The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre Dumas
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 even when not on duty—behind them came the governor.
Edmond heard the creaking of the bed in which they were moving the corpse, heard the voice of the governor, who desired them to throw water on the face, and seeing that in spite of this application the prisoner did not recover, sent for the doctor.
The governor then went out, and some words of pity fell on Dantès’ 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 Château 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 honours 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 the persons had all 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, restraining even his respiration.
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 analysed the symptoms of the malady under which the prisoner had sunk, and declared he was dead.
Questions and answers followed in a manner that made Dantès indignant, for he felt that all the world should experience for the poor abbé the love he bore him.
“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 for my own responsibility’s sake, that we should be perfectly assured that the prisoner is dead.”
There was a moment of complete silence, during which Dantès, still listening, felt assured that the doctor was examining and touching 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 finish your duty by fulfilling the formalities prescribed by law.”
“Let the irons be heated,” said the doctor; “but really it is a useless precaution.”
This order to heat the irons made Dantès 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 noise made by burning flesh, of which the peculiar and nauseous smell penetrated even behind the wall where Dantès was listening horrified.
At this smell of human flesh carbonised, the damp came over 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 obstinate.”
“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 gaoler who had charge of the abbé.
“Never, sir,” replied the gaoler, “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 was ignorant that I had a competitor; but I hope, M. le Gouverneur, that you will show him all proper respect in consequence.”
“Yes, yes; make your mind easy; he shall be decently interred in the newest sack we can find. Will that satisfy you?”
“Must we do this last formality in your presence, sir?” inquired a turnkey.
“Certainly. But make haste. I cannot stay here all day.”
Fresh footsteps, going and coming, were now heard, and a moment afterwards the noise of cloth being rubbed reached Dantès’ ears, the bed creaked on its hinges, and the heavy foot of a man, who lifts a weight, resounded on the floor; then the bed again creaked under the weight deposited upon it.
“In the evening!” said the governor.
“Will there be any mass?” asked one of the attendants.
“That is impossible,” replied the governor. “The chaplain of the Château came to me yesterday to beg for leave of absence in order to take a trip to Hyères for a week. I told him I would attend to the prisoners in his absence. If the poor abbé had not been in such a hurry he might have had his requiem.”
“Pooh! pooh!” said the doctor, with the accustomed impiety of 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.
During this time the operation of putting the body in the sack was going on.
“This evening,” said the governor, when the task was ended.
“At what o’clock?” 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 duller than any solitude ensued, the silence of death, which pervaded all, and struck its icy chill through the young man’s whole frame. Then he raised the flagstone cautiously with his head, and looked carefully round the chamber.
It was empty, and Dantès, quitting the passage, entered it.
20 The Cemetery of the Château d’If
ON THE BED, at full length, and faintly lighted by the pale ray that penetrated the window, was visible a sack of coarse cloth, under the large folds of which were stretched a long and stiffened form; it was Faria’s last winding-sheet—a winding-sheet