The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas
“that I loathe the idea of shedding blood.”
“Still, in our case the death we should bestow would not be dictated by any wild or savage propensity, but as a necessary step to secure our own personal safety and preservation.”
“No matter! I could never agree to it!”
“Still, you have thought of it?”
“Incessantly, alas!” cried the abbé.
“And you have discovered a means of regaining our freedom; have you not?” asked Dantès eagerly.
“I have; if it were only possible to place a deaf and blind sentinel in the gallery beyond us.”
“I will undertake to make him both,” replied the young man, with an air of determined resolution that made his companion shudder.
“No, no!” cried the abbé; “I tell you the thing is impossible: name it no more!”
In vain did Dantès endeavour to renew the subject; the abbé shook his head in token of disapproval, but refused any further conversation respecting it.
Three months passed away.
“Do you feel yourself strong?” inquired the abbé of Dantès.
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 extremity?”
“I promise on my honour not to hurt a hair of his head, unless positively obliged for our mutual preservation.”
“Then,” said the abbé, “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?”
“Directly!”
“We have lost a year to no purpose,” cried Dantès.
“Do you consider the last twelve months as wasted?” asked the abbé, in a tone of mild reproach.
“Forgive me!” cried Edmond, blushing deeply; “I am indeed ungrateful to have hinted such a thing.”
“Tut! tut!” answered the abbé: “man is but man at last, and you are about the best specimen of the genus I have ever known. Come, let me show you my plan.”
The abbé then showed Dantès the sketch he had made for their escape: it consisted of a plan of his own cell and that of Dantès, with the corridor which united them. In this passage he proposed to form a tunnel, such as is employed in mines; this tunnel would conduct 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 soldier’s feet, who falling into the excavation below, would be immediately bound and gagged, ere, stunned by the effects of his fall, he had power to offer 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 abbé’s ladder of cords. The eyes of Dantès 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 commenced their labours; and that with so much more vigour and alacrity as it succeeded to a long rest from fatigue, and was destined, in all probability, to carry out the dearest wish of the heart of each.
Nothing interrupted the progress of their work except the necessity of returning to their respective cells against the hour in which their gaoler was in the habit of visiting them; they had learned to distinguish the most imperceptible sound of his footsteps, as he descended towards their dungeons, and happily never failed 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 Dantès’ cell; the rubbish being first pulverised 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 Dantès 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 left behind them one of those bright tracks called glory.
The abbé was a man of the world, and had, moreover, mixed in the first society of the day; his appearance was impressed with that air of melancholy dignity, which Dantès, 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 tunnel was made, 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 favour 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 placing under it, as a kind of prop, a sort of bearer they had discovered among the foundations through which they had worked their way. Dantès 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 accents of pain and suffering. Dantès 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 clenched tightly together.
“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Dantès; “what is the matter? what has happened?”
“Quick! quick!” returned the abbé; “listen to what I have to say.”
Dantès looked in fear and wonder at the livid countenance of Faria, whose eyes, already dull and sunken, were circled by a halo of a bluish cast, his lips were white as those of a corpse, and his very hair seemed to stand on end.
“For God’s sake!” cried Dantès, “what is the meaning of this? Tell me, I beseech you, what ails you?”
“Alas!” faltered out the abbé, “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 any strength to drag myself along; who knows what may happen? or how long the fit may last?”
In spite of the magnitude of the misfortune which thus suddenly frustrated his hopes, Dantès lost not his presence of mind, but descended into the corridor dragging his unfortunate companion with him; then half carrying, half supporting him, he managed to reach the abbé’s chamber, when he immediately laid the sufferer on his bed.
“Thanks!” said the poor abbé, shivering as though his veins were filled with ice. “Now that I am safely here, let me explain to you the nature of my attack, and the appearance it will present. I am seized with a fit of catalepsy; when it comes to its height, I may 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, cover my lips with foaming, and force from me the most