The Count of Monte Cristo. Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
fortress.”
“But then you were close to the sea?”
“That is what I hoped.”
“And supposing you succeeded?”
“I should have thrown myself into the sea, gained one of the islands near here,—the Isle de Daume or the Isle de Tiboulen, and then I was safe.”
“Could you have swam so far?”
“Heaven would have given me strength; but now all is lost.”
“All?”
“Yes; stop up your excavation carefully : do not work any more, and wait until you hear from me.”
“Tell me, at least, who you are?”
“I am—I am Number 27.”
“You mistrust me, then?” said Dantès.
Edmond fancied he heard a bitter laugh proceed from the unknown.
“Oh! I am a Christian,” cried Dantès, guessing instinctively that this man meant to abandon him. “I swear to you by Him who died for us that nought shall induce me to breathe one syllable to my gaolers, but I conjure you do not abandon me. If you do, I swear to you that I will dash my brains out against the wall, and you will have my death to reproach yourself with.”
“How old are you? Your voice is that of a young man.”
“I do not know my age, for I have not counted the years I have been here. All I do know is, that I was just nineteen when I was arrested the 28th of February, 1815.”
“Not quite twenty-six!” murmured the voice; “at that age he cannot be a traitor.”
“Oh! no, no!” cried Dantès. “I swear to you again, rather than betray you they shall hew me to pieces!”
“You have done well to speak to me, and entreat me, for I was about to form another plan, and leave you; but your age reassures me. I will not forget you; expect me.”
“When?”
“I must calculate our chances; I will give you the signal.”
“But you will not leave me; you will come to me, or you will let me come to you. We will escape, and if we cannot escape we will talk, you of those whom you love, and I of those whom I love. You must love somebody?”
“No, I am alone in the world.”
“Then you will love me. If you are young, I will be your comrade; if you are old, I will be your son. I have a father who is seventy if he yet lives; I only love him and a young girl called Mercédès. My father has not yet forgotten me, I am sure; but God alone knows if she loves me still: I shall love you as I love my father.”
“It is well,” returned the voice; “tomorrow.”
These few words were uttered with an accent that left no doubt of his sincerity; Dantès rose, dispersed the fragments with the same precaution as before, and pushed back his bed against the wall. He then gave himself up to his happiness: he would no longer be alone. He was, perhaps, about to regain his liberty; at the worst, he would have a companion, and captivity that is shared is but half captivity.
All day Dantès walked up and down his cell. He sat down occasionally on his bed, pressing his hand on his heart. At the slightest noise he bounded towards the door. Once or twice the thought crossed his mind that he might be separated from this unknown, whom he loved already, and then his mind was made up,—when the gaoler moved his bed and stooped to examine the opening, he would kill him with his water-jug.
He would be condemned to die; but he was about to die of grief and despair when this miraculous noise recalled him to life.
The gaoler came in the evening: Dantès was on his bed. It seemed to him that thus he better guarded the unfinished opening. Doubtless there was a strange expression in his eyes, for the gaoler said, “Come, are you going mad again?”
Dantès did not answer: he feared that the emotion of his voice would betray him.
The gaoler retired, shaking his head.
The night came. Dantès hoped that his neighbour would profit by the silence to address him, but he was mistaken. The next morning, however, just as he removed his bed from the wall, he heard three knocks; he threw himself on his knees.
“Is it you?” said he: “I am here.”
“Is your gaoler gone?”
“Yes,” said Dantès, “he will not return until the evening, so that we have twelve hours before us.”
“I can work then,” said the voice.
“Oh! yes, yes, this instant, I entreat you.”
In an instant the portion of the floor on which Dantès (half buried in the opening) was leaning his two hands, gave way; he cast himself back, whilst a mass of stones and earth disappeared in a hole that opened beneath the aperture he himself had formed. Then from the bottom of this passage, the depth of which it was impossible to measure, he saw appear, first, the head, then the shoulders, and lastly the body of a man, who sprang lightly into his cell.
RUSHING TOWARDS THE friend so long and ardently desired, Dantès almost carried him towards the window, in order to obtain a better view of his features by the aid of the imperfect light that struggled through the grating of the prison.
He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by suffering and sorrow than years. A deepset, penetrating eye, almost buried beneath the thick gray eyebrow, and a long (and still black) beard reaching down to his breast.
The meagreness of his features, deeply furrowed by care, joined to the bold outline of his strongly marked features, announced a man more accustomed to exercise his moral faculties than his physical strength. Large drops of perspiration were now standing on his brow, while his garments hung about him in such rags as to render it useless to form a guess as to their primitive description.
The stranger might have numbered sixty or sixty-five years, but a certain briskness and appearance of vigour in his movements made it probable that he was aged more from captivity than the course of time. He received the enthusiastic greeting of his young acquaintance with evident pleasure, as though his chilled affections seemed rekindled and invigorated by his contact with one so warm and ardent. He thanked him with grateful cordiality for his kindly welcome, although he must at that moment have been suffering bitterly to find another dungeon where he had fondly reckoned on discovering a means of regaining his liberty.
“Let us first see,” said he, “whether it is possible to remove the traces of my entrance here—our future comforts depend upon our gaolers being entirely ignorant of it.” Advancing to the opening, he stooped and raised the stone as easily as though it had not weighed an ounce; then fitting it into its place, he said:
“You removed this stone very carelessly; but I suppose you had no tools to aid you.”
“Why!” exclaimed Dantès, with astonishment, “do you possess any?”
“I made myself some; and with the exception of a file, I have all that are necessary—a chisel, pincers, and lever.”
“Oh! how I should like to see these products of your industry and patience!”
“Well! in the first place, here is my chisel!”
So saying, he displayed a sharp strong blade, with a handle made of beechwood.
“And with what did you contrive to make that?” inquired Dantès.
“With one of the clamps of my bedstead; and this very tool has sufficed me to hollow out the road by which I came hither, a distance of at least fifty feet.”
“Fifty