الفصل الفصل 115 · The Past

The count departed with a sad heart from the house in which he had left

Mercédès, probably never to behold her again. Since the death of little

Edward a great change had taken place in Monte Cristo. Having reached

the summit of his vengeance by a long and tortuous path, he saw an

abyss of doubt yawning before him. More than this, the conversation

which had just taken place between Mercédès and himself had awakened so

many recollections in his heart that he felt it necessary to combat

with them. A man of the count’s temperament could not long indulge in

that melancholy which can exist in common minds, but which destroys

superior ones. He thought he must have made an error in his

calculations if he now found cause to blame himself.

“I cannot have deceived myself,” he said; “I must look upon the past in

a false light. What!” he continued, “can I have been following a false

path?—can the end which I proposed be a mistaken end?—can one hour have

sufficed to prove to an architect that the work upon which he founded

all his hopes was an impossible, if not a sacrilegious, undertaking? I

cannot reconcile myself to this idea—it would madden me. The reason why

I am now dissatisfied is that I have not a clear appreciation of the

past. The past, like the country through which we walk, becomes

indistinct as we advance. My position is like that of a person wounded

in a dream; he feels the wound, though he cannot recollect when he

received it.

“Come, then, thou regenerate man, thou extravagant prodigal, thou

awakened sleeper, thou all-powerful visionary, thou invincible

millionaire,—once again review thy past life of starvation and

wretchedness, revisit the scenes where fate and misfortune conducted,

and where despair received thee. Too many diamonds, too much gold and

splendor, are now reflected by the mirror in which Monte Cristo seeks

to behold Dantès. Hide thy diamonds, bury thy gold, shroud thy

splendor, exchange riches for poverty, liberty for a prison, a living

body for a corpse!”

As he thus reasoned, Monte Cristo walked down the Rue de la Caisserie.

It was the same through which, twenty-four years ago, he had been

conducted by a silent and nocturnal guard; the houses, today so smiling

and animated, were on that night dark, mute, and closed.

“And yet they were the same,” murmured Monte Cristo, “only now it is

broad daylight instead of night; it is the sun which brightens the

place, and makes it appear so cheerful.”

He proceeded towards the quay by the Rue Saint-Laurent, and advanced to

the Consigne; it was the point where he had embarked. A pleasure-boat

with striped awning was going by. Monte Cristo called the owner, who

immediately rowed up to him with the eagerness of a boatman hoping for

a good fare.

The weather was magnificent, and the excursion a treat. The sun, red

and flaming, was sinking into the embrace of the welcoming ocean. The

sea, smooth as crystal, was now and then disturbed by the leaping of

fish, which were pursued by some unseen enemy and sought for safety in

another element; while on the extreme verge of the horizon might be

seen the fishermen’s boats, white and graceful as the sea-gull, or the

merchant vessels bound for Corsica or Spain.

But notwithstanding the serene sky, the gracefully formed boats, and

the golden light in which the whole scene was bathed, the Count of

Monte Cristo, wrapped in his cloak, could think only of this terrible

voyage, the details of which were one by one recalled to his memory.

The solitary light burning at the Catalans; that first sight of the

Château d’If, which told him whither they were leading him; the

struggle with the gendarmes when he wished to throw himself overboard;

his despair when he found himself vanquished, and the sensation when

the muzzle of the carbine touched his forehead—all these were brought

before him in vivid and frightful reality.

Like the streams which the heat of the summer has dried up, and which

after the autumnal storms gradually begin oozing drop by drop, so did

the count feel his heart gradually fill with the bitterness which

formerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantès. Clear sky, swift-flitting

boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the heavens were hung with

black, and the gigantic structure of the Château d’If seemed like the

phantom of a mortal enemy. As they reached the shore, the count

instinctively shrunk to the extreme end of the boat, and the owner was

obliged to call out, in his sweetest tone of voice:

“Sir, we are at the landing.”

Monte Cristo remembered that on that very spot, on the same rock, he

had been violently dragged by the guards, who forced him to ascend the

slope at the points of their bayonets. The journey had seemed very long

to Dantès, but Monte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the

oar seemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up with the

flying spray of the sea.

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There had been no prisoners confined in the Château d’If since the

revolution of July; it was only inhabited by a guard, kept there for

the prevention of smuggling. A concierge waited at the door to exhibit

to visitors this monument of curiosity, once a scene of terror.

The count inquired whether any of the ancient jailers were still there;

but they had all been pensioned, or had passed on to some other

employment. The concierge who attended him had only been there since

1830. He visited his own dungeon. He again beheld the dull light vainly

endeavoring to penetrate the narrow opening. His eyes rested upon the

spot where had stood his bed, since then removed, and behind the bed

the new stones indicated where the breach made by the Abbé Faria had

been. Monte Cristo felt his limbs tremble; he seated himself upon a log

of wood.

“Are there any stories connected with this prison besides the one

relating to the poisoning of Mirabeau?” asked the count; “are there any

traditions respecting these dismal abodes,—in which it is difficult to

believe men can ever have imprisoned their fellow-creatures?”

“Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine told me one connected with this

very dungeon.”

Monte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had been his jailer. He had almost

forgotten his name and face, but at the mention of the name he recalled

his person as he used to see it, the face encircled by a beard, wearing

the brown jacket, the bunch of keys, the jingling of which he still

seemed to hear. The count turned around, and fancied he saw him in the

corridor, rendered still darker by the torch carried by the concierge.

“Would you like to hear the story, sir?”

“Yes; relate it,” said Monte Cristo, pressing his hand to his heart to

still its violent beatings; he felt afraid of hearing his own history.

“This dungeon,” said the concierge, “was, it appears, some time ago

occupied by a very dangerous prisoner, the more so since he was full of

industry. Another person was confined in the Château at the same time,

but he was not wicked, he was only a poor mad priest.”

“Ah, indeed?—mad!” repeated Monte Cristo; “and what was his mania?”

“He offered millions to anyone who would set him at liberty.”

Monte Cristo raised his eyes, but he could not see the heavens; there

was a stone veil between him and the firmament. He thought that there

had been no less thick a veil before the eyes of those to whom Faria

offered the treasures.

“Could the prisoners see each other?” he asked.

“Oh, no, sir, it was expressly forbidden; but they eluded the vigilance

of the guards, and made a passage from one dungeon to the other.”

“And which of them made this passage?”

“Oh, it must have been the young man, certainly, for he was strong and

industrious, while the abbé was aged and weak; besides, his mind was

too vacillating to allow him to carry out an idea.”

“Blind fools!” murmured the count.

“However, be that as it may, the young man made a tunnel, how or by

what means no one knows; but he made it, and there is the evidence yet

remaining of his work. Do you see it?” and the man held the torch to

the wall.

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“Ah, yes; I see,” said the count, in a voice hoarse from emotion.

“The result was that the two men communicated with one another; how

long they did so, nobody knows. One day the old man fell ill and died.

Now guess what the young one did?”

“Tell me.”

“He carried off the corpse, which he placed in his own bed with its

face to the wall; then he entered the empty dungeon, closed the

entrance, and slipped into the sack which had contained the dead body.

Did you ever hear of such an idea?”

Monte Cristo closed his eyes, and seemed again to experience all the

sensations he had felt when the coarse canvas, yet moist with the cold

dews of death, had touched his face.

The jailer continued:

“Now this was his project. He fancied that they buried the dead at the

Château d’If, and imagining they would not expend much labor on the

grave of a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with his

shoulders, but unfortunately their arrangements at the Château

frustrated his projects. They never buried the dead; they merely

attached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, and then threw them into the

sea. This is what was done. The young man was thrown from the top of

the rock; the corpse was found on the bed next day, and the whole truth

was guessed, for the men who performed the office then mentioned what

they had not dared to speak of before, that at the moment the corpse

was thrown into the deep, they heard a shriek, which was almost

immediately stifled by the water in which it disappeared.”

The count breathed with difficulty; the cold drops ran down his

forehead, and his heart was full of anguish.

“No,” he muttered, “the doubt I felt was but the commencement of

forgetfulness; but here the wound reopens, and the heart again thirsts

for vengeance. And the prisoner,” he continued aloud, “was he ever

heard of afterwards?”

“Oh, no; of course not. You can understand that one of two things must

have happened; he must either have fallen flat, in which case the blow,

from a height of ninety feet, must have killed him instantly, or he

must have fallen upright, and then the weight would have dragged him to

the bottom, where he remained—poor fellow!”

“Then you pity him?” said the count.

“_Ma foi_, yes; though he was in his own element.”

“What do you mean?”

“The report was that he had been a naval officer, who had been confined

for plotting with the Bonapartists.”

“Great is truth,” muttered the count, “fire cannot burn, nor water

drown it! Thus the poor sailor lives in the recollection of those who

narrate his history; his terrible story is recited in the

chimney-corner, and a shudder is felt at the description of his transit

through the air to be swallowed by the deep.” Then, the count added

aloud, “Was his name ever known?”

“Oh, yes; but only as No. 34.”

“Oh, Villefort, Villefort,” murmured the count, “this scene must often

have haunted thy sleepless hours!”

“Do you wish to see anything more, sir?” said the concierge.

“Yes, especially if you will show me the poor abbé’s room.”

“Ah! No. 27.”

“Yes; No. 27.” repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the

abbé answering him in those very words through the wall when asked his

name.

“Come, sir.”

“Wait,” said Monte Cristo, “I wish to take one final glance around this

room.”

“This is fortunate,” said the guide; “I have forgotten the other key.”

“Go and fetch it.”

“I will leave you the torch, sir.”

“No, take it away; I can see in the dark.”

“Why, you are like No. 34. They said he was so accustomed to darkness

that he could see a pin in the darkest corner of his dungeon.”

“He spent fourteen years to arrive at that,” muttered the count.

The guide carried away the torch. The count had spoken correctly.

Scarcely had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw everything as distinctly

as by daylight. Then he looked around him, and really recognized his

dungeon.

“Yes,” he said, “there is the stone upon which I used to sit; there is

the impression made by my shoulders on the wall; there is the mark of

my blood made when one day I dashed my head against the wall. Oh, those

figures, how well I remember them! I made them one day to calculate the

age of my father, that I might know whether I should find him still

living, and that of Mercédès, to know if I should find her still free.

After finishing that calculation, I had a minute’s hope. I did not

reckon upon hunger and infidelity!” and a bitter laugh escaped the

count.

He saw in fancy the burial of his father, and the marriage of Mercédès.

On the other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, the white

letters of which were still visible on the green wall:

“‘_Oh, God!_’” he read, “‘_preserve my memory!_’”

“Oh, yes,” he cried, “that was my only prayer at last; I no longer

begged for liberty, but memory; I dreaded to become mad and forgetful.

Oh, God, thou hast preserved my memory; I thank thee, I thank thee!”

At this moment the light of the torch was reflected on the wall; the

guide was coming; Monte Cristo went to meet him.

“Follow me, sir;” and without ascending the stairs the guide conducted

him by a subterraneous passage to another entrance. There, again, Monte

Cristo was assailed by a multitude of thoughts. The first thing that

met his eye was the meridian, drawn by the abbé on the wall, by which

he calculated the time; then he saw the remains of the bed on which the

poor prisoner had died. The sight of this, instead of exciting the

anguish experienced by the count in the dungeon, filled his heart with

a soft and grateful sentiment, and tears fell from his eyes.

“This is where the mad abbé was kept, sir, and that is where the young

man entered;” and the guide pointed to the opening, which had remained

unclosed. “From the appearance of the stone,” he continued, “a learned

gentleman discovered that the prisoners might have communicated

together for ten years. Poor things! Those must have been ten weary

years.”

Dantès took some louis from his pocket, and gave them to the man who

had twice unconsciously pitied him. The guide took them, thinking them

merely a few pieces of little value; but the light of the torch

revealed their true worth.

“Sir,” he said, “you have made a mistake; you have given me gold.”

“I know it.”

The concierge looked upon the count with surprise.

“Sir,” he cried, scarcely able to believe his good fortune—“sir, I

cannot understand your generosity!”

“Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been a sailor, and your

story touched me more than it would others.”

“Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I ought to offer you something.”

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“What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank

you!”

“No, sir, neither of those; something connected with this story.”

“Really? What is it?”

“Listen,” said the guide; “I said to myself, ‘Something is always left

in a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen years,’ so I began to

sound the wall.”

“Ah,” cried Monte Cristo, remembering the abbé’s two hiding-places.

“After some search, I found that the floor gave a hollow sound near the

head of the bed, and at the hearth.”

“Yes,” said the count, “yes.”

“I raised the stones, and found——”

“A rope-ladder and some tools?”

“How do you know that?” asked the guide in astonishment.

“I do not know—I only guess it, because that sort of thing is generally

found in prisoners’ cells.”

“Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools.”

“And have you them yet?”

“No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great

curiosities; but I have still something left.”

“What is it?” asked the count, impatiently.

“A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth.”

“Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if it be what I hope, you will do

well.”

“I will run for it, sir;” and the guide went out.

Then the count knelt down by the side of the bed, which death had

converted into an altar.

“Oh, second father,” he exclaimed, “thou who hast given me liberty,

knowledge, riches; thou who, like beings of a superior order to

ourselves, couldst understand the science of good and evil; if in the

depths of the tomb there still remain something within us which can

respond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if after death the

soul ever revisit the places where we have lived and suffered,—then,

noble heart, sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the paternal love

thou didst bear me, by the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me

some sign, some revelation! Remove from me the remains of doubt, which,

if it change not to conviction, must become remorse!” The count bowed

his head, and clasped his hands together.

“Here, sir,” said a voice behind him.

Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The concierge held out the strips of

cloth upon which the Abbé Faria had spread the riches of his mind. The

manuscript was the great work by the Abbé Faria upon the kingdoms of

Italy. The count seized it hastily, his eyes immediately fell upon the

epigraph, and he read:

“Thou shalt tear out the dragons’ teeth, and shall trample the lions

under foot, saith the Lord.”

“Ah,” he exclaimed, “here is my answer. Thanks, father, thanks.” And

feeling in his pocket, he took thence a small pocket-book, which

contained ten bank-notes, each of 1,000 francs.

“Here,” he said, “take this pocket-book.”

“Do you give it to me?”

“Yes; but only on condition that you will not open it till I am gone;”

and placing in his breast the treasure he had just found, which was

more valuable to him than the richest jewel, he rushed out of the

corridor, and reaching his boat, cried, “To Marseilles!”

Then, as he departed, he fixed his eyes upon the gloomy prison.

“Woe,” he cried, “to those who confined me in that wretched prison; and

woe to those who forgot that I was there!”

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As he repassed the Catalans, the count turned around and burying his

head in his cloak murmured the name of a woman. The victory was

complete; twice he had overcome his doubts. The name he pronounced, in

a voice of tenderness, amounting almost to love, was that of Haydée.

On landing, the count turned towards the cemetery, where he felt sure

of finding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, had piously sought out a

tomb, and sought it vainly. He, who returned to France with millions,

had been unable to find the grave of his father, who had perished from

hunger. Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it had

fallen down and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all the old

wood in the churchyard.

The worthy merchant had been more fortunate. Dying in the arms of his

children, he had been by them laid by the side of his wife, who had

preceded him in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of marble, on

which were inscribed their names, were placed on either side of a

little enclosure, railed in, and shaded by four cypress-trees. Morrel

was leaning against one of these, mechanically fixing his eyes on the

graves. His grief was so profound that he was nearly unconscious.

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“Maximilian,” said the count, “you should not look on the graves, but

there;” and he pointed upwards.

“The dead are everywhere,” said Morrel; “did you not yourself tell me

so as we left Paris?”

“Maximilian,” said the count, “you asked me during the journey to allow

you to remain some days at Marseilles. Do you still wish to do so?”

“I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the time less

painfully here than anywhere else.”

“So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your word with

me, do I not?”

“Ah, count, I shall forget it.”

“No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor, Morrel,

because you have taken an oath, and are about to do so again.”

“Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so unhappy.”

“I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel.”

“Impossible!”

“Alas,” said Monte Cristo, “it is the infirmity of our nature always to

believe ourselves much more unhappy than those who groan by our sides!”

“What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all he loved and

desired in the world?”

“Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to tell you. I

knew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes of happiness upon a

woman. He was young, he had an old father whom he loved, a betrothed

bride whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when one of the

caprices of fate,—which would almost make us doubt the goodness of

Providence, if that Providence did not afterwards reveal itself by

proving that all is but a means of conducting to an end,—one of those

caprices deprived him of his mistress, of the future of which he had

dreamed (for in his blindness he forgot he could only read the

present), and cast him into a dungeon.”

“Ah,” said Morrel, “one quits a dungeon in a week, a month, or a year.”

“He remained there fourteen years, Morrel,” said the count, placing his

hand on the young man’s shoulder. Maximilian shuddered.

“Fourteen years!” he muttered.

“Fourteen years!” repeated the count. “During that time he had many

moments of despair. He also, Morrel, like you, considered himself the

unhappiest of men.”

“Well?” asked Morrel.

“Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him through human

means. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize the infinite mercy of

the Lord, but at last he took patience and waited. One day he

miraculously left the prison, transformed, rich, powerful. His first

cry was for his father; but that father was dead.”

“My father, too, is dead,” said Morrel.

“Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected, rich, and

full of years; his father died poor, despairing, almost doubtful of

Providence; and when his son sought his grave ten years afterwards, his

tomb had disappeared, and no one could say, ‘There sleeps the father

you so well loved.’”

“Oh!” exclaimed Morrel.

“He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for he could not

even find his father’s grave.”

“But then he had the woman he loved still remaining?”

“You are deceived, Morrel, that woman——”

“She was dead?”

“Worse than that, she was faithless, and had married one of the

persecutors of her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel, that he was a more

unhappy lover than you.”

“And has he found consolation?”

“He has at least found peace.”

“And does he ever expect to be happy?”

“He hopes so, Maximilian.”

The young man’s head fell on his breast.

“You have my promise,” he said, after a minute’s pause, extending his

hand to Monte Cristo. “Only remember——”

“On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the Island of

Monte Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for you in the port of

Bastia, it will be called the _Eurus_. You will give your name to the

captain, who will bring you to me. It is understood—is it not?”

“But, count, do you remember that the 5th of October——”

“Child,” replied the count, “not to know the value of a man’s word! I

have told you twenty times that if you wish to die on that day, I will

assist you. Morrel, farewell!”

“Do you leave me?”

“Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone in your struggle with

misfortune—alone with that strong-winged eagle which God sends to bear

aloft the elect to his feet. The story of Ganymede, Maximilian, is not

a fable, but an allegory.”

“When do you leave?”

“Immediately; the steamer waits, and in an hour I shall be far from

you. Will you accompany me to the harbor, Maximilian?”

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“I am entirely yours, count.”

Morrel accompanied the count to the harbor. The white steam was

ascending like a plume of feathers from the black chimney. The steamer

soon disappeared, and in an hour afterwards, as the count had said, was

scarcely distinguishable in the horizon amidst the fogs of the night.