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 in discharge of my official duty, that we should be perfectly
assured that the prisoner is dead." There was a moment of complete
silence, during which Dantes, still listening, knew that the doctor
was examining 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 to finish your
duty by fulfilling the formalities described by law."
"Let the irons be heated," said the doctor; "but really it is a
useless precaution." This order to heat the irons made Dantes
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 crackling of burning flesh, of which the
peculiar and nauseous smell penetrated even behind the wall where
Dantes was listening in horror. The perspiration poured forth upon
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
intractable."
"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 jailer who had charge of the abbe.
"Never, sir," replied the jailer, "never; on the contrary, he"Never, sir," replied the jailer, "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 did not know that I had a rival;
but I hope, governor, that you will show him all proper
respect."
"Yes, yes, make your mind easy, he shall be decently interred in
the newest sack we can find. Will that satisfy you?"
"Must this last formality take place in your presence, sir?"
inquired a turnkey.
"Certainly. But make haste — I cannot stay here all day." Other
footsteps, going and coming, were now heard, and a moment
afterwards the noise of rustling canvas reached Dantes' ears, the
bed creaked, and the heavy footfall of a man who lifts a weight
sounded on the floor; then the bed again creaked under the weight
deposited upon it.
"This evening," said the governor.
"Will there be any mass?" asked one of the attendants.
"That is impossible," replied the governor. "The chaplain of the
chateau came to me yesterday to beg for leave of absence, in order
to take a trip to Hyeres for a week. I told him I would attend to
the prisoners in his absence. If the poor abbe had not been in such
a hurry, he might have had his requiem."
"Pooh, pooh;" said the doctor, with the impiety usual in 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.
Meanwhile the operation of putting the body in the sack was going
on.
"This evening," said the governor, when the task was ended.
"At what hour?" 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 more sombre than that of solitudebolts ceased, and a silence more sombre than that of solitude
ensued, — the silence of death, which was all-pervasive, and struck
its icy chill to the very soul of Dantes. Then he raised the
flag-stone cautiously with his head, and looked carefully around
the chamber. It was empty, and Dantes emerged from the tunnel.On the bed, at full length, and faintly illuminated by the pale
light that came from the window, lay a sack of canvas, and under
its rude folds was stretched a long and stiffened form; it was
Faria's last winding-sheet, — a winding-sheet which, as the turnkey
said, cost so little. Everything was in readiness. A barrier had
been placed between Dantes and his old friend. No longer could
Edmond look into those wide-open eyes which had seemed to be
penetrating the mysteries of death; no longer could he clasp the
hand which had done so much to make his existence blessed. Faria,
the beneficent and cheerful companion, with whom he was accustomed
to live so intimately, no longer breathed. He seated himself on the
edge of that terrible bed, and fell into melancholy and gloomy
revery.
Alone — he was alone again — again condemned to silence — again
face to face with nothingness! Alone! — never again to see the
face, never again to hear the voice of the only human being who
united him to earth! Was not Faria's fate the better, after all —
to solve the problem of life at its source, even at the risk of
horrible suffering? The idea of suicide, which his friend had
driven away and kept away by his cheerful presence, now hovered
like a phantom over the abbe's dead body.
"If I could die," he said, "I should go where he goes, and
should assuredly find him again. But how to die? It is very easy,"
he went on with a smile; "I will remain here, rush on the first
person that opens the door, strangle him, and then they will
guillotine me." But excessive grief is like a storm at sea, where
the frail bark is tossed from the depths to the top of the wave.
Dantes recoiled from the idea of so infamous a death, and passed
suddenly from despair to an ardent desire for life and liberty.
"Die? oh, no," he exclaimed — "not die now, after having lived
and suffered so long and so much! Die? yes, had I died years ago;
but now to die would be, indeed, to give way to the sarcasm of
destiny. No, I want to live; I shall struggle to the very last; I