any opening; they say that the 
door is not opened by a key, but a 
magic word."

"Decidedly," muttered Franz, "this is 
an Arabian Nights' adventure."

"His excellency waits for you," said a 
voice, which he recognized as that of 
the sentinel. He was accompanied by two 
of the yacht's crew. Franz drew his 
handkerchief from his pocket, and 
presented it to the man who had spoken 
to him. Without uttering a word, they 
bandaged his eyes with a care that 
showed their apprehensions of his 
committing some indiscretion. 
Afterwards he was made to promise that 
he would not make the least attempt to 
raise the bandage. He promised. Then 
his two guides took his arms, and he 
went on, guided by them, and preceded 
by the sentinel. After going about 
thirty paces, he smelt the appetizing 
odor of the kid that was roasting, and 
knew thus that he was passing the 
bivouac; they then led him on about 
fifty paces farther, evidently 
advancing towards that part of the 
shore where they would not allow 
Gaetano to go -- a refusal he could now 
comprehend. Presently, by a change in 
the atmosphere, he knew that they were 
entering a cave; after going on for a 
few seconds more he heard a crackling, 
and it seemed to him as though the 
atmosphere again changed, and became 
balmy and perfumed. At length his feet 
touched on a thick and soft carpet, and 
his guides let go their hold of him. 
There was a moment's silence, and then 
a voice, in excellent French, although, 
with a foreign accent, said, "Welcome, 
sir. I beg you will remove your 
bandage." It may be supposed, then, 
Franz did not wait for a repetition of 
this permission, but took off the 
handkerchief, and found himself in the 
presence of a man from thirty-eight to 
forty years of age, dressed in a 
Tunisian costume -- that is to say, a 
red cap with a long blue silk tassel, a 
vest of black cloth embroidered with 
gold, pantaloons of deep red, large and 
full gaiters of the same color, 
embroidered with gold like the vest, 
and yellow slippers; he had a splendid 
cashmere round his waist, and a small 
sharp and crooked cangiar was passed 
through his girdle. Although of a 
paleness that was almost livid, this 
man had a remarkably handsome face; his 
eyes were penetrating and sparkling; 
his nose, quite straight, and 
projecting direct from the brow, was of 
the pure Greek type, while his teeth, 
as white as pearls, were set off to 
admiration by the black mustache that 
encircled them.

His pallor was so peculiar, that it 
seemed to pertain to one who had been 
long entombed, and who was incapable of 
resuming the healthy glow and hue of 
life. He was not particularly tall, but 
extremely well made, and, like the men 
of the south, had small hands and feet. 
But what astonished Franz, who had 
treated Gaetano's description as a 
fable, was the splendor of the 
apartment in which he found himself. 
The entire chamber was lined with 
crimson brocade, worked with flowers of 
gold. In a recess was a kind of divan, 
surmounted with a stand of Arabian 
swords in silver scabbards, and the 
handles resplendent with gems; from the 
ceiling hung a lamp of Venetian glass, 
of beautiful shape and color, while the 
feet rested on a Turkey carpet, in 
which they sunk to the instep; tapestry 
hung before the door by which Franz had 
entered, and also in front of another 
door, leading into a second apartment 
which seemed to be brilliantly 
illuminated. The host gave Franz time 
to recover from his surprise, and, 
moreover, returned look for look, not 
even taking his eyes off him. "Sir," he 
said, after a pause, "a thousand 
excuses for the precaution taken in 
your introduction hither; but as, 
during the greater portion of the year, 
this island is deserted, if the secret 
of this abode were discovered. I should 
doubtless, find on my return my 
temporary retirement in a state of 
great disorder, which would be 
exceedingly annoying, not for the loss 
it occasioned me, but because I should 
not have the certainty I now possess of 
separating myself from all the rest of 
mankind at pleasure. Let me now 
endeavor to make you forget this 
temporary unpleasantness, and offer you 
what no doubt you did not expect to 
find here -- that is to say, a 
tolerable supper and pretty comfortable 
beds."

"Ma foi, my dear sir," replied Franz, 
"make no apologies. I have always 
observed that they bandage people's 
eyes who penetrate enchanted palaces, 
for instance, those of Raoul in the 
`Huguenots,' and really I have nothing 
to complain of, for what I see makes me 
think of the wonders of the `Arabian 
Nights.'"

"Alas, I may say with Lucullus, if I 
could have anticipated the honor of 
your visit, I would have prepared for 
it. But such as is my hermitage, it is 
at your disposal; such as is my supper, 
it is yours to share, if you will. Ali, 
is the supper ready?" At this moment 
the tapestry moved aside, and a Nubian, 
black as ebony, and dressed in a plain 
white tunic, made a sign to his master 
that all was prepared in the 
dining-room. "Now," said the unknown to 
Franz, "I do not know if you are of my 
opinion, but I think nothing is more 
annoying than to remain two or three 
hours together without knowing by name 
or appellation how to address one 
another. Pray observe, that I too much 
respect the laws of hospitality to ask 
your name or title. I only request you 
to give me one by which I may have the 
pleasure of addressing you. As for 
myself, that I may put you at your 
ease, I tell you that I am generally 
called `Sinbad the Sailor.'"

"And I," replied Franz, "will tell you, 
as I only require his wonderful lamp to 
make me precisely like Aladdin, that I 
see no reason why at this moment I 
should not be called Aladdin. That will 
keep us from going away from the East 
whither I am tempted to think I have 
been conveyed by some good genius."

"Well, then, Signor Aladdin," replied 
the singular amphitryon, "you heard our 
repast announced, will you now take the 
trouble to enter the dining-room, your 
humble servant going first to show the 
way?" At these words, moving aside the 
tapestry, Sinbad preceded his guest. 
Franz now looked upon another scene of 
enchantment; the table was splendidly 
covered, and once convinced of this 
important point he cast his eyes around 
him. The dining-room was scarcely less 
striking than the room he had just 
left; it was entirely of marble, with 
antique bas-reliefs of priceless value; 
and at the four corners of this 
apartment, which was oblong, were four 
magnificent statues, having baskets in 
their hands. These baskets contained 
four pyramids of most splendid fruit; 
there were Sicily pine-apples, 
pomegranates from Malaga, oranges from 
the Balearic Isles, peaches from 
France, and dates from Tunis. The 
supper consisted of a roast pheasant 
garnished with Corsican blackbirds; a 
boar's ham with jelly, a quarter of a 
kid with tartar sauce, a glorious 
turbot, and a gigantic lobster. Between 
these large dishes were smaller ones 
containing various dainties. The dishes 
were of silver, and the plates of 
Japanese china.

Franz rubbed his eyes in order to 
assure himself that this was not a 
dream. Ali alone was present to wait at 
table, and acquitted himself so 
admirably, that the guest complimented 
his host thereupon. "Yes," replied he, 
while he did the honors of the supper 
with much ease and grace -- "yes, he is 
a poor devil who is much devoted to me, 
and does all he can to prove it. He 
remembers that I saved his life, and as 
he has a regard for his head, he feels 
some gratitude towards me for having 
kept it on his shoulders." Ali 
approached his master, took his hand, 
and kissed it.

"Would it be impertinent, Signor 
Sinbad," said Franz, "to ask you the 
particulars of this kindness?"

"Oh, they are simple enough," replied 
the host. "It seems the fellow had been 
caught wandering nearer to the harem of 
the Bey of Tunis than etiquette permits 
to one of his color, and he was 
condemned by the bey to have his tongue 
cut out, and his hand and head cut off; 
the tongue the first day, the hand the 
second, and the head the third. I 
always had a desire to have a mute in 
my service, so learning the day his 
tongue was cut out, I went to the bey, 
and proposed to give him for Ali a 
splendid double-barreled gun which I 
knew he was very desirous of having. He 
hesitated a moment, he was so very 
desirous to complete the poor devil's 
punishment. But when I added to the gun 
an English cutlass with which I had 
shivered his highness's yataghan to 
pieces, the bey yielded, and agreed to 
forgive the hand and head, but on 
condition that the poor fellow never 
again set foot in Tunis. This was a 
useless clause in the bargain, for 
whenever the coward sees the first 
glimpse of the shores of Africa, he 
runs down below, and can only be 
induced to appear again when we are out 
of sight of that quarter of the globe."

Franz remained a moment silent and 
pensive, hardly knowing what to think 
of the half-kindness, half-cruelty, 
with which his host related the brief 
narrative. "And like the celebrated 
sailor whose name you have assumed," he 
said, by way of changing the 
conversation, "you pass your life in 
travelling?"

"Yes. I made a vow at a time when I 
little thought I should ever be able to 
accomplish it," said the unknown with a 
singular smile; "and I made some others 
also which I hope I may fulfil in due 
season." Although Sinbad pronounced 
these words with much calmness, his 
eyes gave forth gleams of extraordinary 
ferocity.

"You have suffered a great deal, sir?" 
said Franz inquiringly.

Sinbad started and looked fixedly at 
him, as he replied, "What makes you 
suppose so?"

"Everything," answered Franz, -- "your 
voice, your look, your pallid 
complexion, and even the life you lead."

"I? -- I live the happiest life 
possible, the real life of a pasha. I 
am king of all creation. I am pleased 
with one place, and stay there; I get 
tired of it, and leave it; I am free as 
a bird and have wings like one; my 
attendants obey my slightest wish. 
Sometimes I amuse myself by delivering 
some bandit or criminal from the bonds 
of the law. Then I have my mode of 
dispensing justice, silent and sure, 
without respite or appeal, which 
condemns or pardons, and which no one 
sees. Ah, if you had tasted my life, 
you would not desire any other, and 
would never return to the world unless 
you had some great project to 
accomplish there."

"Revenge, for instance!" observed Franz.

The unknown fixed on the young man one 
of those looks which penetrate into the 
depth of the heart and thoughts. "And 
why revenge?" he asked.

"Because," replied Franz, "you seem to 
me like a man who, persecuted by 
society, has a fearful account to 
settle with it."

"Ah," responded Sinbad, laughing with 
his singular laugh which displayed his 
white and sharp teeth. "You have not 
guessed rightly. Such as you see me I 
am, a sort of philosopher, and one day 
perhaps I shall go to Paris to rival 
Monsieur Appert, and the little man in 
the blue cloak."

"And will that be the first time you 
ever took that journey?"

"Yes; it will. I must seem to you by no 
means curious, but I assure you that it 
is not my fault I have delayed it so 
long -- it will happen one day or the 
other."

"And do you propose to make this 
journey very shortly?"

"I do not know; it depends on 
circumstances which depend on certain 
arrangements."

"I should like to be there at the time 
you come, and I will endeavor to repay 
you, as far as lies in my power, for 
your liberal hospitality displayed to 
me at Monte Cristo."

"I should avail myself of your offer 
with pleasure," replied the host, "but, 
unfortunately, if I go there, it will 
be, in all probability, incognito."

The supper appeared to have been 
supplied solely for Franz, for the 
unknown scarcely touched one or two 
dishes of the splendid banquet to which 
his guest did ample justice. Then Ali 
brought on the dessert, or rather took 
the baskets from the hands of the 
statues and placed them on the table. 
Between the two baskets he placed a 
small silver cup with a silver cover. 
The care with which Ali placed this cup 
on the table roused Franz's curiosity. 
He raised the cover and saw a kind of 
greenish paste, something like 
preserved angelica, but which was 
perfectly unknown to him. He replaced 
the lid, as ignorant of what the cup 
contained as he was before he had 
looked at it, and then casting his eyes 
towards his host he saw him smile at 
his disappointment. "You cannot guess," 
said he, "what there is in that small 
vase, can you?"

"No, I really cannot."

"Well, then, that green preserve is 
nothing less than the ambrosia which 
Hebe served at the table of Jupiter."

"But," replied Franz, "this ambrosia, 
no doubt, in passing through mortal 
hands has lost its heavenly appellation 
and assumed a human name; in vulgar 
phrase, what may you term this 
composition, for which, to tell the 
truth, I do not feel any particular 
desire?"

"Ah, thus it is that our material 
origin is revealed," cried Sinbad; "we 
frequently pass so near to happiness 
without seeing, without regarding it, 
or if we do see and regard it, yet 
without recognizing it. Are you a man 
for the substantials, and is gold your 
god? taste this, and the mines of Peru, 
Guzerat, and Golconda are opened to 
you. Are you a man of imagination -- a 
poet? taste this, and the boundaries of 
possibility disappear; the fields of 
infinite space open to you, you advance 
free in heart, free in mind, into the 
boundless realms of unfettered revery. 
Are you ambitious, and do you seek 
after the greatnesses of the earth? 
taste this, and in an hour you will be 
a king, not a king of a petty kingdom 
hidden in some corner of Europe like 
France, Spain, or England, but king of 
the world, king of the universe, king 
of creation; without bowing at the feet 
of Satan, you will be king and master 
of all the kingdoms of the earth. Is it 
not tempting what I offer you, and is 
it not an easy thing, since it is only 
to do thus? look!" At these words he 
uncovered the small cup which contained 
the substance so lauded, took a 
teaspoonful of the magic sweetmeat, 
raised it to his lips, and swallowed it 
slowly with his eyes half shut and his 
head bent backwards. Franz did not 
disturb him whilst he absorbed his 
favorite sweetmeat, but when he had 
finished, he inquired, -- "What, then, 
is this precious stuff?"

"Did you ever hear," he replied, "of 
the Old Man of the Mountain, who 
attempted to assassinate Philip 
Augustus?"

"Of course I have."

"Well, you know he reigned over a rich 
valley which was overhung by the 
mountain whence he derived his 
picturesque name. In this valley were 
magnificent gardens planted by 
Hassen-ben-Sabah, and in these gardens 
isolated pavilions. Into these 
pavilions he admitted the elect, and 
there, says Marco Polo, gave them to 
eat a certain herb, which transported 
them to Paradise, in the midst of 
ever-blooming shrubs, ever-ripe fruit, 
and ever-lovely virgins. What these 
happy persons took for reality was but 
a dream; but it was a dream so soft, so 
voluptuous, so enthralling, that they 
sold themselves body and soul to him 
who gave it to them, and obedient to 
his orders as to those of a deity, 
struck down the designated victim, died 
in torture without a murmur, believing 
that the death they underwent was but a 
quick transition to that life of 
delights of which the holy herb, now 
before you had given them a slight 
foretaste."

"Then," cried Franz, "it is hashish! I 
know that -- by name at least."

"That is it precisely, Signor Aladdin; 
it is hashish -- the purest and most 
unadulterated hashish of Alexandria, -- 
the hashish of Abou-Gor, the celebrated 
maker, the only man, the man to whom 
there should be built a palace, 
inscribed with these words, `A grateful 
world to the dealer in happiness.'"

"Do you know," said Franz, "I have a 
very great inclination to judge for 
myself of the truth or exaggeration of 
your eulogies."

"Judge for yourself, Signor Aladdin -- 
judge, but do not confine yourself to 
one trial. Like everything else, we 
must habituate the senses to a fresh 
impression, gentle or violent, sad or 
joyous. There is a struggle in nature 
against this divine substance, -- in 
nature which is not made for joy and 
clings to pain. Nature subdued must 
yield in the combat, the dream must 
succeed to reality, and then the dream 
reigns supreme, then the dream becomes 
life, and life becomes the dream. But 
what changes occur! It is only by 
comparing the pains of actual being 
with the joys of the assumed existence, 
that you would desire to live no 
longer, but to dream thus forever. When 
you return to this mundane sphere from 
your visionary world, you would seem to 
leave a Neapolitan spring for a Lapland 
winter -- to quit paradise for earth -- 
heaven for hell! Taste the hashish, 
guest of mine -- taste the hashish."

Franz's only reply was to take a 
teaspoonful of the marvellous 
preparation, about as much in quantity 
as his host had eaten, and lift it to 
his mouth. "Diable!" he said, after 
having swallowed the divine preserve. 
"I do not know if the result will be as 
agreeable as you describe, but the 
thing does not appear to me as 
palatable as you say."

"Because your palate his not yet been 
attuned to the sublimity of the 
substances it flavors. Tell me, the 
first time you tasted oysters, tea, 
porter, truffles, and sundry other 
dainties which you now adore, did you 
like them? Could you comprehend how the 
Romans stuffed their pheasants with 
assafoetida, and the Chinese eat 
swallows' nests? Eh? no! Well, it is 
the same with hashish; only eat for a 
week, and nothing in the world will 
seem to you to equal the delicacy of 
its flavor, which now appears to you 
flat and distasteful. Let us now go 
into the adjoining chamber, which is 
your apartment, and Ali will bring us 
coffee and pipes." They both arose, and 
while he who called himself Sinbad -- 
and whom we have occasionally named so, 
that we might, like his guest, have 
some title by which to distinguish him 
-- gave some orders to the servant, 
Franz entered still another apartment. 
It was simply yet richly furnished. It 
was round, and a large divan completely 
encircled it. Divan, walls, ceiling, 
floor, were all covered with 
magnificent skins as soft and downy as 
the richest carpets; there were 
heavy-maned lion-skins from Atlas, 
striped tiger-skins from Bengal; 
panther-skins from the Cape, spotted 
beautifully, like those that appeared 
to Dante; bear-skins from Siberia, 
fox-skins from Norway, and so on; and 
all these skins were strewn in 
profusion one on the other, so that it 
seemed like walking over the most mossy 
turf, or reclining on the most 
luxurious bed. Both laid themselves 
down on the divan; chibouques with 
jasmine tubes and amber mouthpieces 
were within reach, and all prepared so 
that there was no need to smoke the 
same pipe twice. Each of them took one, 
which Ali lighted and then retired to 
prepare the coffee. There was a 
moment's silence, during which Sinbad 
gave himself up to thoughts that seemed 
to occupy him incessantly, even in the 
midst of his conversation; and Franz 
abandoned himself to that mute revery, 
into which we always sink when smoking 
excellent tobacco, which seems to 
remove with its fume all the troubles 
of the mind, and to give the smoker in 
exchange all the visions of the soul. 
Ali brought in the coffee. "How do you 
take it?" inquired the unknown; "in the 
French or Turkish style, strong or 
weak, sugar or none, cool or boiling? 
As you please; it is ready in all ways."

"I will take it in the Turkish style," 
replied Franz.

"And you are right," said his host; "it 
shows you have a tendency for an 
Oriental life. Ah, those Orientals; 
they are the only men who know how to 
live. As for me," he added, with one of 
those singular smiles which did not 
escape the young man, "when I have 
completed my affairs in Paris, I shall 
go and die in the East; and should you 
wish to see me again, you must seek me 
at Cairo, Bagdad, or Ispahan."

"Ma foi," said Franz, "it would be the 
easiest thing in the world; for I feel 
eagle's wings springing out at my 
shoulders, and with those wings I could 
make a tour of the world in four and 
twenty hours."

"Ah, yes, the hashish is beginning its 
work. Well, unfurl your wings, and fly 
into superhuman regions; fear nothing, 
there is a watch over you; and if your 
wings, like those of Icarus, melt 
before the sun, we are here to ease 
your fall." He then said something in 
Arabic to Ali, who made a sign of 
obedience and withdrew, but not to any 
distance. As to Franz a strange 
transformation had taken place in him. 
All the bodily fatigue of the day, all 
the preoccupation of mind which the 
events of the evening had brought on, 
disappeared as they do at the first 
approach of sleep, when we are still 
sufficiently conscious to be aware of 
the coming of slumber. His body seemed 
to acquire an airy lightness, his 
perception brightened in a remarkable 
manner, his senses seemed to redouble 
their power, the horizon continued to 
expand; but it was not the gloomy 
horizon of vague alarms, and which he 
had seen before he slept, but a blue, 
transparent, unbounded horizon, with 
all the blue of the ocean, all the 
spangles of the sun, all the perfumes 
of the summer breeze; then, in the 
midst of the songs of his sailors, -- 
songs so clear and sonorous, that they 
would have made a divine harmony had 
their notes been taken down, -- he saw 
the Island of Monte Cristo, no longer 
as a threatening rock in the midst of 
the waves, but as an oasis in the 
desert; then, as his boat drew nearer, 
the songs became louder, for an 
enchanting and mysterious harmony rose 
to heaven, as if some Loreley had 
decreed to attract a soul thither, or 
Amphion, the enchanter, intended there 
to build a city.

At length the boat touched the shore, 
but without effort, without shock, as 
lips touch lips; and he entered the 
grotto amidst continued strains of most 
delicious melody. He descended, or 
rather seemed to descend, several 
steps, inhaling the fresh and balmy 
air, like that which may be supposed to 
reign around the grotto of Circe, 
formed from such perfumes as set the 
mind a dreaming, and such fires as burn 
the very senses; and he saw again all 
he had seen before his sleep, from 
Sinbad, his singular host, to Ali, the 
mute attendant; then all seemed to fade 
away and become confused before his 
eyes, like the last shadows of the 
magic lantern before it is 
extinguished, and he was again in the 
chamber of statues, lighted only by one 
of those pale and antique lamps which 
watch in the dead of the night over the 
sleep of pleasure. They were the same 
statues, rich in form, in attraction. 
and poesy, with eyes of fascination, 
smiles of love, and bright and flowing 
hair. They were Phryne, Cleopatra, 
Messalina, those three celebrated 
courtesans. Then among them glided like 
a pure ray, like a Christian angel in 
the midst of Olympus, one of those 
chaste figures, those calm shadows, 
those soft visions, which seemed to 
veil its virgin brow before these 
marble wantons. Then the three statues 
advanced towards him with looks of 
love, and approached the couch on which 
he was reposing, their feet hidden in 
their long white tunics, their throats 
bare, hair flowing like waves, and 
assuming attitudes which the gods could 
not resist, but which saints withstood, 
and looks inflexible and ardent like 
those with which the serpent charms the 
bird; and then he gave way before looks 
that held him in a torturing grasp and 
delighted his senses as with a 
voluptuous kiss. It seemed to Franz 
that he closed his eyes, and in a last 
look about him saw the vision of 
modesty completely veiled; and then 
followed a dream of passion like that 
promised by the Prophet to the elect. 
Lips of stone turned to flame, breasts 
of ice became like heated lava, so that 
to Franz, yielding for the first time 
to the sway of the drug, love was a 
sorrow and voluptuousness a torture, as 
burning mouths were pressed to his 
thirsty lips, and he was held in cool 
serpent-like embraces. The more he 
strove against this unhallowed passion 
the more his senses yielded to its 
thrall, and at length, weary of a 
struggle that taxed his very soul, he 
gave way and sank back breathless and 
exhausted beneath the kisses of these 
marble goddesses, and the enchantment 
of his marvellous dream. 

 Chapter 32 The Waking.

When Franz returned to himself, he 
seemed still to be in a dream. He 
thought himself in a sepulchre, into 
which a ray of sunlight in pity 
scarcely penetrated. He stretched forth 
his hand, and touched stone; he rose to 
his seat, and found himself lying on 
his bournous in a bed of dry heather, 
very soft and odoriferous. The vision 
had fled; and as if the statues had 
been but shadows from the tomb, they 
had vanished at his waking. He advanced 
several paces towards the point whence 
the light came, and to all the 
excitement of his dream succeeded the 
calmness of reality. He found that he 
was in a grotto, went towards the 
opening, and through a kind of fanlight 
saw a blue sea and an azure sky. The 
air and water were shining in the beams 
of the morning sun; on the shore the 
sailors were sitting, chatting and 
laughing; and at ten yards from them 
the boat was at anchor, undulating 
gracefully on the water. There for some 
time he enjoyed the fresh breeze which 
played on his brow, and listened to the 
dash of the waves on the beach, that 
left against the rocks a lace of foam 
as white as silver. He was for some 
time without reflection or thought for 
the divine charm which is in the things 
of nature, specially after a fantastic 
dream; then gradually this view of the 
outer world, so calm, so pure, so 
grand, reminded him of the illusiveness 
of his vision, and once more awakened 
memory. He recalled his arrival on the 
island, his presentation to a smuggler 
chief, a subterranean palace full of 
splendor, an excellent supper, and a 
spoonful of hashish. It seemed, 
however, even in the very face of open 
day, that at least a year had elapsed 
since all these things had passed, so 
deep was the impression made in his 
mind by the dream, and so strong a hold 
had it taken of his imagination. Thus 
every now and then he saw in fancy amid 
the sailors, seated on a rock, or 
undulating in the vessel, one of the 
shadows which had shared his dream with 
looks and kisses. Otherwise, his head 
was perfectly clear, and his body 
refreshed; he was free from the 
slightest headache; on the contrary, he 
felt a certain degree of lightness, a 
faculty for absorbing the pure air, and 
enjoying the bright sunshine more 
vividly than ever.

He went gayly up to the sailors, who 
rose as soon as they perceived him; and 
the patron, accosting him, said, "The 
Signor Sinbad has left his compliments 
for your excellency, and desires us to 
express the regret he feels at not 
being able to take his leave in person; 
but he trusts you will excuse him, as 
very important business calls him to 
Malaga."

"So, then, Gaetano," said Franz, "this 
is, then, all reality; there exists a 
man who has received me in this island, 
entertained me right royally, and his 
departed while I was asleep?"

"He exists as certainly as that you may 
see his small yacht with all her sails 
spread; and if you will use your glass, 
you will, in all probability, recognize 
your host in the midst of his crew." So 
saying, Gaetano pointed in a direction 
in which a small vessel was making sail 
towards the southern point of Corsica. 
Franz adjusted his telescope, and 
directed it towards the yacht. Gaetano 
was not mistaken. At the stern the 
mysterious stranger was standing up 
looking towards the shore, and holding 
a spy-glass in his hand. He was attired 
as he had been on the previous evening, 
and waved his pocket-handkerchief to 
his guest in token of adieu. Franz 
returned the salute by shaking his 
handkerchief as an exchange of signals. 
After a second, a slight cloud of smoke 
was seen at the stern of the vessel, 
which rose gracefully as it expanded in 
the air, and then Franz heard a slight 
report. "There, do you hear?" observed 
Gaetano; "he is bidding you adieu." The 
young man took his carbine and fired it 
in the air, but without any idea that 
the noise could be heard at the 
distance which separated the yacht from 
the shore.

"What are your excellency's orders?" 
inquired Gaetano.

"In the first place, light me a torch."

"Ah, yes, I understand," replied the 
patron, "to find the entrance to the 
enchanted apartment. With much 
pleasure, your excellency, if it would 
amuse you; and I will get you the torch 
you ask for. But I too have had the 
idea you have, and two or three times 
the same fancy has come over me; but I 
have always given it up. Giovanni, 
light a torch," he added, "and give it 
to his excellency."

Giovanni obeyed. Franz took the lamp, 
and entered the subterranean grotto, 
followed by Gaetano. He recognized the 
place where he had awaked by the bed of 
heather that was there; but it was in 
vain that he carried his torch all 
round the exterior surface of the 
grotto. He saw nothing, unless that, by 
traces of smoke, others had before him 
attempted the same thing, and, like 
him, in vain. Yet he did not leave a 
foot of this granite wall, as 
impenetrable as futurity, without 
strict scrutiny; he did not see a 
fissure without introducing the blade 
of his hunting sword into it, or a 
projecting point on which he did not 
lean and press in the hopes it would 
give way. All was vain; and he lost two 
hours in his attempts, which were at 
last utterly useless. At the end of 
this time he gave up his search, and 
Gaetano smiled.

When Franz appeared again on the shore, 
the yacht only seemed like a small 
white speck on the horizon. He looked 
again through his glass, but even then 
he could not distinguish anything. 
Gaetano reminded him that he had come 
for the purpose of shooting goats, 
which he had utterly forgotten. He took 
his fowling-piece, and began to hunt 
over the island with the air of a man 
who is fulfilling a duty, rather than 
enjoying a pleasure; and at the end of 
a quarter of an hour he had killed a 
goat and two kids. These animals, 
though wild and agile as chamois, were 
too much like domestic goats, and Franz 
could not consider them as game. 
Moreover, other ideas, much more 
enthralling, occupied his mind. Since, 
the evening before, he had really been 
the hero of one of the tales of the 
"Thousand and One Nights," and he was 
irresistibly attracted towards the 
grotto. Then, in spite of the failure 
of his first search, he began a second, 
after having told Gaetano to roast one 
of the two kids. The second visit was a 
long one, and when he returned the kid 
was roasted and the repast ready. Franz 
was sitting on the spot where he was on 
the previous evening when his 
mysterious host had invited him to 
supper; and he saw the little yacht, 
now like a sea-gull on the wave, 
continuing her flight towards Corsica. 
"Why," he remarked to Gaetano, "you 
told me that Signor Sinbad was going to 
Malaga, while it seems he is in the 
direction of Porto-Vecchio."

"Don't you remember," said the patron, 
"I told you that among the crew there 
were two Corsican brigands?"

"True; and he is going to land them," 
added Franz.

"Precisely so," replied Gaetano. "Ah, 
he is one who fears neither God nor 
Satan, they say, and would at any time 
run fifty leagues out of his course to 
do a poor devil a service."

"But such services as these might 
involve him with the authorities of the 
country in which he practices this kind 
of philanthropy," said Franz.

"And what cares he for that," replied 
Gaetano with a laugh, "or any 
authorities? He smiles at them. Let 
them try to pursue him! Why, in the 
first place, his yacht is not a ship, 
but a bird, and he would beat any 
frigate three knots in every nine; and 
if he were to throw himself on the 
coast, why, is he not certain of 
finding friends everywhere?"

It was perfectly clear that the Signor 
Sinbad, Franz's host, had the honor of 
being on excellent terms with the 
smugglers and bandits along the whole 
coast of the Mediterranean, and so 
enjoyed exceptional privileges. As to 
Franz, he had no longer any inducement 
to remain at Monte Cristo. He had lost 
all hope of detecting the secret of the 
grotto; he consequently despatched his 
breakfast, and, his boat being ready, 
he hastened on board, and they were 
soon under way. At the moment the boat 
began her course they lost sight of the 
yacht, as it disappeared in the gulf of 
Porto-Vecchio. With it was effaced the 
last trace of the preceding night; and 
then supper, Sinbad, hashish, statues, 
-- all became a dream for Franz. The 
boat sailed on all day and all night, 
and next morning, when the sun rose, 
they had lost sight of Monte Cristo. 
When Franz had once again set foot on 
shore, he forgot, for the moment at 
least, the events which had just 
passed, while he finished his affairs 
of pleasure at Florence, and then 
thought of nothing but how he should 
rejoin his companion, who was awaiting 
him at Rome.

He set out, and on the Saturday evening 
reached the Eternal City by the 
mail-coach. An apartment, as we have 
said, had been retained beforehand, and 
thus he had but to go to Signor 
Pastrini's hotel. But this was not so 
easy a matter, for the streets were 
thronged with people, and Rome was 
already a prey to that low and feverish 
murmur which precedes all great events; 
and at Rome there are four great events 
in every year, -- the Carnival, Holy 
Week, Corpus Christi, and the Feast of 
St. Peter. All the rest of the year the 
city is in that state of dull apathy, 
between life and death, which renders 
it similar to a kind of station between 
this world and the next -- a sublime 
spot, a resting-place full of poetry 
and character, and at which Franz had 
already halted five or six times, and 
at each time found it more marvellous 
and striking. At last he made his way 
through the mob, which was continually 
increasing and getting more and more 
turbulent, and reached the hotel. On 
his first inquiry he was told, with the 
impertinence peculiar to hired 
hackney-coachmen and inn-keepers with 
their houses full, that there was no 
room for him at the Hotel de Londres. 
Then he sent his card to Signor 
Pastrini, and asked for Albert de 
Morcerf. This plan succeeded; and 
Signor Pastrini himself ran to him, 
excusing himself for having made his 
excellency wait, scolding the waiters, 
taking the candlestick from the porter, 
who was ready to pounce on the 
traveller and was about to lead him to 
Albert, when Morcerf himself appeared.

The apartment consisted of two small 
rooms and a parlor. The two rooms 
looked onto the street -- a fact which 
Signor Pastrini commented upon as an 
inappreciable advantage. The rest of 
the floor was hired by a very rich 
gentleman who was supposed to be a 
Sicilian or Maltese; but the host was 
unable to decide to which of the two 
nations the traveller belonged. "Very 
good, signor Pastrini," said Franz; 
"but we must have some supper 
instantly, and a carriage for tomorrow 
and the following days."

"As to supper," replied the landlord, 
"you shall be served immediately; but 
as for the carriage" --

"What as to the carriage?" exclaimed 
Albert. "Come, come, Signor Pastrini, 
no joking; we must have a carriage."

"Sir," replied the host, "we will do 
all in our power to procure you one -- 
this is all I can say."

"And when shall we know?" inquired 
Franz.

"To-morrow morning," answered the 
inn-keeper.

"Oh, the deuce! then we shall pay the 
more, that's all, I see plainly enough. 
At Drake's or Aaron's one pays 
twenty-five lire for common days, and 
thirty or thirty-five lire a day more 
for Sundays and feast days; add five 
lire a day more for extras, that will 
make forty, and there's an end of it."

"I am afraid if we offer them double 
that we shall not procure a carriage."

"Then they must put horses to mine. It 
is a little worse for the journey, but 
that's no matter."

"There are no horses." Albert looked at 
Franz like a man who hears a reply he 
does not understand.

"Do you understand that, my dear Franz 
-- no horses?" he said, "but can't we 
have post-horses?"

"They have been all hired this 
fortnight, and there are none left but 
those absolutely requisite for posting."

"What are we to say to this?" asked 
Franz.

"I say, that when a thing completely 
surpasses my comprehension, I am 
accustomed not to dwell on that thing, 
but to pass to another. Is supper 
ready, Signor Pastrini?"

"Yes, your excellency."

"Well, then, let us sup."

"But the carriage and horses?" said 
Franz.

"Be easy, my dear boy; they will come 
in due season; it is only a question of 
how much shall be charged for them." 
Morcerf then, with that delighted 
philosophy which believes that nothing 
is impossible to a full purse or 
well-lined pocketbook, supped, went to 
bed, slept soundly, and dreamed he was 
racing all over Rome at Carnival time 
in a coach with six horses. 

 Chapter 33 Roman Bandits.

The next morning Franz woke first, and 
instantly rang the bell. The sound had 
not yet died away when Signor Pastrini 
himself entered.

"Well, excellency," said the landlord 
triumphantly, and without waiting for 
Franz to question him, "I feared 
yesterday, when I would not promise you 
anything, that you were too late -- 
there is not a single carriage to be 
had -- that is, for the last three days 
of the carnival."

"Yes," returned Franz, "for the very 
three days it is most needed."

"What is the matter?" said Albert, 
entering; "no carriage to be had?"

"Just so," returned Franz, "you have 
guessed it."

"Well, your Eternal City is a nice sort 
of place."

"That is to say, excellency," replied 
Pastrini, who was desirous of keeping 
up the dignity of the capital of the 
Christian world in the eyes of his 
guest, "that there are no carriages to 
be had from Sunday to Tuesday evening, 
but from now till Sunday you can have 
fifty if you please."

"Ah, that is something," said Albert; 
"to-day is Thursday, and who knows what 
may arrive between this and Sunday?"

"Ten or twelve thousand travellers will 
arrive," replied Franz, "which will 
make it still more difficult."

"My friend," said Morcerf, "let us 
enjoy the present without gloomy 
forebodings for the future."

"At least we can have a window?"

"Where?"

"In the Corso."

"Ah, a window!" exclaimed Signor 
Pastrini, -- "utterly impossible; there 
was only one left on the fifth floor of 
the Doria Palace, and that has been let 
to a Russian prince for twenty sequins 
a day."

The two young men looked at each other 
with an air of stupefaction.

"Well," said Franz to Albert, "do you 
know what is the best thing we can do? 
It is to pass the Carnival at Venice; 
there we are sure of obtaining gondolas 
if we cannot have carriages."

"Ah, the devil, no," cried Albert; "I 
came to Rome to see the Carnival, and I 
will, though I see it on stilts."

"Bravo! an excellent idea. We will 
disguise ourselves as monster 
pulchinellos or shepherds of the 
Landes, and we shall have complete 
success."

"Do your excellencies still wish for a 
carriage from now to Sunday morning?"

"Parbleu!" said Albert, "do you think 
we are going to run about on foot in 
the streets of Rome, like lawyer's 
clerks?"

"I hasten to comply with your 
excellencies' wishes; only, I tell you 
beforehand, the carriage will cost you 
six piastres a day."

"And, as I am not a millionaire, like 
the gentleman in the next apartments," 
said Franz, "I warn you, that as I have 
been four times before at Rome, I know 
the prices of all the carriages; we 
will give you twelve piastres for 
to-day, tomorrow, and the day after, 
and then you will make a good profit."

"But, excellency" -- said Pastrini, 
still striving to gain his point.

"Now go," returned Franz, "or I shall 
go myself and bargain with your 
affettatore, who is mine also; he is an 
old friend of mine, who has plundered 
me pretty well already, and, in the 
hope of making more out of me, he will 
take a less price than the one I offer 
you; you will lose the preference, and 
that will be your fault."

"Do not give yourselves the trouble, 
excellency," returned Signor Pastrini, 
with the smile peculiar to the Italian 
speculator when he confesses defeat; "I 
will do all I can, and I hope you will 
be satisfied."

"And now we understand each other."

"When do you wish the carriage to be 
here?"

"In an hour."

"In an hour it will be at the door."

An hour after the vehicle was at the 
door; it was a hack conveyance which 
was elevated to the rank of a private 
carriage in honor of the occasion, but, 
in spite of its humble exterior, the 
young men would have thought themselves 
happy to have secured it for the last 
three days of the Carnival. 
"Excellency," cried the cicerone, 
seeing Franz approach the window, 
"shall I bring the carriage nearer to 
the palace?"

Accustomed as Franz was to the Italian 
phraseology, his first impulse was to 
look round him, but these words were 
addressed to him. Franz was the 
"excellency," the vehicle was the 
"carriage," and the Hotel de Londres 
was the "palace." The genius for 
laudation characteristic of the race 
was in that phrase.

Franz and Albert descended, the 
carriage approached the palace; their 
excellencies stretched their legs along 
the seats; the cicerone sprang into the 
seat behind. "Where do your 
excellencics wish to go?" asked he.

"To Saint Peter's first, and then to 
the Colosseum," returned Albert. But 
Albert did not know that it takes a day 
to see Saint Peter's, and a month to 
study it. The day was passed at Saint 
Peter's alone. Suddenly the daylight 
began to fade away; Franz took out his 
watch -- it was half-past four. They 
returned to the hotel; at the door 
Franz ordered the coachman to be ready 
at eight. He wished to show Albert the 
Colosseum by moonlight, as he had shown 
him Saint Peter's by daylight. When we 
show a friend a city one has already 
visited, we feel the same pride as when 
we point out a woman whose lover we 
have been. He was to leave the city by 
the Porta del Popolo, skirt the outer 
wall, and re-enter by the Porta San 
Giovanni; thus they would behold the 
Colosseum without finding their 
impressions dulled by first looking on 
the Capitol, the Forum, the Arch of 
Septimus Severus, the Temple of 
Antoninus and Faustina, and the Via 
Sacra. They sat down to dinner. Signor 
Pastrini had promised them a banquet; 
he gave them a tolerable repast. At the 
end of the dinner he entered in person. 
Franz thought that he came to hear his 
dinner praised, and began accordingly, 
but at the first words he was 
interrupted. "Excellency," said 
Pastrini, "I am delighted to have your 
approbation, but it was not for that I 
came."

"Did you come to tell us you have 
procured a carriage?" asked Albert, 
lighting his cigar.

"No; and your excellencies will do well 
not to think of that any longer; at 
Rome things can or cannot be done; when 
you are told anything cannot he done, 
there is an end of it."

"It is much more convenient at Paris, 
-- when anything cannot be done, you 
pay double, and it is done directly."

"That is what all the French say," 
returned Signor Pastrini, somewhat 
piqued; "for that reason, I do not 
understand why they travel."

"But," said Albert, emitting a volume 
of smoke and balancing his chair on its 
hind legs, "only madmen, or blockheads 
like us, ever do travel. Men in their 
senses do not quit their hotel in the 
Rue du Helder, their walk on the 
Boulevard de Gand, and the Cafe de 
Paris." It is of course understood that 
Albert resided in the aforesaid street, 
appeared every day on the fashionable 
walk, and dined frequently at the only 
restaurant where you can really dine, 
that is, if you are on good terms with 
its frequenters. Signor Pastrini 
remained silent a short time; it was 
evident that he was musing over this 
answer, which did not seem very clear. 
"But," said Franz, in his turn 
interrupting his host's meditations, 
"you had some motive for coming here, 
may I beg to know what it was?"

"Ah, yes; you have ordered your 
carriage at eight o'clock precisely?"

"I have."

"You intend visiting Il Colosseo."

"You mean the Colosseum?"

"It is the same thing. You have told 
your coachman to leave the city by the 
Porta del Popolo, to drive round the 
walls, and re-enter by the Porta San 
Giovanni?"

"These are my words exactly."

"Well, this route is impossible."

"Impossible!"

"Very dangerous, to say the least."

"Dangerous! -- and why?"

"On account of the famous Luigi Vampa."

"Pray, who may this famous Luigi Vampa 
be?" inquired Albert; "he may be very 
famous at Rome, but I can assure you he 
is quite unknown at Paris."

"What! do you not know him?"

"I have not that honor."

"You have never heard his name?"

"Never."

"Well, then, he is a bandit, compared 
to whom the Decesaris and the 
Gasparones were mere children."

"Now then, Albert," cried Franz, "here 
is a bandit for you at last."

"I forewarn you, Signor Pastrini, that 
I shall not believe one word of what 
you are going to tell us; having told 
you this, begin."

"Once upon a time" --

"Well, go on." Signor Pastrini turned 
toward Franz, who seemed to him the 
more reasonable of the two; we must do 
him justice, -- he had had a great many 
Frenchmen in his house, but had never 
been able to comprehend them. 
"Excellency," said he gravely, 
addressing Franz, "if you look upon me 
as a liar, it is useless for me to say 
anything; it was for your interest I" --

"Albert does not say you are a liar, 
Signor Pastrini," said Franz, "but that 
he will not believe what you are going 
to tell us, -- but I will believe all 
you say; so proceed."

"But if your excellency doubt my 
veracity" --

"Signor Pastrini," returned Franz, "you 
are more susceptible than Cassandra, 
who was a prophetess, and yet no one 
believed her; while you, at least, are 
sure of the credence of half your 
audience. Come, sit down, and tell us 
all about this Signor Vampa."

"I had told your excellency he is the 
most famous bandit we have had since 
the days of Mastrilla."

"Well, what has this bandit to do with 
the order I have given the coachman to 
leave the city by the Porta del Popolo, 
and to re-enter by the Porta San 
Giovanni?"

"This," replied Signor Pastrini, "that 
you will go out by one, but I very much 
doubt your returning by the other."

"Why?" asked Franz.

"Because, after nightfall, you are not 
safe fifty yards from the gates."

"On your honor is that true?" cried 
Albert.

"Count," returned Signor Pastrini, hurt 
at Albert's repeated doubts of the 
truth of his assertions, "I do not say 
this to you, but to your companion, who 
knows Rome, and knows, too, that these 
things are not to be laughed at."

"My dear fellow," said Albert, turning 
to Franz, "here is an admirable 
adventure; we will fill our carriage 
with pistols, blunderbusses, and 
double-barrelled guns. Luigi Vampa 
comes to take us, and we take him -- we 
bring him back to Rome, and present him 
to his holiness the Pope, who asks how 
he can repay so great a service; then 
we merely ask for a carriage and a pair 
of horses, and we see the Carnival in 
the carriage, and doubtless the Roman 
people will crown us at the Capitol, 
and proclaim us, like Curtius and the 
veiled Horatius, the preservers of 
their country." Whilst Albert proposed 
this scheme, Signor Pastrini's face 
assumed an expression impossible to 
describe.

"And pray," asked Franz, "where are 
these pistols, blunderbusses, and other 
deadly weapons with which you intend 
filling the carriage?"

"Not out of my armory, for at Terracina 
I was plundered even of my 
hunting-knife."

"I shared the same fate at 
Aquapendente."

"Do you know, Signor Pastrini," said 
Albert, lighting a second cigar at the 
first, "that this practice is very 
convenient for bandits, and that it 
seems to be due to an arrangement of 
their own." Doubtless Signor Pastrini 
found this pleasantry compromising, for 
he only answered half the question, and 
then he spoke to Franz, as the only one 
likely to listen with attention. "Your 
excellency knows that it is not 
customary to defend yourself when 
attacked by bandits."

"What!" cried Albert, whose courage 
revolted at the idea of being plundered 
tamely, "not make any resistance!"

"No, for it would be useless. What 
could you do against a dozen bandits 
who spring out of some pit, ruin, or 
aqueduct, and level their pieces at 
you?"

"Eh, parbleu! -- they should kill me."

The inn-keeper turned to Franz with an 
air that seemed to say, "Your friend is 
decidedly mad."

"My dear Albert," returned Franz, "your 
answer is sublime, and worthy the `Let 
him die,' of Corneille, only, when 
Horace made that answer, the safety of 
Rome was concerned; but, as for us, it 
is only to gratify a whim, and it would 
be ridiculous to risk our lives for so 
foolish a motive." Albert poured 
himself out a glass of lacryma Christi, 
which he sipped at intervals, muttering 
some unintelligible words.

"Well, Signor Pastrini," said Franz, 
"now that my companion is quieted, and 
you have seen how peaceful my 
intentions are, tell me who is this 
Luigi Vampa. Is he a shepherd or a 
nobleman? -- young or old? -- tall or 
short? Describe him, in order that, if 
we meet him by chance, like Bugaboo 
John or Lara, we may recognize him."

"You could not apply to any one better 
able to inform you on all these points, 
for I knew him when he was a child, and 
one day that I fell into his hands, 
going from Ferentino to Alatri, he, 
fortunately for me, recollected me, and 
set me free, not only without ransom, 
but made me a present of a very 
splendid watch, and related his history 
to me."

"Let us see the watch," said Albert.

Signor Pastrini drew from his fob a 
magnificent Breguet, bearing the name 
of its maker, of Parisian manufacture, 
and a count's coronet.

"Here it is," said he.

"Peste," returned Albert, "I compliment 
you on it; I have its fellow" -- he 
took his watch from his waistcoat 
pocket -- "and it cost me 3,000 francs."

"Let us hear the history," said Franz, 
motioning Signor Pastrini to seat 
himself.

"Your excellencies permit it?" asked 
the host.

"Pardieu!" cried Albert, "you are not a 
preacher, to remain standing!"

The host sat down, after having made 
each of them a respectful bow, which 
meant that he was ready to tell them 
all they wished to know concerning 
Luigi Vampa. "You tell me," said Franz, 
at the moment Signor Pastrini was about 
to open his mouth, "that you knew Luigi 
Vampa when he was a child -- he is 
still a young man, then?"

"A young man? he is only two and 
twenty; -- he will gain himself a 
reputation."

"What do you think of that, Albert? -- 
at two and twenty to be thus famous?"

"Yes, and at his age, Alexander, 
Caesar, and Napoleon, who have all made 
some noise in the world, were quite 
behind him."

"So," continued Franz, "the hero of 
this history is only two and twenty?"

"Scarcely so much."

"Is he tall or short?"

"Of the middle height -- about the same 
stature as his excellency," returned 
the host, pointing to Albert.

"Thanks for the comparison," said 
Albert, with a bow.

"Go on, Signor Pastrini," continued 
Franz, smiling at his friend's 
susceptibility. "To what class of 
society does he belong?"

"He was a shepherd-boy attached to the 
farm of the Count of San-Felice, 
situated between Palestrina and the 
lake of Gabri; he was born at 
Pampinara, and entered the count's 
service when he was five years old; his 
father was also a shepherd, who owned a 
small flock, and lived by the wool and 
the milk, which he sold at Rome. When 
quite a child, the little Vampa 
displayed a most extraordinary 
precocity. One day, when he was seven 
years old, he came to the curate of 
Palestrina, and asked to be taught to 
read; it was somewhat difficult, for he 
could not quit his flock; but the good 
curate went every day to say mass at a 
little hamlet too poor to pay a priest 
and which, having no other name, was 
called Borgo; he told Luigi that he 
might meet him on his return, and that 
then he would give him a lesson, 
warning him that it would be short, and 
that he must profit as much as possible 
by it. The child accepted joyfully. 
Every day Luigi led his flock to graze 
on the road that leads from Palestrina 
to Borgo; every day, at nine o'clock in 
the morning, the priest and the boy sat 
down on a bank by the wayside, and the 
little shepherd took his lesson out of 
the priest's breviary. At the end of 
three months he had learned to read. 
This was not enough -- he must now 
learn to write. The priest had a 
writing teacher at Rome make three 
alphabets -- one large, one middling, 
and one small; and pointed out to him 
that by the help of a sharp instrument 
he could trace the letters on a slate, 
and thus learn to write. The same 
evening, when the flock was safe at the 
farm, the little Luigi hastened to the 
smith at Palestrina, took a large nail, 
heated and sharpened it, and formed a 
sort of stylus. The next morning he 
gathered an armful of pieces of slate 
and began. At the end of three months 
he had learned to write. The curate, 
astonished at his quickness and 
intelligence, made him a present of 
pens, paper, and a penknife. This 
demanded new effort, but nothing 
compared to the first; at the end of a 
week he wrote as well with this pen as 
with the stylus. The curate related the 
incident to the Count of San-Felice, 
who sent for the little shepherd, made 
him read and write before him, ordered 
his attendant to let him eat with the 
domestics, and to give him two piastres 
a month. With this, Luigi purchased 
books and pencils. He applied his 
imitative powers to everything, and, 
like Giotto, when young, he drew on his 
slate sheep, houses, and trees. Then, 
with his knife, he began to carve all 
sorts of objects in wood; it was thus 
that Pinelli, the famous sculptor, had 
commenced.

"A girl of six or seven -- that is, a 
little younger than Vampa -- tended 
sheep on a farm near Palestrina; she 
was an orphan, born at Valmontone and 
was named Teresa. The two children met, 
sat down near each other, let their 
flocks mingle together, played, 
laughed, and conversed together; in the 
evening they separated the Count of 
San-Felice's flock from those of Baron 
Cervetri, and the children returned to 
their respective farms, promising to 
meet the next morning. The next day 
they kept their word, and thus they 
grew up together. Vampa was twelve, and 
Teresa eleven. And yet their natural 
disposition revealed itself. Beside his 
taste for the fine arts, which Luigi 
had carried as far as he could in his 
solitude, he was given to alternating 
fits of sadness and enthusiasm, was 
often angry and capricious, and always 
sarcastic. None of the lads of 
Pampinara, Palestrina, or Valmontone 
had been able to gain any influence 
over him or even to become his 
companion. His disposition (always 
inclined to exact concessions rather 
than to make them) kept him aloof from 
all friendships. Teresa alone ruled by 
a look, a word, a gesture, this 
impetuous character, which yielded 
beneath the hand of a woman, and which 
beneath the hand of a man might have 
broken, but could never have been 
bended. Teresa was lively and gay, but 
coquettish to excess. The two piastres 
that Luigi received every month from 
the Count of San-Felice's steward, and 
the price of all the little carvings in 
wood he sold at Rome, were expended in 
ear-rings, necklaces, and gold 
hairpins. So that, thanks to her 
friend's generosity, Teresa was the 
most beautiful and the best-attired 
peasant near Rome. The two children 
grew up together, passing all their 
time with each other, and giving 
themselves up to the wild ideas of 
their different characters. Thus, in 
all their dreams, their wishes, and 
their conversations, Vampa saw himself 
the captain of a vessel, general of an 
army, or governor of a province. Teresa 
saw herself rich, superbly attired, and 
attended by a train of liveried 
domestics. Then, when they had thus 
passed the day in building castles in 
the air, they separated their flocks, 
and descended from the elevation of 
their dreams to the reality of their 
humble position.

"One day the young shepherd told the 
count's steward that he had seen a wolf 
come out of the Sabine mountains, and 
prowl around his flock. The steward 
gave him a gun; this was what Vampa 
longed for. This gun had an excellent 
barrel, made at Breschia, and carrying 
a ball with the precision of an English 
rifle; but one day the count broke the 
stock, and had then cast the gun aside. 
This, however, was nothing to a 
sculptor like Vampa; he examined the 
broken stock, calculated what change it 
would require to adapt the gun to his 
shoulder, and made a fresh stock, so 
beautifully carved that it would have 
fetched fifteen or twenty piastres, had 
he chosen to sell it. But nothing could 
be farther from his thoughts. For a 
long time a gun had been the young 
man's greatest ambition. In every 
country where independence has taken 
the place of liberty, the first desire 
of a manly heart is to possess a 
weapon, which at once renders him 
capable of defence or attack, and, by 
rendering its owner terrible, often 
makes him feared. From this moment 
Vampa devoted all his leisure time to 
perfecting himself in the use of his 
precious weapon; he purchased powder 
and ball, and everything served him for 
a mark -- the trunk of some old and 
moss-grown olive-tree, that grew on the 
Sabine mountains; the fox, as he 
quitted his earth on some marauding 
excursion; the eagle that soared above 
their heads: and thus he soon became so 
expert, that Teresa overcame the terror 
she at first felt at the report, and 
amused herself by watching him direct 
the ball wherever he pleased, with as 
much accuracy as if he placed it by 
hand.

"One evening a wolf emerged from a 
pine-wood hear which they were usually 
stationed, but the wolf had scarcely 
advanced ten yards ere he was dead. 
Proud of this exploit, Vampa took the 
dead animal on his shoulders, and 
carried him to the farm. These exploits 
had gained Luigi considerable 
reputation. The man of superior 
abilities always finds admirers, go 
where he will. He was spoken of as the 
most adroit, the strongest, and the 
most courageous contadino for ten 
leagues around; and although Teresa was 
universally allowed to be the most 
beautiful girl of the Sabines, no one 
had ever spoken to her of love, because 
it was known that she was beloved by 
Vampa. And yet the two young people had 
never declared their affection; they 
had grown together like two trees whose 
roots are mingled, whose branches 
intertwined, and whose intermingled 
perfume rises to the heavens. Only 
their wish to see each other had become 
a necessity, and they would have 
preferred death to a day's separation. 
Teresa was sixteen, and Vampa 
seventeen. About this time, a band of 
brigands that had established itself in 
the Lepini mountains began to be much 
spoken of. The brigands have never been 
really extirpated from the neighborhood 
of Rome. Sometimes a chief is wanted, 
but when a chief presents himself he 
rarely has to wait long for a band of 
followers.

"The celebrated Cucumetto, pursued in 
the Abruzzo, driven out of the kingdom 
of Naples, where he had carried on a 
regular war, had crossed the 
Garigliano, like Manfred, and had taken 
refuge on the banks of the Amasine 
between Sonnino and Juperno. He strove 
to collect a band of followers, and 
followed the footsteps of Decesaris and 
Gasperone, whom he hoped to surpass. 
Many young men of Palestrina, Frascati, 
and Pampinara had disappeared. Their 
disappearance at first caused much 
disquietude; but it was soon known that 
they had joined Cucumetto. After some 
time Cucumetto became the object of 
universal attention; the most 
extraordinary traits of ferocious 
daring and brutality were related of 
him. One day he carried off a young 
girl, the daughter of a surveyor of 
Frosinone. The bandit's laws are 
positive; a young girl belongs first to 
him who carries her off, then the rest 
draw lots for her, and she is abandoned 
to their brutality until death relieves 
her sufferings. When their parents are 
sufficiently rich to pay a ransom, a 
messenger is sent to negotiate; the 
prisoner is hostage for the security of 
the messenger; should the ransom be 
refused, the prisoner is irrevocably 
lost. The young girl's lover was in 
Cucumetto's troop; his name was 
Carlini. When she recognized her lover, 
the poor girl extended her arms to him, 
and believed herself safe; but Carlini 
felt his heart sink, for he but too 
well knew the fate that awaited her. 
However, as he was a favorite with 
Cucumetto, as he had for three years 
faithfully served him, and as he had 
saved his life by shooting a dragoon 
who was about to cut him down, he hoped 
the chief would have pity on him. He 
took Cucumetto one side, while the 
young girl, seated at the foot of a 
huge pine that stood in the centre of 
the forest, made a veil of her 
picturesque head-dress to hide her face 
from the lascivious gaze of the 
bandits. There he told the chief all -- 
his affection for the prisoner, their 
promises of mutual fidelity, and how 
every night, since he had been near, 
they had met in some neighboring ruins.

"It so happened that night that 
Cucumetto had sent Carlini to a 
village, so that he had been unable to 
go to the place of meeting. Cucumetto 
had been there, however, by accident, 
as he said, and had carried the maiden 
off. Carlini besought his chief to make 
an exception in Rita's favor, as her 
father was rich, and could pay a large 
ransom. Cucumetto seemed to yield to 
his friend's entreaties, and bade him 
find a shepherd to send to Rita's 
father at Frosinone. Carlini flew 
joyfully to Rita, telling her she was 
saved, and bidding her write to her 
father, to inform him what had 
occurred, and that her ransom was fixed 
at three hundred piastres. Twelve 
hours' delay was all that was granted 
-- that is, until nine the next 
morning. The instant the letter was 
written, Carlini seized it, and 
hastened to the plain to find a 
messenger. He found a young shepherd 
watching his flock. The natural 
messengers of the bandits are the 
shepherds who live between the city and 
the mountains, between civilized and 
savage life. The boy undertook the 
commission, promising to be in 
Frosinone in less than an hour. Carlini 
returned, anxious to see his mistress, 
and announce the joyful intelligence. 
He found the troop in the glade, 
supping off the provisions exacted as 
contributions from the peasants; but 
his eye vainly sought Rita and 
Cucumetto among them. He inquired where 
they were, and was answered by a burst 
of laughter. A cold perspiration burst 
from every pore, and his hair stood on 
end. He repeated his question. One of 
the bandits rose, and offered him a 
glass filled with Orvietto, saying, `To 
the health of the brave Cucumetto and 
the fair Rita.' At this moment Carlini 
heard a woman's cry; he divined the 
truth, seized the glass, broke it 
across the face of him who presented 
it, and rushed towards the spot whence 
the cry came. After a hundred yards he 
turned the corner of the thicket; he 
found Rita senseless in the arms of 
Cucumetto. At the sight of Carlini, 
Cucumetto rose, a pistol in each hand. 
The two brigands looked at each other 
for a moment -- the one with a smile of 
lasciviousness on his lips, the other 
with the pallor of death on his brow. A 
terrible battle between the two men 
seemed imminent; but by degrees 
Carlini's features relaxed, his hand, 
which had grasped one of the pistols in 
his belt, fell to his side. Rita lay 
between them. The moon lighted the 
group.

"`Well,' said Cucumetto, `have you 
executed your commission?'

"`Yes, captain,' returned Carlini. `At 
nine o'clock to-morrow Rita's father 
will be here with the money.' -- `It is 
well; in the meantime, we will have a 
merry night; this young girl is 
charming, and does credit to your 
taste. Now, as I am not egotistical, we 
will return to our comrades and draw 
lots for her.' -- `You have determined, 
then, to abandon her to the common 
law?" said Carlini.

"`Why should an exception be made in 
her favor?'

"`I thought that my entreaties' --

"`What right have you, any more than 
the rest, to ask for an exception?' -- 
`It is true.' -- `But never mind,' 
continued Cucumetto, laughing, `sooner 
or later your turn will come.' 
Carlini's teeth clinched convulsively.

"`Now, then,' said Cucumetto, advancing 
towards the other bandits, `are you 
coming?' -- `I follow you.'

"Cucumetto departed, without losing 
sight of Carlini, for, doubtless, he 
feared lest he should strike him 
unawares; but nothing betrayed a 
hostile design on Carlini's part. He 
was standing, his arms folded, near 
Rita, who was still insensible. 
Cucumetto fancied for a moment the 
young man was about to take her in his 
arms and fly; but this mattered little 
to him now Rita had been his; and as 
for the money, three hundred piastres 
distributed among the band was so small 
a sum that he cared little about it. He 
continued to follow the path to the 
glade; but, to his great surprise, 
Carlini arrived almost as soon as 
himself. `Let us draw lots! let us draw 
lots!' cried all the brigands, when 
they saw the chief.

"Their demand was fair, and the chief 
inclined his head in sign of 
acquiescence. The eyes of all shone 
fiercely as they made their demand, and 
the red light of the fire made them 
look like demons. The names of all, 
including Carlini, were placed in a 
hat, and the youngest of the band drew 
forth a ticket; the ticket bore the 
name of Diovolaccio. He was the man who 
had proposed to Carlini the health of 
their chief, and to whom Carlini 
replied by breaking the glass across 
his face. A large wound, extending from 
the temple to the mouth, was bleeding 
profusely. Diovalaccio, seeing himself 
thus favored by fortune, burst into a 
loud laugh. `Captain,' said he, `just 
now Carlini would not drink your health 
when I proposed it to him; propose mine 
to him, and let us see if he will be 
more condescending to you than to me.' 
Every one expected an explosion on 
Carlini's part; but to their great 
surprise, he took a glass in one hand 
and a flask in the other, and filling 
it, -- `Your health, Diavolaccio,' said 
he calmly, and he drank it off, without 
his hand trembling in the least. Then 
sitting down by the fire, `My supper,' 
said he; `my expedition has given me an 
appetite.' -- `Well done, Carlini!' 
cried the brigands; `that is acting 
like a good fellow;' and they all 
formed a circle round the fire, while 
Diavolaccio disappeared. Carlini ate 
and drank as if nothing had happened. 
The bandits looked on with astonishment 
at this singular conduct until they 
heard footsteps. They turned round, and 
saw Diavolaccio bearing the young girl 
in his arms. Her head hung back, and 
her long hair swept the ground. As they 
entered the circle, the bandits could 
perceive, by the firelight, the 
unearthly pallor of the young girl and 
of Diavolaccio. This apparition was so 
strange and so solemn, that every one 
rose, with the exception of Carlini, 
who remained seated, and ate and drank 
calmly. Diavolaccio advanced amidst the 
most profound silence, and laid Rita at 
the captain's feet. Then every one 
could understand the cause of the 
unearthly pallor in the young girl and 
the bandit. A knife was plunged up to 
the hilt in Rita's left breast. Every 
one looked at Carlini; the sheath at 
his belt was empty. `Ah, ah,' said the 
chief, `I now understand why Carlini 
stayed behind.' All savage natures 
appreciate a desperate deed. No other 
of the bandits would, perhaps, have 
done the same; but they all understood 
what Carlini had done. `Now, then,' 
cried Carlini, rising in his turn, and 
approaching the corpse, his hand on the 
butt of one of his pistols, `does any 
one dispute the possession of this 
woman with me?' -- `No,' returned the 
chief, `she is thine.' Carlini raised 
her in his arms, and carried her out of 
the circle of firelight. Cucumetto 
placed his sentinels for the night, and 
the bandits wrapped themselves in their 
cloaks, and lay down before the fire. 
At midnight the sentinel gave the 
alarm, and in an instant all were on 
the alert. It was Rita's father, who 
brought his daughter's ransom in 
person. `Here,' said he, to Cucumetto, 
`here are three hundred piastres; give 
me back my child. But the chief, 
without taking the money, made a sign 
to him to follow. The old man obeyed. 
They both advanced beneath the trees, 
through whose branches streamed the 
moonlight. Cucumetto stopped at last, 
and pointed to two persons grouped at 
the foot of a tree.

"`There,' said he, `demand thy child of 
Carlini; he will tell thee what has 
become of her;' and he returned to his 
companions. The old man remained 
motionless; he felt that some great and 
unforeseen misfortune hung over his 
head. At length he advanced toward the 
group, the meaning of which he could 
not comprehend. As he approached, 
Carlini raised his head, and the forms 
of two persons became visible to the 
old man's eyes. A woman lay on the 
ground, her head resting on the knees 
of a man, who was seated by her; as he 
raised his head, the woman's face 
became visible. The old man recognized 
his child, and Carlini recognized the 
old man. `I expected thee,' said the 
bandit to Rita's father. -- `Wretch!' 
returned the old man, `what hast thou 
done?' and he gazed with terror on 
Rita, pale and bloody, a knife buried 
in her bosom. A ray of moonlight poured 
through the trees, and lighted up the 
face of the dead. -- `Cucumetto had 
violated thy daughter,' said the 
bandit; `I loved her, therefore I slew 
her; for she would have served as the 
sport of the whole band.' The old man 
spoke not, and grew pale as death. 
`Now,' continued Carlini, `if I have 
done wrongly, avenge her;' and 
withdrawing the knife from the wound in 
Rita's bosom, he held it out to the old 
man with one hand, while with the other 
he tore open his vest. -- `Thou hast 
done well!' returned the old man in a 
hoarse voice; `embrace me, my son.' 
Carlini threw himself, sobbing like a 
child, into the arms of his mistress's 
father. These were the first tears the 
man of blood had ever wept. `Now,' said 
the old man, `aid me to bury my child.' 
Carlini fetched two pickaxes; and the 
father and the lover began to dig at 
the foot of a huge oak, beneath which 
the young girl was to repose. When the 
grave was formed, the father kissed her 
first, and then the lover; afterwards, 
one taking the head, the other the 
feet, they placed her in the grave. 
Then they knelt on each side of the 
grave, and said the prayers of the 
dead. Then, when they had finished, 
they cast the earth over the corpse, 
until the grave was filled. Then, 
extending his hand, the old man said; 
`I thank you, my son; and now leave me 
alone.' -- `Yet' -- replied Carlini. -- 
`Leave me, I command you.' Carlini 
obeyed, rejoined his comrades, folded 
himself in his cloak, and soon appeared 
to sleep as soundly as the rest. It had 
been resolved the night before to 
change their encampment. An hour before 
daybreak, Cucumetto aroused his men, 
and gave the word to march. But Carlini 
would not quit the forest, without 
knowing what had become of Rita's 
father. He went toward the place where 
he had left him. He found the old man 
suspended from one of the branches of 
the oak which shaded his daughter's 
grave. He then took an oath of bitter 
vengeance over the dead body of the one 
and the tomb of the other. But he was 
unable to complete this oath, for two 
days afterwards, in an encounter with 
the Roman carbineers, Carlini was 
killed. There was some surprise, 
however, that, as he was with his face 
to the enemy, he should have received a 
ball between his shoulders. That 
astonishment ceased when one of the 
brigands remarked to his comrades that 
Cucumetto was stationed ten paces in 
Carlini's rear when he fell. On the 
morning of the departure from the 
forest of Frosinone he had followed 
Carlini in the darkness, and heard this 
oath of vengeance, and, like a wise 
man, anticipated it. They told ten 
other stories of this bandit chief, 
each more singular than the other. 
Thus, from Fondi to Perusia, every one 
trembles at the name of Cucumetto.

"These narratives were frequently the 
theme of conversation between Luigi and 
Teresa. The young girl trembled very 
much at hearing the stories; but Vampa 
reassured her with a smile, tapping the 
butt of his good fowling-piece, which 
threw its ball so well; and if that did 
not restore her courage, he pointed to 
a crow, perched on some dead branch, 
took aim, touched the trigger, and the 
bird fell dead at the foot of the tree. 
Time passed on, and the two young 
people had agreed to be married when 
Vampa should be twenty and Teresa 
nineteen years of age. They were both 
orphans, and had only their employers' 
leave to ask, which had been already 
sought and obtained. One day when they 
were talking over their plans for the 
future, they heard two or three reports 
of firearms, and then suddenly a man 
came out of the wood, near which the 
two young persons used to graze their 
flocks, and hurried towards them. When 
he came within hearing, he exclaimed. 
`I am pursued; can you conceal me?' 
They knew full well that this fugitive 
must be a bandit; but there is an 
innate sympathy between the Roman 
brigand and the Roman peasant and the 
latter is always ready to aid the 
former. Vampa, without saying a word, 
hastened to the stone that closed up 
the entrance to their grotto, drew it 
away, made a sign to the fugitive to 
take refuge there, in a retreat unknown 
to every one, closed the stone upon 
him, and then went and resumed his seat 
by Teresa. Instantly afterwards four 
carbineers, on horseback, appeared on 
the edge of the wood; three of them 
appeared to be looking for the 
fugitive, while the fourth dragged a 
brigand prisoner by the neck. The three 
carbineers looked about carefully on 
every side, saw the young peasants, and 
galloping up, began to question them. 
They had seen no one. `That is very 
annoying,' said the brigadier; for the 
man we are looking for is the chief.' 
-- `Cucumetto?' cried Luigi and Teresa 
at the same moment.

"`Yes,' replied the brigadier; `and as 
his head is valued at a thousand Roman 
crowns, there would have been five 
hundred for you, if you had helped us 
to catch him.' The two young persons 
exchanged looks. The brigadier had a 
moment's hope. Five hundred Roman 
crowns are three thousand lire, and 
three thousand lire are a fortune for 
two poor orphans who are going to be 
married.

"`Yes, it is very annoying,' said 
Vampa; `but we have not seen him.'

"Then the carbineers scoured the 
country in different directions, but in 
vain; then, after a time, they 
disappeared. Vampa then removed the 
stone, and Cucumetto came out. Through 
the crevices in the granite he had seen 
the two young peasants talking with the 
carbineers, and guessed the subject of 
their parley. He had read in the 
countenances of Luigi and Teresa their 
steadfast resolution not to surrender 
him, and he drew from his pocket a 
purse full of gold, which he offered to 
them. But Vampa raised his head 
proudly; as to Teresa, her eyes 
sparkled when she thought of all the 
fine gowns and gay jewellery she could 
buy with this purse of gold.

"Cucumetto was a cunning fiend, and had 
assumed the form of a brigand instead 
of a serpent, and this look from Teresa 
showed to him that she was a worthy 
daughter of Eve, and he returned to the 
forest, pausing several times on his 
way, under the pretext of saluting his 
protectors. Several days elapsed, and 
they neither saw nor heard of 
Cucumetto. The time of the Carnival was 
at hand. The Count of San-Felice 
announced a grand masked ball, to which 
all that were distinguished in Rome 
were invited. Teresa had a great desire 
to see this ball. Luigi asked 
permission of his protector, the 
steward, that she and he might be 
present amongst the servants of the 
house. This was granted. The ball was 
given by the Count for the particular 
pleasure of his daughter Carmela, whom 
he adored. Carmela was precisely the 
age and figure of Teresa, and Teresa 
was as handsome as Carmela. On the 
evening of the ball Teresa was attired 
in her best, her most brilliant 
ornaments in her hair, and gayest glass 
beads, -- she was in the costume of the 
women of Frascati. Luigi wore the very 
picturesque garb of the Roman peasant 
at holiday time. They both mingled, as 
they had leave to do, with the servants 
and peasants.

"The festa was magnificent; not only 
was the villa brilliantly illuminated, 
but thousands of colored lanterns were 
suspended from the trees in the garden; 
and very soon the palace overflowed to 
the terraces, and the terraces to the 
garden-walks. At each cross-path was an 
orchestra, and tables spread with 
refreshments; the guests stopped, 
formed quadrilles, and danced in any 
part of the grounds they pleased. 
Carmela was attired like a woman of 
Sonnino. Her cap was embroidered with 
pearls, the pins in her hair were of 
gold and diamonds, her girdle was of 
Turkey silk, with large embroidered 
flowers, her bodice and skirt were of 
cashmere, her apron of Indian muslin, 
and the buttons of her corset were of 
jewels. Two of her companions were 
dressed, the one as a woman of Nettuno, 
and the other as a woman of La Riccia. 
Four young men of the richest and 
noblest families of Rome accompanied 
them with that Italian freedom which 
has not its parallel in any other 
country in the world. They were attired 
as peasants of Albano, Velletri, 
Civita-Castellana, and Sora. We need 
hardly add that these peasant costumes, 
like those of the young women, were 
brilliant with gold and jewels.

"Carmela wished to form a quadrille, 
but there was one lady wanting. Carmela 
looked all around her, but not one of 
the guests had a costume similar to her 
own, or those of her companions. The 
Count of San-Felice pointed out Teresa, 
who was hanging on Luigi's arm in a 
group of peasants. `Will you allow me, 
father?' said Carmela. -- `Certainly,' 
replied the count, `are we not in 
Carnival time?' -- Carmela turned 
towards the young man who was talking 
with her, and saying a few words to 
him, pointed with her finger to Teresa. 
The young man looked, bowed in 
obedience, and then went to Teresa, and 
invited her to dance in a quadrille 
directed by the count's daughter. 
Teresa felt a flush pass over her face; 
she looked at Luigi, who could not 
refuse his assent. Luigi slowly 
relinquished Teresa's arm, which he had 
held beneath his own, and Teresa, 
accompanied by her elegant cavalier, 
took her appointed place with much 
agitation in the aristocratic 
quadrille. Certainly, in the eyes of an 
artist, the exact and strict costume of 
Teresa had a very different character 
from that of Carmela and her 
companions; and Teresa was frivolous 
and coquettish, and thus the embroidery 
and muslins, the cashmere 
waist-girdles, all dazzled her, and the 
reflection of sapphires and diamonds 
almost turned her giddy brain.

"Luigi felt a sensation hitherto 
unknown arising in his mind. It was 
like an acute pain which gnawed at his 
heart, and then thrilled through his 
whole body. He followed with his eye 
each movement of Teresa and her 
cavalier; when their hands touched, he 
felt as though he should swoon; every 
pulse beat with violence, and it seemed 
as though a bell were ringing in his 
ears. When they spoke, although Teresa 
listened timidly and with downcast eyes 
to the conversation of her cavalier, as 
Luigi could read in the ardent looks of 
the good-looking young man that his 
language was that of praise, it seemed 
as if the whole world was turning round 
with him, and all the voices of hell 
were whispering in his ears ideas of 
murder and assassination. Then fearing 
that his paroxysm might get the better 
of him, he clutched with one hand the 
branch of a tree against which he was 
leaning, and with the other 
convulsively grasped the dagger with a 
carved handle which was in his belt, 
and which, unwittingly, he drew from 
the scabbard from time to time. Luigi 
was jealous! He felt that, influenced 
by her ambitions and coquettish 
disposition, Teresa might escape him.

"The young peasant girl, at first timid 
and scared, soon recovered herself. We 
have said that Teresa was handsome, but 
this is not all; Teresa was endowed 
with all those wild graces which are so 
much more potent than our affected and 
studied elegancies. She had almost all 
the honors of the quadrille, and if she 
were envious of the Count of 
San-Felice's daughter, we will not 
undertake to say that Carmela was not 
jealous of her. And with overpowering 
compliments her handsome cavalier led 
her back to the place whence he had 
taken her, and where Luigi awaited her. 
Twice or thrice during the dance the 
young girl had glanced at Luigi, and 
each time she saw that he was pale and 
that his features were agitated, once 
even the blade of his knife, half drawn 
from its sheath, had dazzled her eyes 
with its sinister glare. Thus, it was 
almost tremblingly that she resumed her 
lover's arm. The quadrille had been 
most perfect, and it was evident there 
was a great demand for a repetition, 
Carmela alone objecting to it, but the 
Count of San-Felice besought his 
daughter so earnestly, that she 
acceded. One of the cavaliers then 
hastened to invite Teresa, without whom 
it was impossible for the quadrille to 
be formed, but the young girl had 
disappeared. The truth was, that Luigi 
had not felt the strength to support 
another such trial, and, half by 
persuasion and half by force, he had 
removed Teresa toward another part of 
the garden. Teresa had yielded in spite 
of herself, but when she looked at the 
agitated countenance of the young man, 
she understood by his silence and 
trembling voice that something strange 
was passing within him. She herself was 
not exempt from internal emotion, and 
without having done anything wrong, yet 
fully comprehended that Luigi was right 
in reproaching her. Why, she did not 
know, but yet she did not the less feel 
that these reproaches were merited. 
However, to Teresa's great 
astonishment, Luigi remained mute, and 
not a word escaped his lips the rest of 
the evening. When the chill of the 
night had driven away the guests from 
the gardens, and the gates of the villa 
were closed on them for the festa 
in-doors, he took Teresa quite away, 
and as he left her at her home, he 
said, --

"`Teresa, what were you thinking of as 
you danced opposite the young Countess 
of San-Felice?' -- `I thought,' replied 
the young girl, with all the frankness 
of her nature, `that I would give half 
my life for a costume such as she wore.'

"`And what said your cavalier to you?' 
-- `He said it only depended on myself 
to have it, and I had only one word to 
say.'

"`He was right,' said Luigi. `Do you 
desire it as ardently as you say?' -- 
`Yes.' -- `Well, then, you shall have 
it!'

"The young girl, much astonished, 
raised her head to look at him, but his 
face was so gloomy and terrible that 
her words froze to her lips. As Luigi 
spoke thus, he left her. Teresa 
followed him with her eyes into the 
darkness as long as she could, and when 
he had quite disappeared, she went into 
the house with a sigh.

"That night a memorable event occurred, 
due, no doubt, to the imprudence of 
some servant who had neglected to 
extinguish the lights. The Villa of 
San-Felice took fire in the rooms 
adjoining the very apartment of the 
lovely Carmela. Awakened in the night 
by the light of the flames, she sprang 
out of bed, wrapped herself in a 
dressing-gown, and attempted to escape 
by the door, but the corridor by which 
she hoped to fly was already a prey to 
the flames. She then returned to her 
room, calling for help as loudly as she 
could, when suddenly her window, which 
was twenty feet from the ground, was 
opened, a young peasant jumped into the 
chamber, seized her in his arms, and 
with superhuman skill and strength 
conveyed her to the turf of the 
grass-plot, where she fainted. When she 
recovered, her father was by her side. 
All the servants surrounded her, 
offering her assistance. An entire wing 
of the villa was burnt down; but what 
of that, as long as Carmela was safe 
and uninjured? Her preserver was 
everywhere sought for, but he did not 
appear; he was inquired after, but no 
one had seen him. Carmela was greatly 
troubled that she had not recognized 
him. As the count was immensely rich, 
excepting the danger Carmela had run, 
-- and the marvellous manner in which 
she had escaped, made that appear to 
him rather a favor of providence than a 
real misfortune, -- the loss occasioned 
by the conflagration was to him but a 
trifle.

"The next day, at the usual hour, the 
two young peasants were on the borders 
of the forest. Luigi arrived first. He 
came toward Teresa in high spirits, and 
seemed to have completely forgotten the 
events of the previous evening. The 
young girl was very pensive, but seeing 
Luigi so cheerful, she on her part 
assumed a smiling air, which was 
natural to her when she was not excited 
or in a passion. Luigi took her arm 
beneath his own, and led her to the 
door of the grotto. Then he paused. The 
young girl, perceiving that there was 
something extraordinary, looked at him 
steadfastly. `Teresa,' said Luigi, 
`yesterday evening you told me you 
would give all the world to have a 
costume similar to that of the count's 
daughter.' -- `Yes,' replied Teresa 
with astonishment; `but I was mad to 
utter such a wish.' -- `And I replied, 
"Very well, you shall have it."' -- 
`Yes,' replied the young girl, whose 
astonishment increased at every word 
uttered by Luigi, `but of course your 
reply was only to please me.'

"`I have promised no more than I have 
given you, Teresa,' said Luigi proudly. 
`Go into the grotto and dress 
yourself.' At these words he drew away 
the stone, and showed Teresa the 
grotto, lighted up by two wax lights, 
which burnt on each side of a splendid 
mirror; on a rustic table, made by 
Luigi, were spread out the pearl 
necklace and the diamond pins, and on a 
chair at the side was laid the rest of 
the costume.

"Teresa uttered a cry of joy, and, 
without inquiring whence this attire 
came, or even thanking Luigi, darted 
into the grotto, transformed into a 
dressing-room. Luigi pushed the stone 
behind her, for on the crest of a small 
adjacent hill which cut off the view 
toward Palestrina, he saw a traveller 
on horseback, stopping a moment, as if 
uncertain of his road, and thus 
presenting against the blue sky that 
perfect outline which is peculiar to 
distant objects in southern climes. 
When he saw Luigi, he put his horse 
into a gallop and advanced toward him. 
Luigi was not mistaken. The traveller, 
who was going from Palestrina to 
Tivoli, had mistaken his way; the young 
man directed him; but as at a distance 
of a quarter of a mile the road again 
divided into three ways, and on 
reaching these the traveller might 
again stray from his route, he begged 
Luigi to be his guide. Luigi threw his 
cloak on the ground, placed his carbine 
on his shoulder, and freed from his 
heavy covering, preceded the traveller 
with the rapid step of a mountaineer, 
which a horse can scarcely keep up 
with. In ten minutes Luigi and the 
traveller reached the cross-roads. On 
arriving there, with an air as majestic 
as that of an emperor, he stretched his 
hand towards that one of the roads 
which the traveller was to follow. -- 
"That is your road, excellency, and now 
you cannot again mistake.' -- `And here 
is your recompense,' said the 
traveller, offering the young herdsman 
some small pieces of money.

"`Thank you,' said Luigi, drawing back 
his hand; `I render a service, I do not 
sell it.' -- `Well,' replied the 
traveller, who seemed used to this 
difference between the servility of a 
man of the cities and the pride of the 
mountaineer, `if you refuse wages, you 
will, perhaps, accept a gift.' -- `Ah, 
yes, that is another thing.' -- `Then,' 
said the traveller, `take these two 
Venetian sequins and give them to your 
bride, to make herself a pair of 
earrings.'

"`And then do you take this poniard,' 
said the young herdsman; `you will not 
find one better carved between Albano 
and Civita-Castellana.'

"`I accept it,' answered the traveller, 
`but then the obligation will be on my 
side, for this poniard is worth more 
than two sequins.' -- `For a dealer 
perhaps; but for me, who engraved it 
myself, it is hardly worth a piastre.'

"`What is your name?' inquired the 
traveller. -- `Luigi Vampa,' replied 
the shepherd, with the same air as he 
would have replied, Alexander, King of 
Macedon. -- `And yours?' -- `I,' said 
the traveller, `am called Sinbad the 
Sailor.'" Franz d'Epinay started with 
surprise.

"Sinbad the Sailor." he said.

"Yes," replied the narrator; "that was 
the name which the traveller gave to 
Vampa as his own."

"Well, and what may you have to say 
against this name?" inquired Albert; 
"it is a very pretty name, and the 
adventures of the gentleman of that 
name amused me very much in my youth, I 
must confess." -- Franz said no more. 
The name of Sinbad the Sailor, as may 
well be supposed, awakened in him a 
world of recollections, as had the name 
of the Count of Monte Cristo on the 
previous evening.

"Proceed!" said he to the host.

"Vampa put the two sequins haughtily 
into his pocket, and slowly returned by 
the way he had gone. As he came within 
two or three hundred paces of the 
grotto, he thought he heard a cry. He 
listened to know whence this sound 
could proceed. A moment afterwards he 
thought he heard his own name 
pronounced distinctly. The cry 
proceeded from the grotto. He bounded 
like a chamois, cocking his carbine as 
he went, and in a moment reached the 
summit of a hill opposite to that on 
which he had perceived the traveller. 
Three cries for help came more 
distinctly to his ear. He cast his eyes 
around him and saw a man carrying off 
Teresa, as Nessus, the centaur, carried 
Dejanira. This man, who was hastening 
towards the wood, was already 
three-quarters of the way on the road 
from the grotto to the forest. Vampa 
measured the distance; the man was at 
least two hundred paces in advance of 
him, and there was not a chance of 
overtaking him. The young shepherd 
stopped, as if his feet had been rooted 
to the ground; then he put the butt of 
his carbine to his shoulder, took aim 
at the ravisher, followed him for a 
second in his track, and then fired. 
The ravisher stopped suddenly, his 
knees bent under him, and he fell with 
Teresa in his arms. The young girl rose 
instantly, but the man lay on the earth 
struggling in the agonies of death. 
Vampa then rushed towards Teresa; for 
at ten paces from the dying man her 
legs had failed her, and she had 
dropped on her knees, so that the young 
man feared that the ball that had 
brought down his enemy, had also 
wounded his betrothed. Fortunately, she 
was unscathed, and it was fright alone 
that had overcome Teresa. When Luigi 
had assured himself that she was safe 
and unharmed, he turned towards the 
wounded man. He had just expired, with 
clinched hands, his mouth in a spasm of 
agony, and his hair on end in the sweat 
of death. His eyes remained open and 
menacing. Vampa approached the corpse, 
and recognized Cucumetto. From the day 
on which the bandit had been saved by 
the two young peasants, he had been 
enamoured of Teresa, and had sworn she 
should be his. From that time he had 
watched them, and profiting by the 
moment when her lover had left her 
alone, had carried her off, and 
believed he at length had her in his 
power, when the ball, directed by the 
unerring skill of the young herdsman, 
had pierced his heart. Vampa gazed on 
him for a moment without betraying the 
slightest emotion; while, on the 
contrary, Teresa, shuddering in every 
limb, dared not approach the slain 
ruffian but by degrees, and threw a 
hesitating glance at the dead body over 
the shoulder of her lover. Suddenly 
Vampa turned toward his mistress: -- 
`Ah,' said he -- `good, good! You are 
dressed; it is now my turn to dress 
myself.'

"Teresa was clothed from head to foot 
in the garb of the Count of 
San-Felice's daughter. Vampa took 
Cucumetto's body in his arms and 
conveyed it to the grotto, while in her 
turn Teresa remained outside. If a 
second traveller had passed, he would 
have seen a strange thing, -- a 
shepherdess watching her flock, clad in 
a cashmere grown, with ear-rings and 
necklace of pearls, diamond pins, and 
buttons of sapphires, emeralds, and 
rubies. He would, no doubt, have 
believed that he had returned to the 
times of Florian, and would have 
declared, on reaching Paris, that he 
had met an Alpine shepherdess seated at 
the foot of the Sabine Hill. At the end 
of a quarter of an hour Vampa quitted 
the grotto; his costume was no less 
elegant than that of Teresa. He wore a 
vest of garnet-colored velvet, with 
buttons of cut gold; a silk waistcoat 
covered with embroidery; a Roman scarf 
tied round his neck; a cartridge-box 
worked with gold, and red and green 
silk; sky-blue velvet breeches, 
fastened above the knee with diamond 
buckles; garters of deerskin, worked 
with a thousand arabesques, and a hat 
whereon hung ribbons of all colors; two 
watches hung from his girdle, and a 
splendid poniard was in his belt. 
Teresa uttered a cry of admiration. 
Vampa in this attire resembled a 
painting by Leopold Robert, or Schnetz. 
He had assumed the entire costume of 
Cucumetto. The young man saw the effect 
produced on his betrothed, and a smile 
of pride passed over his lips. -- 
`Now,' he said to Teresa, `are you 
ready to share my fortune, whatever it 
may be?' -- `Oh, yes!' exclaimed the 
young girl enthusiastically. -- `And 
follow me wherever I go?' -- `To the 
world's end.' -- `Then take my arm, and 
let us on; we have no time to lose.' -- 
The young girl did so without 
questioning her lover as to where he 
was conducting her, for he appeared to 
her at this moment as handsome, proud, 
and powerful as a god. They went 
towards the forest, and soon entered 
it. We need scarcely say that all the 
paths of the mountain were known to 
Vampa; he therefore went forward 
without a moment's hesitation, although 
there was no beaten track, but he knew 
his path by looking at the trees and 
bushes, and thus they kept on advancing 
for nearly an hour and a half. At the 
end of this time they had reached the 
thickest of the forest. A torrent, 
whose bed was dry, led into a deep 
gorge. Vampa took this wild road, 
which, enclosed between two ridges, and 
shadowed by the tufted umbrage of the 
pines, seemed, but for the difficulties 
of its descent, that path to Avernus of 
which Virgil speaks. Teresa had become 
alarmed at the wild and deserted look 
of the plain around her, and pressed 
closely against her guide, not uttering 
a syllable; but as she saw him advance 
with even step and composed 
countenance, she endeavored to repress 
her emotion. Suddenly, about ten paces 
from them, a man advanced from behind a 
tree and aimed at Vampa. -- `Not 
another step,' he said, `or you are a 
dead man.' -- `What, then,' said Vampa, 
raising his hand with a gesture of 
disdain, while Teresa, no longer able 
to restrain her alarm, clung closely to 
him, `do wolves rend each other?' -- 
`Who are you?' inquired the sentinel. 
-- `I am Luigi Vampa, shepherd of the 
San-Felice farm.' -- `What do you 
want?' -- `I would speak with your 
companions who are in the glade at 
Rocca Bianca.' -- `Follow me, then,' 
said the sentinel; `or, as you know 
your way, go first.' -- Vampa smiled 
disdainfully at this precaution on the 
part of the bandit, went before Teresa, 
and continued to advance with the same 
firm and easy step as before. At the 
end of ten minutes the bandit made them 
a sign to stop. The two young persons 
obeyed. Then the bandit thrice imitated 
the cry of a crow; a croak answered 
this signal. -- `Good!' said the 
sentry, `you may now go on.' -- Luigi 
and Teresa again set forward; as they 
went on Teresa clung tremblingly to her 
lover at the sight of weapons and the 
glistening of carbines through the 
trees. The retreat of Rocca Bianca was 
at the top of a small mountain, which 
no doubt in former days had been a 
volcano -- an extinct volcano before 
the days when Remus and Romulus had 
deserted Alba to come and found the 
city of Rome. Teresa and Luigi reached 
the summit, and all at once found 
themselves in the presence of twenty 
bandits. `Here is a young man who seeks 
and wishes to speak to you,' said the 
sentinel. -- `What has he to say?' 
inquired the young man who was in 
command in the chief's absence. -- `I 
wish to say that I am tired of a 
shepherd's life,' was Vampa's reply. -- 
`Ah, I understand,' said the 
lieutenant; `and you seek admittance 
into our ranks?' -- `Welcome!' cried 
several bandits from Ferrusino, 
Pampinara, and Anagni, who had 
recognized Luigi Vampa. -- `Yes, but I 
came to ask something more than to be 
your companion.' -- `And what may that 
be?' inquired the bandits with 
astonishment. -- `I come to ask to be 
your captain,' said the young man. The 
bandits shouted with laughter. `And 
what have you done to aspire to this 
honor?' demanded the lieutenant. -- `I 
have killed your chief, Cucumetto, 
whose dress I now wear; and I set fire 
to the villa San-Felice to procure a 
wedding-dress for my betrothed.' An 
hour afterwards Luigi Vampa was chosen 
captain, vice Cucumetto deceased."

"Well, my dear Albert," said Franz, 
turning towards his friend; "what think 
you of citizen Luigi Vampa?"

"I say he is a myth," replied Albert, 
"and never had an existence."

"And what may a myth be?" inquired 
Pastrini.

"The explanation would be too long, my 
dear landlord," replied Franz.

"And you say that Signor Vampa 
exercises his profession at this moment 
in the environs of Rome?"

"And with a boldness of which no bandit 
before him ever gave an example."

"Then the police have vainly tried to 
lay hands on him?"

"Why, you see, he has a good 
understanding with the shepherds in the 
plains, the fishermen of the Tiber, and 
the smugglers of the coast. They seek 
for him in the mountains, and he is on 
the waters; they follow him on the 
waters, and he is on the open sea; then 
they pursue him, and he has suddenly 
taken refuge in the islands, at Giglio, 
Guanouti, or Monte Cristo; and when 
they hunt for him there, he reappears 
suddenly at Albano, Tivoli, or La 
Riccia."

"And how does he behave towards 
travellers?"

"Alas! his plan is very simple. It 
depends on the distance he may be from 
the city, whether he gives eight hours, 
twelve hours, or a day wherein to pay 
their ransom; and when that time has 
elapsed he allows another hour's grace. 
At the sixtieth minute of this hour, if 
the money is not forthcoming, he blows 
out the prisoner's brains with a 
pistol-shot, or plants his dagger in 
his heart, and that settles the 
account."

"Well, Albert," inquired Franz of his 
companion, "are you still disposed to 
go to the Colosseum by the outer wall?"

"Quite so," said Albert, "if the way be 
picturesque." The clock struck nine as 
the door opened, and a coachman 
appeared. "Excellencies," said he, "the 
coach is ready."

"Well, then," said Franz, "let us to 
the Colosseum."

"By the Porta del Popolo or by the 
streets, your excellencies?"

"By the streets, morbleu, by the 
streets!" cried Franz.

"Ah, my dear fellow," said Albert, 
rising, and lighting his third cigar, 
"really, I thought you had more 
courage." So saying, the two young men 
went down the staircase, and got into 
the carriage. 

 Chapter 34 The Colosseum.

Franz had so managed his route, that 
during the ride to the Colosseum they 
passed not a single ancient ruin, so 
that no preliminary impression 
interfered to mitigate the colossal 
proportions of the gigantic building 
they came to admire. The road selected 
was a continuation of the Via Sistina; 
then by cutting off the right angle of 
the street in which stands Santa Maria 
Maggiore and proceeding by the Via 
Urbana and San Pietro in Vincoli, the 
travellers would find themselves 
directly opposite the Colosseum. This 
itinerary possessed another great 
advantage, -- that of leaving Franz at 
full liberty to indulge his deep 
reverie upon the subject of Signor 
Pastrini's story, in which his 
mysterious host of Monte Cristo was so 
strangely mixed up. Seated with folded 
arms in a corner of the carriage, he 
continued to ponder over the singular 
history he had so lately listened to, 
and to ask himself an interminable 
number of questions touching its 
various circumstances without, however, 
arriving at a satisfactory reply to any 
of them. One fact more than the rest 
brought his friend "Sinbad the Sailor" 
back to his recollection, and that was 
the mysterious sort of intimacy that 
seemed to exist between the brigands 
and the sailors; and Pastrini's account 
of Vampa's having found refuge on board 
the vessels of smugglers and fishermen, 
reminded Franz of the two Corsican 
bandits he had found supping so 
amicably with the crew of the little 
yacht, which had even deviated from its 
course and touched at Porto-Vecchio for 
the sole purpose of landing them. The 
very name assumed by his host of Monte 
Cristo and again repeated by the 
landlord of the Hotel de Londres, 
abundantly proved to him that his 
island friend was playing his 
philanthropic part on the shores of 
Piombino, Civita-Vecchio, Ostia, and 
Gaeta, as on those of Corsica, Tuscany, 
and Spain; and further, Franz bethought 
him of having heard his singular 
entertainer speak both of Tunis and 
Palermo, proving thereby how largely 
his circle of acquaintances extended.

But however the mind of the young man 
might he absorbed in these reflections, 
they were at once dispersed at the 
sight of the dark frowning ruins of the 
stupendous Colosseum, through the 
various openings of which the pale 
moonlight played and flickered like the 
unearthly gleam from the eyes of the 
wandering dead. The carriage stopped 
near the Meta Sudans; the door was 
opened, and the young men, eagerly 
alighting, found themselves opposite a 
cicerone, who appeared to have sprung 
up from the ground, so unexpected was 
his appearance.

The usual guide from the hotel having 
followed them, they had paid two 
conductors, nor is it possible, at 
Rome, to avoid this abundant supply of 
guides; besides the ordinary cicerone, 
who seizes upon you directly you set 
foot in your hotel, and never quits you 
while you remain in the city, there is 
also a special cicerone belonging to 
each monument -- nay, almost to each 
part of a monument. It may, therefore, 
be easily imagined there is no scarcity 
of guides at the Colosseum, that wonder 
of all ages, which Martial thus 
eulogizes: "Let Memphis cease to boast 
the barbarous miracles of her pyramids, 
and the wonders of Babylon be talked of 
no more among us; all must bow to the 
superiority of the gigantic labor of 
the Caesars, and the many voices of 
Fame spread far and wide the surpassing 
merits of this incomparable monument."

As for Albert and Franz, they essayed 
not to escape from their ciceronian 
tyrants; and, indeed, it would have 
been so much the more difficult to 
break their bondage, as the guides 
alone are permitted to visit these 
monuments with torches in their hands. 
Thus, then, the young men made no 
attempt at resistance, but blindly and 
confidingly surrendered themselves into 
the care and custody of their 
conductors. Albert had already made 
seven or eight similar excursions to 
the Colosseum, while his less favored 
companion trod for the first time in 
his life the classic ground forming the 
monument of Flavius Vespasian; and, to 
his credit be it spoken, his mind, even 
amid the glib loquacity of the guides, 
was duly and deeply touched with awe 
and enthusiastic admiration of all he 
saw; and certainly no adequate notion 
of these stupendous ruins can be formed 
save by such as have visited them, and 
more especially by moonlight, at which 
time the vast proportions of the 
building appear twice as large when 
viewed by the mysterious beams of a 
southern moonlit sky, whose rays are 
sufficiently clear and vivid to light 
the horizon with a glow equal to the 
soft twilight of an eastern clime. 
Scarcely, therefore, had the reflective 
Franz walked a hundred steps beneath 
the interior porticoes of the ruin, 
than, abandoning Albert to the guides 
(who would by no means yield their 
prescriptive right of carrying their 
victims through the routine regularly 
laid down, and as regularly followed by 
them, but dragged the unconscious 
visitor to the various objects with a 
pertinacity that admitted of no appeal, 
beginning, as a matter of course, with 
the Lions' Den, and finishing with 
Caesar's "Podium,"), to escape a jargon 
and mechanical survey of the wonders by 
which he was surrounded, Franz ascended 
a half-dilapidated staircase, and, 
leaving them to follow their monotonous 
round, seated himself at the foot of a 
column, and immediately opposite a 
large aperture, which permitted him to 
enjoy a full and undisturbed view of 
the gigantic dimensions of the majestic 
ruin.

Franz had remained for nearly a quarter 
of an hour perfectly hidden by the 
shadow of the vast column at whose base 
he had found a resting-place, and from 
whence his eyes followed the motions of 
Albert and his guides, who, holding 
torches in their hands, had emerged 
from a vomitarium at the opposite 
extremity of the Colosseum, and then 
again disappeared down the steps 
conducting to the seats reserved for 
the Vestal virgins, resembling, as they 
glided along, some restless shades 
following the flickering glare of so 
many ignes-fatui. All at once his ear 
caught a sound resembling that of a 
stone rolling down the staircase 
opposite the one by which he had 
himself ascended. There was nothing 
remarkable in the circumstance of a 
fragment of granite giving way and 
falling heavily below; but it seemed to 
him that the substance that fell gave 
way beneath the pressure of a foot, and 
also that some one, who endeavored as 
much as possible to prevent his 
footsteps from being heard, was 
approaching the spot where he sat. 
Conjecture soon became certainty, for 
the figure of a man was distinctly 
visible to Franz, gradually emerging 
from the staircase opposite, upon which 
the moon was at that moment pouring a 
full tide of silvery brightness.

The stranger thus presenting himself 
was probably a person who, like Franz, 
preferred the enjoyment of solitude and 
his own thoughts to the frivolous 
gabble of the guides. And his 
appearance had nothing extraordinary in 
it; but the hesitation with which he 
proceeded, stopping and listening with 
anxious attention at every step he 
took, convinced Franz that he expected 
the arrival of some person. By a sort 
of instinctive impulse, Franz withdrew 
as much as possible behind his pillar. 
About ten feet from the spot where he 
and the stranger were, the roof had 
given way, leaving a large round 
opening, through which might be seen 
the blue vault of heaven, thickly 
studded with stars. Around this 
opening, which had, possibly, for ages 
permitted a free entrance to the 
brilliant moonbeams that now illumined 
the vast pile, grew a quantity of 
creeping plants, whose delicate green 
branches stood out in bold relief 
against the clear azure of the 
firmament, while large masses of thick, 
strong fibrous shoots forced their way 
through the chasm, and hung floating to 
and fro, like so many waving strings. 
The person whose mysterious arrival had 
attracted the attention of Franz stood 
in a kind of half-light, that rendered 
it impossible to distinguish his 
features, although his dress was easily 
made out. He wore a large brown mantle, 
one fold of which, thrown over his left 
shoulder, served likewise to mask the 
lower part of his countenance, while 
the upper part was completely hidden by 
his broad-brimmed hat. The lower part 
of his dress was more distinctly 
visible by the bright rays of the moon, 
which, entering through the broken 
ceiling, shed their refulgent beams on 
feet cased in elegantly made boots of 
polished leather, over which descended 
fashionably cut trousers of black cloth.

From the imperfect means Franz had of 
judging, he could only come to one 
conclusion, -- that the person whom he 
was thus watching certainly belonged to 
no inferior station of life. Some few 
minutes had elapsed, and the stranger 
began to show manifest signs of 
impatience, when a slight noise was 
heard outside the aperture in the roof, 
and almost immediately a dark shadow 
seemed to obstruct the flood of light 
that had entered it, and the figure of 
a man was clearly seen gazing with 
eager scrutiny on the immense space 
beneath him; then, as his eye caught 
sight of him in the mantle, he grasped 
a floating mass of thickly matted 
boughs, and glided down by their help 
to within three or four feet of the 
ground, and then leaped lightly on his 
feet. The man who had performed this 
daring act with so much indifference 
wore the Transtevere costume. "I beg 
your excellency's pardon for keeping 
you waiting," said the man, in the 
Roman dialect, "but I don't think I'm 
many minutes after my time, ten o'clock 
his just struck on the Lateran."

"Say not a word about being late," 
replied the stranger in purest Tuscan; 
"'tis I who am too soon. But even if 
you had caused me to wait a little 
while, I should have felt quite sure 
that the delay was not occasioned by 
any fault of yours."

"Your excellency is perfectly right in 
so thinking," said the man; "I came 
here direct from the Castle of St. 
Angelo, and I had an immense deal of 
trouble before I could get a chance to 
speak to Beppo."

"And who is Beppo?"

"Oh, Beppo is employed in the prison, 
and I give him so much a year to let me 
know what is going on within his 
holiness's castle."

"Indeed! You are a provident person, I 
see."

"Why, you see, no one knows what may 
happen. Perhaps some of these days I 
may be entrapped, like poor Peppino and 
may be very glad to have some little 
nibbling mouse to gnaw the meshes of my 
net, and so help me out of prison."

"Briefly, what did you glean?"

"That two executions of considerable 
interest will take place the day after 
to-morrow at two o'clock, as is 
customary at Rome at the commencement 
of all great festivals. One of the 
culprits will be mazzolato;* he is an 
atrocious villain, who murdered the 
priest who brought him up, and deserves 
not the smallest pity. The other 
sufferer is sentenced to be 
decapitato;** and he, your excellency, 
is poor Peppino."

* Knocked on the head. ** Beheaded.

"The fact is, that you have inspired 
not only the pontifical government, but 
also the neighboring states, with such 
extreme fear, that they are glad of all 
opportunity of making an example."

"But Peppino did not even belong to my 
band: he was merely a poor shepherd, 
whose only crime consisted in 
furnishing us with provisions."

"Which makes him your accomplice to all 
intents and purposes. But mark the 
distinction with which he is treated; 
instead of being knocked on the head as 
you would be if once they caught hold 
of you, he is simply sentenced to be 
guillotined, by which means, too, the 
amusements of the day are diversified, 
and there is a spectacle to please 
every spectator."

"Without reckoning the wholly 
unexpected one I am preparing to 
surprise them with."

"My good friend," said the man in the 
cloak, "excuse me for saying that you 
seem to me precisely in the mood to 
commit some wild or extravagant act."

"Perhaps I am; but one thing I have 
resolved on, and that is, to stop at 
nothing to restore a poor devil to 
liberty, who has got into this scrape 
solely from having served me. I should 
hate and despise myself as a coward did 
I desert the brave fellow in his 
present extremity."

"And what do you mean to do?"

"To surround the scaffold with twenty 
of my best men, who, at a signal from 
me, will rush forward directly Peppino 
is brought for execution, and, by the 
assistance of their stilettos, drive 
back the guard, and carry off the 
prisoner."

"That seems to me as hazardous as 
uncertain, and convinces me that my 
scheme is far better than yours."

"And what is your excellency's project?"

"Just this. I will so advantageously 
bestow 2,000 piastres, that the person 
receiving them shall obtain a respite 
till next year for Peppino; and during 
that year, another skilfully placed 
1,000 piastres will afford him the 
means of escaping from his prison."

"And do you feel sure of succeeding?"

"Pardieu!" exclaimed the man in the 
cloak, suddenly expressing himself in 
French.

"What did your excellency say?" 
inquired the other.

"I said, my good fellow, that I would 
do more single-handed by the means of 
gold than you and all your troop could 
effect with stilettos, pistols, 
carbines, and blunderbusses included. 
Leave me, then, to act, and have no 
fears for the result."

"At least, there can be no harm in 
myself and party being in readiness, in 
case your excellency should fail."

"None whatever. Take what precautions 
you please, if it is any satisfaction 
to you to do so; but rely upon my 
obtaining the reprieve I seek."

"Remember, the execution is fixed for 
the day after tomorrow, and that you 
have but one day to work in."

"And what of that? Is not a day divided 
into twenty-four hours, each hour into 
sixty minutes, and every minute 
sub-divided into sixty seconds? Now in 
86,400 seconds very many things can be 
done."

"And how shall I know whether your 
excellency has succeeded or not."

"Oh, that is very easily arranged. I 
have engaged the three lower windows at 
the Cafe Rospoli; should I have 
obtained the requisite pardon for 
Peppino, the two outside windows will 
be hung with yellow damasks, and the 
centre with white, having a large cross 
in red marked on it."

"And whom will you employ to carry the 
reprieve to the officer directing the 
execution?"

"Send one of your men, disguised as a 
penitent friar, and I will give it to 
him. His dress will procure him the 
means of approaching the scaffold 
itself, and he will deliver the 
official order to the officer, who, in 
his turn, will hand it to the 
executioner; in the meantime, it will 
be as well to acquaint Peppino with 
what we have determined on, if it be 
only to prevent his dying of fear or 
losing his senses, because in either 
case a very useless expense will have 
been incurred."

"Your excellency," said the man, "you 
are fully persuaded of my entire 
devotion to you, are you not?"

"Nay, I flatter myself that there can 
be no doubt of it," replied the 
cavalier in the cloak.

"Well, then, only fulfil your promise 
of rescuing Peppino, and henceforward 
you shall receive not only devotion, 
but the most absolute obedience from 
myself and those under me that one 
human being can render to another."

"Have a care how far you pledge 
yourself, my good friend, for I may 
remind you of your promise at some, 
perhaps, not very distant period, when 
I, in my turn, may require your aid and 
influence."

"Let that day come sooner or later, 
your excellency will find me what I 
have found you in this my heavy 
trouble; and if from the other end of 
the world you but write me word to do 
such or such a thing, you may regard it 
as done, for done it shall be, on the 
word and faith of" --

"Hush!" interrupted the stranger; "I 
hear a noise."

"'Tis some travellers, who are visiting 
the Colosseum by torchlight."

"'Twere better we should not be seen 
together; those guides are nothing but 
spies, and might possibly recognize 
you; and, however I may be honored by 
your friendship, my worthy friend, if 
once the extent of our intimacy were 
known, I am sadly afraid both my 
reputation and credit would suffer 
thereby."

"Well, then, if you obtain the 
reprieve?"

"The middle window at the Cafe Rospoli 
will be hung with white damask, bearing 
a red cross."

"And if you fail?"

"Then all three windows will have 
yellow draperies."

"And then?"

"And then, my good fellow, use your 
daggers in any way you please, and I 
further promise you to be there as a 
spectator of your prowess."

"We understand each other perfectly, 
then. Adieu, your excellency; depend 
upon me as firmly as I do upon you."

Saying these words, the Transteverin 
disappeared down the staircase, while 
his companion, muffling his features 
more closely than before in the folds 
of his mantle, passed almost close to 
Franz, and descended to the arena by an 
outward flight of steps. The next 
minute Franz heard himself called by 
Albert, who made the lofty building 
re-echo with the sound of his friend's 
name. Franz, however, did not obey the 
summons till he had satisfied himself 
that the two men whose conversation he 
had overheard were at a sufficient 
distance to prevent his encountering 
them in his descent. In ten minutes 
after the strangers had departed, Franz 
was on the road to the Piazza de 
Spagni, listening with studied 
indifference to the learned 
dissertation delivered by Albert, after 
the manner of Pliny and Calpurnius, 
touching the iron-pointed nets used to 
prevent the ferocious beasts from 
springing on the spectators. Franz let 
him proceed without interruption, and, 
in fact, did not hear what was said; he 
longed to be alone, and free to ponder 
over all that had occurred. One of the 
two men, whose mysterious meeting in 
the Colosseum he had so unintentionally 
witnessed, was an entire stranger to 
him, but not so the other; and though 
Franz had been unable to distinguish 
his features, from his being either 
wrapped in his mantle or obscured by 
the shadow, the tones of his voice had 
made too powerful an impression on him 
the first time he had heard them for 
him ever again to forget them, hear 
them when or where he might. It was 
more especially when this man was 
speaking in a manner half jesting, half 
bitter, that Franz's ear recalled most 
vividly the deep sonorous, yet 
well-pitched voice that had addressed 
him in the grotto of Monte Cristo, and 
which he heard for the second time amid 
the darkness and ruined grandeur of the 
Colosseum. And the more he thought, the 
more entire was his conviction, that 
the person who wore the mantle was no 
other than his former host and 
entertainer, "Sinbad the Sailor."

Under any other circumstances, Franz 
would have found it impossible to 
resist his extreme curiosity to know 
more of so singular a personage, and 
with that intent have sought to renew 
their short acquaintance; but in the 
present instance, the confidential 
nature of the conversation he had 
overheard made him, with propriety, 
judge that his appearance at such a 
time would be anything but agreeable. 
As we have seen, therefore, he 
permitted his former host to retire 
without attempting a recognition, but 
fully promising himself a rich 
indemnity for his present forbearance 
should chance afford him another 
opportunity. In vain did Franz endeavor 
to forget the many perplexing thoughts 
which assailed him; in vain did he 
court the refreshment of sleep. Slumber 
refused to visit his eyelids and the 
night was passed in feverish 
contemplation of the chain of 
circumstances tending to prove the 
identity of the mysterious visitant to 
the Colosseum with the inhabitant of 
the grotto of Monte Cristo; and the 
more he thought, the firmer grew his 
opinion on the subject. Worn out at 
length, he fell asleep at daybreak, and 
did not awake till late. Like a genuine 
Frenchman, Albert had employed his time 
in arranging for the evening's 
diversion; he had sent to engage a box 
at the Teatro Argentino; and Franz, 
having a number of letters to write, 
relinquished the carriage to Albert for 
the whole of the day. At five o'clock 
Albert returned, delighted with his 
day's work; he had been occupied in 
leaving his letters of introduction, 
and had received in return more 
invitations to balls and routs than it 
would be possible for him to accept; 
besides this, he had seen (as he called 
it) all the remarkable sights at Rome. 
Yes, in a single day he had 
accomplished what his more 
serious-minded companion would have 
taken weeks to effect. Neither had he 
neglected to ascertain the name of the 
piece to be played that night at the 
Teatro Argentino, and also what 
performers appeared in it.

The opera of "Parisina" was announced 
for representation, and the principal 
actors were Coselli, Moriani, and La 
Specchia. The young men, therefore, had 
reason to consider themselves fortunate 
in having the opportunity of hearing 
one of the best works by the composer 
of "Lucia di Lammermoor," supported by 
three of the most renowned vocalists of 
Italy. Albert had never been able to 
endure the Italian theatres, with their 
orchestras from which it is impossible 
to see, and the absence of balconies, 
or open boxes; all these defects 
pressed hard on a man who had had his 
stall at the Bouffes, and had shared a 
lower box at the Opera. Still, in spite 
of this, Albert displayed his most 
dazzling and effective costumes each 
time he visited the theatres; but, 
alas, his elegant toilet was wholly 
thrown away, and one of the most worthy 
representatives of Parisian fashion had 
to carry with him the mortifying 
reflection that he had nearly overrun 
Italy without meeting with a single 
adventure.

Sometimes Albert would affect to make a 
joke of his want of success; but 
internally he was deeply wounded, and 
his self-love immensely piqued, to 
think that Albert de Morcerf, the most 
admired and most sought after of any 
young person of his day, should thus be 
passed over, and merely have his labor 
for his pains. And the thing was so 
much the more annoying, as, according 
to the characteristic modesty of a 
Frenchman, Albert had quitted Paris 
with the full conviction that he had 
only to show himself in Italy to carry 
all before him, and that upon his 
return he should astonish the Parisian 
world with the recital of his numerous 
love-affairs. Alas, poor Albert! none 
of those interesting adventures fell in 
his way; the lovely Genoese, 
Florentines, and Neapolitans were all 
faithful, if not to their husbands, at 
least to their lovers, and thought not 
of changing even for the splendid 
appearance of Albert de Morcerf; and 
all he gained was the painful 
conviction that the ladies of Italy 
have this advantage over those of 
France, that they are faithful even in 
their infidelity. Yet he could not 
restrain a hope that in Italy, as 
elsewhere, there might be an exception 
to the general rule. Albert, besides 
being an elegant, well-looking young 
man, was also possessed of considerable 
talent and ability; moreover, he was a 
viscount -- a recently created one, 
certainly, but in the present day it is 
not necessary to go as far back as Noah 
in tracing a descent, and a 
genealogical tree is equally estimated, 
whether dated from 1399 or merely 1815; 
but to crown all these advantages, 
Albert de Morcerf commanded an income 
of 50,000 livres, a more than 
sufficient sum to render him a 
personage of considerable importance in 
Paris. It was therefore no small 
mortification to him to have visited 
most of the principal cities in Italy 
without having excited the most 
trifling observation. Albert, however, 
hoped to indemnify himself for all 
these slights and indifferences during 
the Carnival, knowing full well that 
among the different states and kingdoms 
in which this festivity is celebrated, 
Rome is the spot where even the wisest 
and gravest throw off the usual 
rigidity of their lives, and deign to 
mingle in the follies of this time of 
liberty and relaxation.

The Carnival was to commence on the 
morrow; therefore Albert had not an 
instant to lose in setting forth the 
programme of his hopes, expectations, 
and claims to notice. With this design 
he had engaged a box in the most 
conspicuous part of the theatre, and 
exerted himself to set off his personal 
attractions by the aid of the most rich 
and elaborate toilet. The box taken by 
Albert was in the first circle; 
although each of the three tiers of 
boxes is deemed equally aristocratic, 
and is, for this reason, generally 
styled the "nobility's boxes," and 
although the box engaged for the two 
friends was sufficiently capacious to 
contain at least a dozen persons, it 
had cost less than would be paid at 
some of the French theatres for one 
admitting merely four occupants. 
Another motive had influenced Albert's 
selection of his seat, -- who knew but 
that, thus advantageously placed, he 
might not in truth attract the notice 
of some fair Roman, and an introduction 
might ensue that would procure him the 
offer of a seat in a carriage, or a 
place in a princely balcony, from which 
he might behold the gayeties of the 
Carnival? These united considerations 
made Albert more lively and anxious to 
please than he had hitherto been. 
Totally disregarding the business of 
the stage, he leaned from his box and 
began attentively scrutinizing the 
beauty of each pretty woman, aided by a 
powerful opera-glass; but, alas, this 
attempt to attract notice wholly 
failed; not even curiosity had been 
excited, and it was but too apparent 
that the lovely creatures, into whose 
good graces he was desirous of 
stealing, were all so much engrossed 
with themselves, their lovers, or their 
own thoughts, that they had not so much 
as noticed him or the manipulation of 
his glass.

The truth was, that the anticipated 
pleasures of the Carnival, with the 
"holy week" that was to succeed it, so 
filled every fair breast, as to prevent 
the least attention being bestowed even 
on the business of the stage. The 
actors made their entries and exits 
unobserved or unthought of; at certain 
conventional moments, the spectators 
would suddenly cease their 
conversation, or rouse themselves from 
their musings, to listen to some 
brilliant effort of Moriani's, a 
well-executed recitative by Coselli, or 
to join in loud applause at the 
wonderful powers of La Specchia; but 
that momentary excitement over, they 
quickly relapsed into their former 
state of preoccupation or interesting 
conversation. Towards the close of the 
first act, the door of a box which had 
been hitherto vacant was opened; a lady 
entered to whom Franz had been 
introduced in Paris, where indeed, he 
had imagined she still was. The quick 
eye of Albert caught the involuntary 
start with which his friend beheld the 
new arrival, and, turning to him, he 
said hastily, "Do you know the woman 
who has just entered that box?"

"Yes; what do you think of her?"

"Oh, she is perfectly lovely -- what a 
complexion! And such magnificent hair! 
Is she French?"

"No; a Venetian."

"And her name is -- "

"Countess G---- ."

"Ah, I know her by name!" exclaimed 
Albert; "she is said to possess as much 
wit and cleverness as beauty. I was to 
have been presented to her when I met 
her at Madame Villefort's ball."

"Shall I assist you in repairing your 
negligence?" asked Franz.

"My dear fellow, are you really on such 
good terms with her as to venture to 
take me to her box?"

"Why, I have only had the honor of 
being in her society and conversing 
with her three or four times in my 
life; but you know that even such an 
acquaintance as that might warrant my 
doing what you ask." At that instant, 
the countess perceived Franz, and 
graciously waved her hand to him, to 
which he replied by a respectful 
inclination of the head. "Upon my 
word," said Albert, "you seem to be on 
excellent terms with the beautiful 
countess."

"You are mistaken in thinking so," 
returned Franz calmly; "but you merely 
fall into the same error which leads so 
many of our countrymen to commit the 
most egregious blunders, -- I mean that 
of judging the habits and customs of 
Italy and Spain by our Parisian 
notions; believe me, nothing is more 
fallacious than to form any estimate of 
the degree of intimacy you may suppose 
existing among persons by the familiar 
terms they seem upon; there is a 
similarity of feeling at this instant 
between ourselves and the countess -- 
nothing more."

"Is there, indeed, my good fellow? Pray 
tell me, is it sympathy of heart?"

"No; of taste," continued Franz gravely.

"And in what manner has this 
congeniality of mind been evinced?"

"By the countess's visiting the 
Colosseum, as we did last night, by 
moonlight, and nearly alone."

"You were with her, then?"

"I was."

"And what did you say to her?"

"Oh, we talked of the illustrious dead 
of whom that magnificent ruin is a 
glorious monument!"

"Upon my word," cried Albert, "you must 
have been a very entertaining companion 
alone, or all but alone, with a 
beautiful woman in such a place of 
sentiment as the Colosseum, and yet to 
find nothing better a talk about than 
the dead! All I can say is, if ever I 
should get such a chance, the living 
should be my theme."

"And you will probably find your theme 
ill-chosen."

"But," said Albert, breaking in upon 
his discourse, "never mind the past; 
let us only remember the present. Are 
you not going to keep your promise of 
introducing me to the fair subject of 
our remarks?"

"Certainly, directly the curtain falls 
on the stage."

"What a confounded time this first act 
takes. I believe, on my soul, that they 
never mean to finish it."

"Oh, yes, they will; only listen to 
that charming finale. How exquisitely 
Coselli sings his part."

"But what an awkward, inelegant fellow 
he is."

"Well, then, what do you say to La 
Specchia? Did you ever see anything 
more perfect than her acting?"

"Why, you know, my dear fellow, when 
one has been accustomed to Malibran and 
Sontag, such singers as these don't 
make the same impression on you they 
perhaps do on others."

"At least, you must admire Moriani's 
style and execution."

"I never fancied men of his dark, 
ponderous appearance singing with a 
voice like a woman's."

"My good friend," said Franz, turning 
to him, while Albert continued to point 
his glass at every box in the theatre, 
"you seem determined not to approve; 
you are really too difficult to 
please." The curtain at length fell on 
the performances, to the infinite 
satisfaction of the Viscount of 
Morcerf, who seized his hat, rapidly 
passed his fingers through his hair, 
arranged his cravat and wristbands, and 
signified to Franz that he was waiting 
for him to lead the way. Franz, who had 
mutely interrogated the countess, and 
received from her a gracious smile in 
token that he would be welcome, sought 
not to retard the gratification of 
Albert's eager impatience, but began at 
once the tour of the house, closely 
followed by Albert, who availed himself 
of the few minutes required to reach 
the opposite side of the theatre to 
settle the height and smoothness of his 
collar, and to arrange the lappets of 
his coat. This important task was just 
completed as they arrived at the 
countess's box. At the knock, the door 
was immediately opened, and the young 
man who was seated beside the countess, 
in obedience to the Italian custom, 
instantly rose and surrendered his 
place to the strangers, who, in turn, 
would be expected to retire upon the 
arrival of other visitors.

Franz presented Albert as one of the 
most distinguished young men of the 
day, both as regarded his position in 
society and extraordinary talents; nor 
did he say more than the truth, for in 
Paris and the circle in which the 
viscount moved, he was looked upon and 
cited as a model of perfection. Franz 
added that his companion, deeply 
grieved at having been prevented the 
honor of being presented to the 
countess during her sojourn in Paris, 
was most anxious to make up for it, and 
had requested him (Franz) to remedy the 
past misfortune by conducting him to 
her box, and concluded by asking pardon 
for his presumption in having taken it 
upon himself to do so. The countess, in 
reply, bowed gracefully to Albert, and 
extended her hand with cordial kindness 
to Franz; then, inviting Albert to take 
the vacant seat beside her, she 
recommended Franz to take the next 
best, if he wished to view the ballet, 
and pointed to the one behind her own 
chair. Albert was soon deeply engrossed 
in discoursing upon Paris and Parisian 
matters, speaking to the countess of 
the various persons they both knew 
there. Franz perceived how completely 
he was in his element; and, unwilling 
to interfere with the pleasure he so 
evidently felt, took up Albert's glass, 
and began in his turn to survey the 
audience. Sitting alone, in the front 
of a box immediately opposite, but 
situated on the third row, was a woman 
of exquisite beauty, dressed in a Greek 
costume, which evidently, from the ease 
and grace with which she wore it, was 
her national attire. Behind her, but in 
deep shadow, was the outline of a 
masculine figure; but the features of 
this latter personage it was not 
possible to distinguish. Franz could 
not forbear breaking in upon the 
apparently interesting conversation 
passing between the countess and 
Albert, to inquire of the former if she 
knew who was the fair Albanian 
opposite, since beauty such as hers was 
well worthy of being observed by either 
sex. "All I can tell about her," 
replied the countess, "is, that she has 
been at Rome since the beginning of the 
season; for I saw her where she now 
sits the very first night of the 
season, and since then she has never 
missed a performance. Sometimes she is 
accompanied by the person who is now 
with her, and at others she is merely 
attended by a black servant."

"And what do you think of her personal 
appearance?"

"Oh, I consider her perfectly lovely -- 
she is just my idea of what Medora must 
have been."

Franz and the countess exchanged a 
smile, and then the latter resumed her 
conversation with Albert, while Franz 
returned to his previous survey of the 
house and company. The curtain rose on 
the ballet, which was one of those 
excellent specimens of the Italian 
school, admirably arranged and put on 
the stage by Henri, who has established 
for himself a great reputation 
throughout Italy for his taste and 
skill in the choregraphic art -- one of 
those masterly productions of grace, 
method, and elegance in which the whole 
corps de ballet, from the principal 
dancers to the humblest supernumerary, 
are all engaged on the stage at the 
same time; and a hundred and fifty 
persons may be seen exhibiting the same 
attitude, or elevating the same arm or 
leg with a simultaneous movement, that 
would lead you to suppose that but one 
mind, one act of volition, influenced 
the moving mass -- the ballet was 
called "Poliska." However much the 
ballet might have claimed his 
attention, Franz was too deeply 
occupied with the beautiful Greek to 
take any note of it; while she seemed 
to experience an almost childlike 
delight in watching it, her eager, 
animated looks contrasting strongly 
with the utter indifference of her 
companion, who, during the whole time 
the piece lasted, never even moved, not 
even when the furious, crashing din 
produced by the trumpets, cymbals, and 
Chinese bells sounded their loudest 
from the orchestra. Of this he took no 
heed, but was, as far as appearances 
might be trusted, enjoying soft repose 
and bright celestial dreams. The ballet 
at length came to a close, and the 
curtain fell amid the loud, unanimous 
plaudits of an enthusiastic and 
delighted audience.

Owing to the very judicious plan of 
dividing the two acts of the opera with 
a ballet, the pauses between the 
performances are very short, the 
singers in the opera having time to 
repose themselves and change their 
costume, when necessary, while the 
dancers are executing their pirouettes 
and exhibiting their graceful steps. 
The overture to the second act began; 
and, at the first sound of the leader's 
bow across his violin, Franz observed 
the sleeper slowly arise and approach 
the Greek girl, who turned around to 
say a few words to him, and then, 
leaning forward again on the railing of 
her box, she became as absorbed as 
before in what was going on. The 
countenance of the person who had 
addressed her remained so completely in 
the shade, that, though Franz tried his 
utmost, he could not distinguish a 
single feature. The curtain rose, and 
the attention of Franz was attracted by 
the actors; and his eyes turned from 
the box containing the Greek girl and 
her strange companion to watch the 
business of the stage.

Most of my readers are aware that the 
second act of "Parisina" opens with the 
celebrated and effective duet in which 
Parisina, while sleeping, betrays to 
Azzo the secret of her love for Ugo. 
The injured husband goes through all 
the emotions of jealousy, until 
conviction seizes on his mind, and 
then, in a frenzy of rage and 
indignation, he awakens his guilty wife 
to tell her that he knows her guilt and 
to threaten her with his vengeance. 
This duet is one of the most beautiful, 
expressive and terrible conceptions 
that has ever emanated from the 
fruitful pen of Donizetti. Franz now 
listened to it for the third time; yet 
it's notes, so tenderly expressive and 
fearfully grand as the wretched husband 
and wife give vent to their different 
griefs and passions, thrilled through 
the soul of Franz with an effect equal 
to his first emotions upon hearing it. 
Excited beyond his usual calm demeanor, 
Franz rose with the audience, and was 
about to join the loud, enthusiastic 
applause that followed; but suddenly 
his purpose was arrested, his hands 
fell by his sides, and the half-uttered 
"bravos" expired on his lips. The 
occupant of the box in which the Greek 
girl sat appeared to share the 
universal admiration that prevailed; 
for he left his seat to stand up in 
front, so that, his countenance being 
fully revealed, Franz had no difficulty 
in recognizing him as the mysterious 
inhabitant of Monte Cristo, and the 
very same person he had encountered the 
preceding evening in the ruins of the 
Colosseum, and whose voice and figure 
had seemed so familiar to him. All 
doubt of his identity was now at an 
end; his singular host evidently 
resided at Rome. The surprise and 
agitation occasioned by this full 
confirmation of Franz's former 
suspicion had no doubt imparted a 
corresponding expression to his 
features; for the countess, after 
gazing with a puzzled look at his face, 
burst into a fit of laughter, and 
begged to know what had happened. 
"Countess," returned Franz, totally 
unheeding her raillery, "I asked you a 
short time since if you knew any 
particulars respecting the Albanian 
lady opposite; I must now beseech you 
to inform me who and what is her 
husband?"

"Nay," answered the countess, "I know 
no more of him than yourself."

"Perhaps you never before noticed him?"

"What a question -- so truly French! Do 
you not know that we Italians have eyes 
only for the man we love?"

"True," replied Franz.

"All I call say is," continued the 
countess, taking up the lorgnette, and 
directing it toward the box in 
question, "that the gentleman, whose 
history I am unable to furnish, seems 
to me as though he had just been dug 
up; he looks more like a corpse 
permitted by some friendly grave-digger 
to quit his tomb for a while, and 
revisit this earth of ours, than 
anything human. How ghastly pale he is!"

"Oh, he is always as colorless as you 
now see him," said Franz.

"Then you know him?" almost screamed 
the countess. "Oh, pray do, for 
heaven's sake, tell us all about -- is 
he a vampire, or a resuscitated corpse, 
or what?"

"I fancy I have seen him before; and I 
even think he recognizes me."

"And I can well understand," said the 
countess, shrugging up her beautiful 
shoulders, as though an involuntary 
shudder passed through her veins, "that 
those who have once seen that man will 
never be likely to forget him." The 
sensation experienced by Franz was 
evidently not peculiar to himself; 
another, and wholly uninterested 
person, felt the same unaccountable awe 
and misgiving. "Well." inquired Franz, 
after the countess had a second time 
directed her lorgnette at the box, 
"what do you think of our opposite 
neighbor?"

"Why, that he is no other than Lord 
Ruthven himself in a living form." This 
fresh allusion to Byron* drew a smile 
to Franz's countenance; although he 
could but allow that if anything was 
likely to induce belief in the 
existence of vampires, it would be the 
presence of such a man as the 
mysterious personage before him.

"I must positively find out who and 
what he is," said Franz, rising from 
his seat.

"No, no," cried the countess; "you must 
not leave me. I depend upon you to 
escort me home. Oh, indeed, I cannot 
permit you to go."

* Scott, of course: "The son of an 
ill-fated sire, and the father of a yet 
more unfortunate family, bore in his 
looks that cast of inauspicious 
melancholy by which the physiognomists 
of that time pretended to distinguish 
those who were predestined to a violent 
and unhappy death." -- The Abbot, ch. 
xxii.

"Is it possible," whispered Franz, 
"that you entertain any fear?"

"I'll tell you," answered the countess. 
"Byron had the most perfect belief in 
the existence of vampires, and even 
assured me that he had seen them. The 
description he gave me perfectly 
corresponds with the features and 
character of the man before us. Oh, he 
is the exact personification of what I 
have been led to expect! The coal-black 
hair, large bright, glittering eyes, in 
which a wild, unearthly fire seems 
burning, -- the same ghastly paleness. 
Then observe, too, that the woman with 
him is altogether unlike all others of 
her sex. She is a foreigner -- a 
stranger. Nobody knows who she is, or 
where she comes from. No doubt she 
belongs to the same horrible race he 
does, and is, like himself, a dealer in 
magical arts. I entreat of you not to 
go near him -- at least to-night; and 
if to-morrow your curiosity still 
continues as great, pursue your 
researches if you will; but to-night 
you neither can nor shall. For that 
purpose I mean to keep you all to 
myself." Franz protested he could not 
defer his pursuit till the following 
day, for many reasons. "Listen to me," 
said the countess, "and do not be so 
very headstrong. I am going home. I 
have a party at my house to-night, and 
therefore cannot possibly remain till 
the end of the opera. Now, I cannot for 
one instant believe you so devoid of 
gallantry as to refuse a lady your 
escort when she even condescends to ask 
you for it."

There was nothing else left for Franz 
to do but to take up his hat, open the 
door of the box, and offer the countess 
his arm. It was quite evident, by her 
manner, that her uneasiness was not 
feigned; and Franz himself could not 
resist a feeling of superstitious dread 
-- so much the stronger in him, as it 
arose from a variety of corroborative 
recollections, while the terror of the 
countess sprang from an instinctive 
belief, originally created in her mind 
by the wild tales she had listened to 
till she believed them truths. Franz 
could even feel her arm tremble as he 
assisted her into the carriage. Upon 
arriving at her hotel, Franz perceived 
that she had deceived him when she 
spoke of expecting company; on the 
contrary, her own return before the 
appointed hour seemed greatly to 
astonish the servants. "Excuse my 
little subterfuge," said the countess, 
in reply to her companion's 
half-reproachful observation on the 
subject; "but that horrid man had made 
me feel quite uncomfortable, and I 
longed to be alone, that I might 
compose my startled mind." Franz 
essayed to smile. "Nay," said she, "do 
not smile; it ill accords with the 
expression of your countenance, and I 
am sure it does not spring from your 
heart. however, promise me one thing."

"What is it?"

"Promise me, I say."

"I will do anything you desire, except 
relinquish my determination of finding 
out who this man is. I have more 
reasons than you can imagine for 
desiring to know who he is, from whence 
he came, and whither he is going."

"Where he comes from I am ignorant; but 
I can readily tell you where he is 
going to, and that is down below, 
without the least doubt."

"Let us only speak of the promise you 
wished me to make," said Franz.

"Well, then, you must give me your word 
to return immediately to your hotel, 
and make no attempt to follow this man 
to-night. There are certain affinities 
between the persons we quit and those 
we meet afterwards. For heaven's sake, 
do not serve as a conductor between 
that man and me. Pursue your chase 
after him to-morrow as eagerly as you 
please; but never bring him near me, if 
you would not see me die of terror. And 
now, good-night; go to your rooms, and 
try to sleep away all recollections of 
this evening. For my own part, I am 
quite sure I shall not be able to close 
my eyes." So saying, the countess 
quitted Franz, leaving him unable to 
decide whether she were merely amusing 
herself at his expense, or whether her 
fears and agitations were genuine.

Upon his return to the hotel, Franz 
found Albert in his dressing-gown and 
slippers, listlessly extended on a 
sofa, smoking a cigar. "My dear 
fellow." cried he, springing up, "is it 
really you? Why, I did not expect to 
see you before to-morrow."

"My dear Albert," replied Franz, "I am 
glad of this opportunity to tell you, 
once and forever, that you entertain a 
most erroneous notion concerning 
Italian women. I should have thought 
the continual failures you have met 
with in all your own love affairs might 
have taught you better by this time."

"Upon my soul, these women would puzzle 
the very Devil to read them aright. 
Why, here -- they give you their hand 
-- they press yours in return -- they 
keep up a whispering conversation -- 
permit you to accompany them home. Why, 
if a Parisian were to indulge in a 
quarter of these marks of flattering 
attention, her reputation would be gone 
forever."

"And the very reason why the women of 
this fine country put so little 
restraint on their words and actions, 
is because they live so much in public, 
and have really nothing to conceal. 
Besides, you must have perceived that 
the countess was really alarmed."

"At what? At the sight of that 
respectable gentleman sitting opposite 
to us in the same box with the lovely 
Greek girl? Now, for my part, I met 
them in the lobby after the conclusion 
of the piece; and hang me, if I can 
guess where you took your notions of 
the other world from. I can assure you 
that this hobgoblin of yours is a 
deuced fine-looking fellow -- admirably 
dressed. Indeed, I feel quite sure, 
from the cut of his clothes, they are 
made by a first-rate Paris tailor -- 
probably Blin or Humann. He was rather 
too pale, certainly; but then, you 
know, paleness is always looked upon as 
a strong proof of aristocratic descent 
and distinguished breeding." Franz 
smiled; for he well remembered that 
Albert particularly prided himself on 
the entire absence of color in his own 
complexion.

"Well, that tends to confirm my own 
ideas," said Franz, "that the 
countess's suspicions were destitute 
alike of sense and reason. Did he speak 
in your hearing? and did you catch any 
of his words?"

"I did; but they were uttered in the 
Romaic dialect. I knew that from the 
mixture of Greek words. I don't know 
whether I ever told you that when I was 
at college I was rather -- rather 
strong in Greek."

"He spoke the Romaic language, did he?"

"I think so."

"That settles it," murmured Franz. 
"'Tis he, past all doubt."

"What do you say?"

"Nothing, nothing. But tell me, what 
were you thinking about when I came in?"

"Oh, I was arranging a little surprise 
for you."

"Indeed. Of what nature?"

"Why, you know it is quite impossible 
to procure a carriage."

"Certainly; and I also know that we 
have done all that human means afforded 
to endeavor to get one."

"Now, then, in this difficulty a bright 
idea has flashed across my brain." 
Franz looked at Albert as though he had 
not much confidence in the suggestions 
of his imagination. "I tell you what, 
Sir Franz," cried Albert, "you deserve 
to be called out for such a misgiving 
and incredulous glance as that you were 
pleased to bestow on me just now."

"And I promise to give you the 
satisfaction of a gentleman if your 
scheme turns out as ingenious as you 
assert."

"Well, then, hearken to me."

"I listen."

"You agree, do you not, that obtaining 
a carriage is out of the question?"

"I do."

"Neither can we procure horses?"

"True; we have offered any sum, but 
have failed."

"Well, now, what do you say to a cart? 
I dare say such a thing might be had."

"Very possibly."

"And a pair of oxen?"

"As easily found as the cart."

"Then you see, my good fellow, with a 
cart and a couple of oxen our business 
can be managed. The cart must be 
tastefully ornamented; and if you and I 
dress ourselves as Neapolitan reapers, 
we may get up a striking tableau, after 
the manner of that splendid picture by 
Leopold Robert. It would add greatly to 
the effect if the countess would join 
us in the costume of a peasant from 
Puzzoli or Sorrento. Our group would 
then be quite complete, more especially 
as the countess is quite beautiful 
enough to represent a madonna."

"Well," said Franz, "this time, Albert, 
I am bound to give you credit for 
having hit upon a most capital idea."

"And quite a national one, too," 
replied Albert with gratified pride. "A 
mere masque borrowed from our own 
festivities. Ha, ha, ye Romans! you 
thought to make us, unhappy strangers, 
trot at the heels of your processions, 
like so many lazzaroni, because no 
carriages or horses are to be had in 
your beggarly city. But you don't know 
us; when we can't have one thing we 
invent another."

"And have you communicated your 
triumphant idea to anybody?"

"Only to our host. Upon my return home 
I sent for him, and I then explained to 
him what I wished to procure. He 
assured me that nothing would be easier 
than to furnish all I desired. One 
thing I was sorry for; when I bade him 
have the horns of the oxen gilded, he 
told me there would not be time, as it 
would require three days to do that; so 
you see we must do without this little 
superfluity."

"And where is he now?"

"Who?"

"Our host."

"Gone out in search of our equipage, by 
to-morrow it might be too late."

"Then he will be able to give us an 
answer to-night."

"Oh, I expect him every minute." At 
this instant the door opened, and the 
head of Signor Pastrini appeared. 
"Permesso?" inquired he.

"Certainly -- certainly," cried Franz. 
"Come in, mine host."

"Now, then," asked Albert eagerly, 
"have you found the desired cart and 
oxen?"

"Better than that!" replied Signor 
Pastrini, with the air of a man 
perfectly well satisfied with himself.

"Take care, my worthy host," said 
Albert, "better is a sure enemy to 
well."

"Let your excellencies only leave the 
matter to me," returned Signor Pastrini 
in a tone indicative of unbounded 
self-confidence.

"But what have you done?" asked Franz. 
"Speak out, there's a worthy fellow."

"Your excellencies are aware," 
responded the landlord, swelling with 
importance, "that the Count of Monte 
Cristo is living on the same floor with 
yourselves!"

"I should think we did know it," 
exclaimed Albert, "since it is owing to 
that circumstance that we are packed 
into these small rooms, like two poor 
students in the back streets of Paris."

"When, then, the Count of Monte Cristo, 
hearing of the dilemma in which you are 
placed, has sent to offer you seats in 
his carriage and two places at his 
windows in the Palazzo Rospoli." The 
friends looked at each other with 
unutterable surprise.

"But do you think," asked Albert, "that 
we ought to accept such offers from a 
perfect stranger?"

"What sort of person is this Count of 
Monte Cristo?" asked Franz of his host. 
"A very great nobleman, but whether 
Maltese or Sicilian I cannot exactly 
say; but this I know, that he is noble 
as a Borghese and rich as a gold-mine."

"It seems to me," said Franz, speaking 
in an undertone to Albert, "that if 
this person merited the high panegyrics 
of our landlord, he would have conveyed 
his invitation through another channel, 
and not permitted it to be brought to 
us in this unceremonious way. He would 
have written -- or" --

At this instant some one knocked at the 
door. "Come in," said Franz. A servant, 
wearing a livery of considerable style 
and richness, appeared at the 
threshold, and, placing two cards in 
the landlord's hands, who forthwith 
presented them to the two young men, he 
said, "Please to deliver these, from 
the Count of Monte Cristo to Viscomte 
Albert de Morcerf and M. Franz 
d'Epinay. The Count of Monte Cristo," 
continued the servant, "begs these 
gentlemen's permission to wait upon 
them as their neighbor, and he will be 
honored by an intimation of what time 
they will please to receive him."

"Faith, Franz," whispered Albert, 
"there is not much to find fault with 
here."

"Tell the count," replied Franz, "that 
we will do ourselves the pleasure of 
calling on him." The servant bowed and 
retired.

"That is what I call an elegant mode of 
attack," said Albert, "You were quite 
correct in what you said, Signor 
Pastrini. The Count of Monte Cristo is 
unquestionably a man of first-rate 
breeding and knowledge of the world."

"Then you accept his offer?" said the 
host.

"Of course we do," replied Albert. 
"Still, I must own I am sorry to be 
obliged to give up the cart and the 
group of reapers -- it would have 
produced such an effect! And were it 
not for the windows at the Palazzo 
Rospoli, by way of recompense for the 
loss of our beautiful scheme, I don't 
know but what I should have held on by 
my original plan. What say you, Franz?"

"Oh, I agree with you; the windows in 
the Palazzo Rospoli alone decided me." 
The truth was, that the mention of two 
places in the Palazzo Rospoli had 
recalled to Franz the conversation he 
had overheard the preceding evening in 
the ruins of the Colosseum between the 
mysterious unknown and the 
Transteverin, in which the stranger in 
the cloak had undertaken to obtain the 
freedom of a condemned criminal; and if 
this muffled-up individual proved (as 
Franz felt sure he would) the same as 
the person he had just seen in the 
Teatro Argentino, then he should be 
able to establish his identity, and 
also to prosecute his researches 
respecting him with perfect facility 
and freedom. Franz passed the night in 
confused dreams respecting the two 
meetings he had already had with his 
mysterious tormentor, and in waking 
speculations as to what the morrow 
would produce. The next day must clear 
up every doubt; and unless his near 
neighbor and would-be friend, the Count 
of Monte Cristo, possessed the ring of 
Gyges, and by its power was able to 
render himself invisible, it was very 
certain he could not escape this time. 
Eight o'clock found Franz up and 
dressed, while Albert, who had not the 
same motives for early rising, was 
still soundly asleep. The first act of 
Franz was to summon his landlord, who 
presented himself with his accustomed 
obsequiousness.

"Pray, Signor Pastrini," asked Franz, 
"is not some execution appointed to 
take place to-day?"

"Yes, your excellency; but if your 
reason for inquiry is that you may 
procure a window to view it from, you 
are much too late."

"Oh, no," answered Franz, "I had no 
such intention; and even if I had felt 
a wish to witness the spectacle, I 
might have done so from Monte Pincio -- 
could I not?"

"Ah!" exclaimed mine host, "I did not 
think it likely your excellency would 
have chosen to mingle with such a 
rabble as are always collected on that 
hill, which, indeed, they consider as 
exclusively belonging to themselves."

"Very possibly I may not go," answered 
Franz; "but in case I feel disposed, 
give me some particulars of to-day's 
executions."

"What particulars would your excellency 
like to hear?"

"Why, the number of persons condemned 
to suffer, their names, and description 
of the death they are to die."

"That happens just lucky, your 
excellency! Only a few minutes ago they 
brought me the tavolettas."

"What are they?"

"Sort of wooden tablets hung up at the 
corners of streets the evening before 
an execution, on which is pasted up a 
paper containing the names of the 
condemned persons, their crimes, and 
mode of punishment. The reason for so 
publicly announcing all this is, that 
all good and faithful Catholics may 
offer up their prayers for the 
unfortunate culprits, and, above all, 
beseech of heaven to grant them a 
sincere repentance."

"And these tablets are brought to you 
that you may add your prayers to those 
of the faithful, are they?" asked Franz 
somewhat incredulously.

"Oh, dear, no, your excellency! I have 
not time for anybody's affairs but my 
own and those of my honorable guests; 
but I make an agreement with the man 
who pastes up the papers, and he brings 
them to me as he would the playbills, 
that in case any person staying at my 
hotel should like to witness an 
execution, he may obtain every 
requisite information concerning the 
time and place etc."

"Upon my word, that is a most delicate 
attention on your part, Signor 
Pastrini," cried Franz.

"Why, your excellency," returned the 
landlord, chuckling and rubbing his 
hands with infinite complacency, "I 
think I may take upon myself to say I 
neglect nothing to deserve the support 
and patronage of the noble visitors to 
this poor hotel."

"I see that plainly enough, my most 
excellent host, and you may rely upon 
me to proclaim so striking a proof of 
your attention to your guests wherever 
I go. Meanwhile, oblige me by a sight 
of one of these tavolettas."

"Nothing can be easier than to comply 
with your excellency's wish," said the 
landlord, opening the door of the 
chamber; "I have caused one to be 
placed on the landing, close by your 
apartment." Then, taking the tablet 
from the wall, he handed it to Franz, 
who read as follows: --

"`The public is informed that on 
Wednesday, February 23d, being the 
first day of the Carnival, executions 
will take place in the Piazza del 
Popolo, by order of the Tribunal of the 
Rota, of two persons, named Andrea 
Rondola, and Peppino, otherwise called 
Rocca Priori; the former found guilty 
of the murder of a venerable and 
exemplary priest, named Don Cesare 
Torlini, canon of the church of St. 
John Lateran; and the latter convicted 
of being an accomplice of the atrocious 
and sanguinary bandit, Luigi Vampa, and 
his band. The first-named malefactor 
will be subjected to the mazzuola, the 
second culprit beheaded. The prayers of 
all good Christians are entreated for 
these unfortunate men, that it may 
please God to awaken them to a sense of 
their guilt, and to grant them a hearty 
and sincere repentance for their 
crimes.'"

This was precisely what Franz had heard 
the evening before in the ruins of the 
Colosseum. No part of the programme 
differed, -- the names of the condemned 
persons, their crimes, and mode of 
punishment, all agreed with his 
previous information. In all 
probability, therefore, the 
Transteverin was no other than the 
bandit Luigi Vampa himself, and the man 
shrouded in the mantle the same he had 
known as "Sinbad the Sailor," but who, 
no doubt, was still pursuing his 
philanthropic expedition in Rome, as he 
had already done at Porto-Vecchio and 
Tunis. Time was getting on, however, 
and Franz deemed it advisable to awaken 
Albert; but at the moment he prepared 
to proceed to his chamber, his friend 
entered the room in perfect costume for 
the day. The anticipated delights of 
the Carnival had so run in his head as 
to make him leave his pillow long 
before his usual hour. "Now, my 
excellent Signor Pastrini," said Franz, 
addressing his landlord, "since we are 
both ready, do you think we may proceed 
at once to visit the Count of Monte 
Cristo?"

"Most assuredly," replied he. "The 
Count of Monte Cristo is always an 
early riser; and I can answer for his 
having been up these two hours."

"Then you really consider we shall not 
be intruding if we pay our respects to 
him directly?"

"Oh, I am quite sure. I will take all 
the blame on myself if you find I have 
led you into an error."

"Well, then, if it be so, are you 
ready, Albert?"

"Perfectly."

"Let us go and return our best thanks 
for his courtesy."

"Yes, let us do so." The landlord 
preceded the friends across the 
landing, which was all that separated 
them from the apartments of the count, 
rang at the bell, and, upon the door 
being opened by a servant, said, "I 
signori Francesi."

The domestic bowed respectfully, and 
invited them to enter. They passed 
through two rooms, furnished in a 
luxurious manner they had not expected 
to see under the roof of Signor 
Pastrini, and were shown into an 
elegantly fitted-up drawing-room. The 
richest Turkey carpets covered the 
floor, and the softest and most 
inviting couches, easy-chairs, and 
sofas, offered their high-piled and 
yielding cushions to such as desired 
repose or refreshment. Splendid 
paintings by the first masters were 
ranged against the walls, intermingled 
with magnificent trophies of war, while 
heavy curtains of costly tapestry were 
suspended before the different doors of 
the room. "If your excellencies will 
please to be seated," said the man, "I 
will let the count know that you are 
here."

And with these words he disappeared 
behind one of the tapestried portieres. 
As the door opened, the sound of a 
guzla reached the ears of the young 
men, but was almost immediately lost, 
for the rapid closing of the door 
merely allowed one rich swell of 
harmony to enter. Franz and Albert 
looked inquiringly at each other, then 
at the gorgeous furnishings of the 
apartment. Everything seemed more 
magnificent at a second view than it 
had done at their first rapid survey.

"Well," said Franz to his friend, "what 
think you of all this?"

"Why, upon my soul, my dear fellow, it 
strikes me that our elegant and 
attentive neighbor must either be some 
successful stock-jobber who has 
speculated in the fall of the Spanish 
funds, or some prince travelling incog."

"Hush, hush!" replied Franz; "we shall 
ascertain who and what he is -- he 
comes!" As Franz spoke, he heard the 
sound of a door turning on its hinges, 
and almost immediately afterwards the 
tapestry was drawn aside, and the owner 
of all these riches stood before the 
two young men. Albert instantly rose to 
meet him, but Franz remained, in a 
manner, spellbound on his chair; for in 
the person of him who had just entered 
he recognized not only the mysterious 
visitant to the Colosseum, and the 
occupant of the box at the Teatro 
Argentino, but also his extraordinary 
host of Monte Cristo. 

