Chương Chương 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.

Dantès, 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 Abbé Faria, had been

so skilfully used to guide him through the Dædalian 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 Dantès 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.

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Dantès 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.

Dantès 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 anyone

man, were he Hercules himself. Dantès 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, Dantès, 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 Dantès had previously

formed, and a huge snake, like the guardian demon of the treasure,

rolled himself along in darkening coils, and disappeared.

Dantès 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. Dantès

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.

Dantès 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.

Anyone else would have rushed on with a cry of joy. Dantès 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, Cæsar 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 hand, 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.”

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“But what was the fate of the guards who thus possessed his secret?”

asked Dantès of himself.

“The fate,” replied he, smiling, “of those who buried Alaric, and were

interred with the corpse.”

“Yet, had he come,” thought Dantès, “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, Dantès 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, Dantès’ 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 abbé, 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. Dantès 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

Dantès’ 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 Cæsar 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. Dantès 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.

Dantès 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, Dantès 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 Dantès 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 Dantès’

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 Dantès’ 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

Dantès 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; Dantès

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 Dantès 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 Dantès 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, _en pale_, on

an oval shield, like all the Italian armorial bearings, and surmounted

by a cardinal’s hat.

Dantès 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.

Dantès 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. Dantès

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.

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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? Was it a transient vision, or was he face to face with reality?

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.

Dantès 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.