The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas
instead of sending to Paris, he carefully preserved the petition that so fearfully compromised Dantès, in the hopes of an event that seemed not unlikely, that is, a second restoration.
Dantès remained a prisoner, and heard not the noise of the fall of Louis XVIII’s throne.
Twice during the Hundred Days had Morrel renewed his demand, and twice had Villefort soothed him with promises. At last there was Waterloo, and Morrel came no more: he had done all that was in his power, and any fresh attempt would only compromise himself uselessly.
Louis XVIII remounted the throne, Villefort demanded and obtained the situation of king’s procureur at Toulouse, and a fortnight afterwards married Renée.
Danglars comprehended the full extent of the wretched fate that overwhelmed Dantès, and, like all men of small abilities, he termed this a decree of Providence. But when Napoleon returned to Paris, Danglars’ heart failed him, and he feared at every instant to behold Dantès eager for vengeance; he therefore informed M. Morrel of his wish to quit the sea, and obtained a recommendation from him to a Spanish merchant, into whose service he entered at the end of March, that is, ten or twelve days after Napoleon’s return. He then left for Madrid, and was no more heard of.
Fernand understood nothing except that Dantès was absent. What had become of him? He cared not to inquire. Only during the respite the absence of his rival afforded him, he reflected partly on the means of deceiving Mercédès as to the cause of his absence, partly on plans of emigration and abduction, as from time to time he sat sad and motionless on the summit of Cape Pharo, at the spot from whence Marseilles and the village des Catalans are visible, watching for the apparition of a young and handsome man, who was for him also the messenger of vengeance. Fernand’s mind was made up: he would shoot Dantès, and then kill himself. But Fernand was mistaken; a man of his disposition never kills himself, for he constantly hopes.
During this time the empire made a last appeal, and every man in France capable of bearing arms rushed to obey the summons of their emperor.
Fernand departed with the rest, bearing with him the terrible thought, that perhaps his rival was behind him, and would marry Mercédès.
Had Fernand really meant to kill himself, he would have done so when he parted from Mercédès. His devotion, and the compassion he showed for her misfortunes, produced the effect they always produce on noble minds; Mercédès had always had a sincere regard for Fernand, and this was now strengthened by gratitude.
“My brother,” said she, as she placed his knapsack on his shoulders, “be careful of yourself, for if you are killed I shall be alone in the world.”
These words infused a ray of hope into Fernand’s heart. Should Dantès not return, Mercédès might one day be his.
Mercédès remained alone upon this bare plain, which to her eyes never appeared so barren as now, with the mighty sea stretching to the horizon. Quite dissolved in tears, like Niobe, she wandered without ceasing, about the little Catalan village, halting at one time under the fierce heat of the southern sun, standing upright, motionless and dumb as a statue, her gaze fixed on Marseilles; at another, sitting on the shore, listening to the moaning of the sea, eternal as grief itself, and asking herself continually whether she would not be better to cast herself in, to let the deep open and engulf her, rather than to suffer thus all the cruelties of waiting without hope.
It was not want of courage that prevented her putting this resolution into execution; but her religious feelings came to her aid and saved her.
Caderousse was, like Fernand, enrolled in the army; but being married, and eight years older, he was merely sent to the frontier.
Old Dantès, who was only sustained by hope, lost all hope at Napoleon’s downfall. Five months after he had been separated from his son, and almost at the very hour at which he was arrested, he breathed his last in Mercédès’ arms.
M. Morrel paid the expenses of his funeral, and a few small debts the poor old man had contracted.
There was more than benevolence in this action; there was courage; for to assist, even on his death-bed, the father of so dangerous a Bonapartist as Dantès was stigmatised as a crime.
A YEAR AFTER the restoration of Louis XVIII, a visit was made by the inspector-general of prisons.
Dantès heard from the recesses of his cell the noises made by the preparations for receiving him,—sounds that at the depth where he lay would have been inaudible to any but the ear of a prisoner, who could distinguish the plash of the drop of water that every hour fell from the roof of his dungeon. He guessed something uncommon was passing among the living; but he had so long ceased to have any intercourse with the world, that he looked upon himself as dead.
The inspector visited the cells and dungeons, one after another, of several of the prisoners, whose good behaviour or stupidity recommended them to the clemency of the government; the inspector inquired how they were fed, and if they had anything to demand. The universal response was, that the fare was detestable, and that they required their freedom.
The inspector asked if they had anything else to demand. They shook their heads! What could they desire beyond their liberty?
The inspector turned smilingly to the governor.
“I do not know what reason government can assign for these useless visits; when you see one prisoner you see all—always the same thing—ill-fed and innocent. Are there any others?”
“Yes; the dangerous and mad prisoners are in the dungeons.”
“Let us visit them,” said the inspector, with an air of fatigue. “I must fulfil my mission. Let us descend.”
“Let us first send for two soldiers,” said the governor. “The prisoners sometimes, through mere uneasiness of life, and in order to be sentenced to death, commit acts of useless violence, and you might fall a victim.”
“Take all needful precautions,” replied the inspector.
Two soldiers were accordingly sent for, and the inspector descended a stair so foul, so humid, so dark, that the very sight affected the eye, the smell, and the respiration.
“Oh,” cried the inspector, “who can live here?”
“A most dangerous conspirator, a man we are ordered to keep the most strict watch over, as he is daring and resolute.”
“He is alone?”
“Certainly.”
“How long has he been there?”
“Nearly a year.”
“Was he placed here when he first arrived?”
“No, not until he attempted to kill the turnkey.”
“To kill the turnkey!”
“Yes, the very one who is lighting us. Is it not true, Antoine?” asked the governor.
“True enough; he wanted to kill me!” replied the turnkey.
“He must be mad,” said the inspector.
“He is worse than that; he is a devil!” returned the turnkey.
“Shall I complain of him?” demanded the inspector.
“Oh, no; it is useless. Besides, he is almost mad now, and in another year he will be quite so.”
“So much the better for him; he will suffer less,” said the inspector.
He was, as this remark shows, a man full of philanthropy, and in every way fit for his office.
“You are right, sir,” replied the governor; “and this remark proves that you have deeply considered the subject. Now we have in a dungeon about twenty feet distant, and to which