destiny. No, I want to live; I shall struggle to the very last; I
will yet win back the happiness of which I have been deprived.
Before I die I must not forget that I have my executioners to
punish, and perhaps, too, who knows, some friends to reward. Yet
they will forget me here, and I shall die in my dungeon like
Faria." As he said this, he became silent and gazed straight before
him like one overwhelmed with a strange and amazing thought.
Suddenly he arose, lifted his hand to his brow as if his brain wore
giddy, paced twice or thrice round the dungeon, and then paused
abruptly by the bed.
"Just God!" he muttered, "whence comes this thought? Is it from
thee? Since none but the dead pass freely from this dungeon, let me
take the place of the dead!" Without giving himself time to
reconsider his decision, and, indeed, that he might not allow his
thoughts to be distracted from his desperate resolution, he bent
over the appalling shroud, opened it with the knife which Faria had
made, drew the corpse from the sack, and bore it along the tunnel
to his own chamber, laid it on his couch, tied around its head the
rag he wore at night around his own, covered it with his
counterpane, once again kissed the ice-cold brow, and tried vainly
to close the resisting eyes, which glared horribly, turned the head
towards the wall, so that the jailer might, when he brought the
evening meal, believe that he was asleep, as was his frequent
custom; entered the tunnel again, drew the bed against the wall,
returned to the other cell, took from the hiding-place the needle
and thread, flung off his rags, that they might feel only naked
flesh beneath the coarse canvas, and getting inside the sack,
placed himself in the posture in which the dead body had been laid,
and sewed up the mouth of the sack from the inside.
He would have been discovered by the beating of his heart, if by
any mischance the jailers had entered at that moment. Dantes might
have waited until the evening visit was over, but he was afraidhave waited until the evening visit was over, but he was afraid
that the governor would change his mind, and order the dead body to
be removed earlier. In that case his last hope would have been
destroyed. Now his plans were fully made, and this is what he
intended to do. If while he was being carried out the grave-diggers
should discover that they were bearing a live instead of a dead
body, Dantes did not intend to give them time to recognize him, but
with a sudden cut of the knife, he meant to open the sack from top
to bottom, and, profiting by their alarm, escape; if they tried to
catch him, he would use his knife to better purpose.
If they took him to the cemetery and laid him in a grave, he
would allow himself to be covered with earth, and then, as it was
night, the grave-diggers could scarcely have turned their backs
before he would have worked his way through the yielding soil and
escaped. He hoped that the weight of earth would not be so great
that he could not overcome it. If he was detected in this and the
earth proved too heavy, he would be stifled, and then — so much the
better, all would be over. Dantes had not eaten since the preceding
evening, but he had not thought of hunger, nor did he think of it
now. His situation was too precarious to allow him even time to
reflect on any thought but one.
The first risk that Dantes ran was, that the jailer, when he
brought him his supper at seven o'clock, might perceive the change
that had been made; fortunately, twenty times at least, from
misanthropy or fatigue, Dantes had received his jailer in bed, and
then the man placed his bread and soup on the table, and went away
without saying a word. This time the jailer might not be as silent
as usual, but speak to Dantes, and seeing that he received no
reply, go to the bed, and thus discover all.
When seven o'clock came, Dantes' agony really began. His hand
placed upon his heart was unable to redress its throbbings, while,
with the other he wiped the perspiration from his temples. Fromwith the other he wiped the perspiration from his temples. From
time to time chills ran through his whole body, and clutched his
heart in a grasp of ice. Then he thought he was going to die. Yet
the hours passed on without any unusual disturbance, and Dantes
knew that he had escaped the first peril. It was a good augury. At
length, about the hour the governor had appointed, footsteps were
heard on the stairs. Edmond felt that the moment had arrived,
summoned up all his courage, held his breath, and would have been
happy if at the same time he could have repressed the throbbing of
his veins. The footsteps — they were double — paused at the door —
and Dantes guessed that the two grave-diggers had come to seek him
— this idea was soon converted into certainty, when he heard the
noise they made in putting down the hand-bier. The door opened, and
a dim light reached Dantes' eyes through the coarse sack that
covered him; he saw two shadows approach his bed, a third remaining
at the door with a torch in its hand. The two men, approaching the
ends of the bed, took the sack by its extremities.
"He's heavy though for an old and thin man," said one, as he
raised the head.
"They say every year adds half a pound to the weight of the
bones," said another, lifting the feet.
"Have you tied the knot?" inquired the first speaker.
"What would be the use of carrying so much more weight?" was the
reply, "I can do that when we get there."
"Yes, you're right," replied the companion.
"What's the knot for?" thought Dantes.
They deposited the supposed corpse on the bier. Edmond stiffened
himself in order to play the part of a dead man, and then the
party, lighted by the man with the torch, who went first, ascended
the stairs. Suddenly he felt the fresh and sharp night air, and
Dantes knew that the mistral was blowing. It was a sensation in
which pleasure and pain were strangely mingled. The bearers went on
for twenty paces, then stopped, putting the bier down on the
ground. One of them went away, and Dantes heard his shoes striking