agony as you were before."
"Do not mistake. I suffer less because there is in me less
strength to endure. At your age we have faith in life; it is the
privilege of youth to believe and hope, but old men see death more
clearly. Oh, 'tis here — 'tis here — 'tis over — my sight is gone —
my senses fail! Your hand, Dantes! Adieu — adieu!" And raising
himself by a final effort, in which he summoned all his faculties,
he said, — "Monte Cristo, forget not Monte Cristo!" And he fell
back on the bed. The crisis was terrible, and a rigid form with
twisted limbs, swollen eyelids, and lips flecked with bloody foam,
lay on the bed of torture, in place of the intellectual being who
so lately rested there.
Dantes took the lamp, placed it on a projecting stone above the
bed, whence its tremulous light fell with strange and fantastic ray
on the distorted countenance and motionless, stiffened body. With
steady gaze he awaited confidently the moment for administering the
restorative.
When he believed that the right moment had arrived, he took the
knife, pried open the teeth, which offered less resistance than
before, counted one after the other twelve drops, and watched; the
phial contained, perhaps, twice as much more. He waited ten
minutes, a quarter of an hour, half an hour, — no change took
place. Trembling, his hair erect, his brow bathed with
perspiration, he counted the seconds by the beating of his heart.
Then he thought it was time to make the last trial, and he put the
phial to the purple lips of Faria, and without having occasion to
force open his jaws, which had remained extended, he poured the
whole of the liquid down his throat.
The draught produced a galvanic effect, a violent trembling
pervaded the old man's limbs, his eyes opened until it was fearful
to gaze upon them, he heaved a sigh which resembled a shriek, and
then his convulsed body returned gradually to its former
immobility, the eyes remaining open.
Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and duringimmobility, the eyes remaining open.
Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half elapsed, and during
this period of anguish, Edmond leaned over his friend, his hand
applied to his heart, and felt the body gradually grow cold, and
the heart's pulsation become more and more deep and dull, until at
length it stopped; the last movement of the heart ceased, the face
became livid, the eyes remained open, but the eyeballs were glazed.
It was six o'clock in the morning, the dawn was just breaking, and
its feeble ray came into the dungeon, and paled the ineffectual
light of the lamp. Strange shadows passed over the countenance of
the dead man, and at times gave it the appearance of life. While
the struggle between day and night lasted, Dantes still doubted;
but as soon as the daylight gained the pre-eminence, he saw that he
was alone with a corpse. Then an invincible and extreme terror
seized upon him, and he dared not again press the hand that hung
out of bed, he dared no longer to gaze on those fixed and vacant
eyes, which he tried many times to close, but in vain — they opened
again as soon as shut. He extinguished the lamp, carefully
concealed it, and then went away, closing as well as he could the
entrance to the secret passage by the large stone as he
descended.
It was time, for the jailer was coming. On this occasion he
began his rounds at Dantes' cell, and on leaving him he went on to
Faria's dungeon, taking thither breakfast and some linen. Nothing
betokened that the man know anything of what had occurred. He went
on his way.
Dantes was then seized with 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.
Last of all came the governor.
Edmond heard the creaking of the bed as they moved the corpse,
heard the voice of the governor, who asked them to throw water onheard the voice of the governor, who asked them to throw water on
the dead man's face; and seeing that, in spite of this application,
the prisoner did not recover, they sent for the doctor. The
governor then went out, and words of pity fell on Dantes' 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 Chateau 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 honors 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 every
one had 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, hardly venturing to breathe. 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 analyzed the symptoms of the malady to which the
prisoner had succumbed, and declared that he was dead. Questions
and answers followed in a nonchalant manner that made Dantes
indignant, for he felt that all the world should have for the poor
abbe a love and respect equal to his own.
"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,