strength; the flag-stone yielded, and disclosed steps that
descended until they were lost in the obscurity of a subterraneous
grotto. Any one else would have rushed on with a cry of joy. Dantes
turned pale, hesitated, and reflected. "Come," said he to himself,
"be a man. I am accustomed to adversity. I must not be cast down by
the discovery that I have been deceived. What, then, would be the
use of all I have suffered? The heart breaks when, after having
been elated by flattering hopes, it sees all its illusions
destroyed. Faria has dreamed this; the Cardinal Spada buried no
treasure here; perhaps he never came here, or if he did, Caesar
Borgia, the intrepid adventurer, the stealthy and indefatigable
plunderer, has followed him, discovered his traces, pursued them as
I have done, raised the stone, and descending before me, has left
me nothing." He remained motionless and pensive, his eyes fixed on
the gloomy aperture that was open at his feet.
"Now that I expect nothing, now that I no longer entertain the
slightest hopes, the end of this adventure becomes simply a matter
of curiosity." And he remained again motionless and thoughtful.
"Yes, yes; this is an adventure worthy a place in the varied
career of that royal bandit. This fabulous event formed but a link
in a long chain of marvels. Yes, Borgia has been here, a torch in
one hand, a sword in the other, and within twenty paces, at the
foot of this rock, perhaps two guards kept watch on land and sea,
while their master descended, as I am about to descend, dispelling
the darkness before his awe-inspiring progress."
"But what was the fate of the guards who thus possessed his
secret?" asked Dantes of himself.
"The fate," replied he, smiling, "of those who buried
Alaric."
"Yet, had he come," thought Dantes, "he would have found the
treasure, and Borgia, he who compared Italy to an artichoke, which
he could devour leaf by leaf, knew too well the value of time to
waste it in replacing this rock. I will go down."waste it in replacing this rock. I will go down."
Then he descended, a smile on his lips, and murmuring that last
word of human philosophy, "Perhaps!" But instead of the darkness,
and the thick and mephitic atmosphere he had expected to find,
Dantes saw a dim and bluish light, which, as well as the air,
entered, not merely by the aperture he had just formed, but by the
interstices and crevices of the rock which were visible from
without, and through which he could distinguish the blue sky and
the waving branches of the evergreen oaks, and the tendrils of the
creepers that grew from the rocks. After having stood a few minutes
in the cavern, the atmosphere of which was rather warm than damp,
Dantes' eye, habituated as it was to darkness, could pierce even to
the remotest angles of the cavern, which was of granite that
sparkled like diamonds. "Alas," said Edmond, smiling, "these are
the treasures the cardinal has left; and the good abbe, seeing in a
dream these glittering walls, has indulged in fallacious
hopes."
But he called to mind the words of the will, which he knew by
heart. "In the farthest angle of the second opening," said the
cardinal's will. He had only found the first grotto; he had now to
seek the second. Dantes continued his search. He reflected that
this second grotto must penetrate deeper into the island; he
examined the stones, and sounded one part of the wall where he
fancied the opening existed, masked for precaution's sake. The
pickaxe struck for a moment with a dull sound that drew out of
Dantes' forehead large drops of perspiration. At last it seemed to
him that one part of the wall gave forth a more hollow and deeper
echo; he eagerly advanced, and with the quickness of perception
that no one but a prisoner possesses, saw that there, in all
probability, the opening must be.
However, he, like Caesar Borgia, knew the value of time; and, in
order to avoid fruitless toil, he sounded all the other walls with
his pickaxe, struck the earth with the butt of his gun, and findinghis pickaxe, struck the earth with the butt of his gun, and finding
nothing that appeared suspicious, returned to that part of the wall
whence issued the consoling sound he had before heard. He again
struck it, and with greater force. Then a singular thing occurred.
As he struck the wall, pieces of stucco similar to that used in the
ground work of arabesques broke off, and fell to the ground in
flakes, exposing a large white stone. The aperture of the rock had
been closed with stones, then this stucco had been applied, and
painted to imitate granite. Dantes struck with the sharp end of his
pickaxe, which entered someway between the interstices. It was
there he must dig. But by some strange play of emotion, in
proportion as the proofs that Faria, had not been deceived became
stronger, so did his heart give way, and a feeling of
discouragement stole over him. This last proof, instead of giving
him fresh strength, deprived him of it; the pickaxe descended, or
rather fell; he placed it on the ground, passed his hand over his
brow, and remounted the stairs, alleging to himself, as an excuse,
a desire to be assured that no one was watching him, but in reality
because he felt that he was about to faint. The island was
deserted, and the sun seemed to cover it with its fiery glance;
afar off, a few small fishing boats studded the bosom of the blue
ocean.
Dantes had tasted nothing, but he thought not of hunger at such
a moment; he hastily swallowed a few drops of rum, and again
entered the cavern. The pickaxe that had seemed so heavy, was now
like a feather in his grasp; he seized it, and attacked the wall.
After several blows he perceived that the stones were not cemented,
but had been merely placed one upon the other, and covered with
stucco; he inserted the point of his pickaxe, and using the handle
as a lever, with joy soon saw the stone turn as if on hinges, and
fall at his feet. He had nothing more to do now, but with the iron
tooth of the pickaxe to draw the stones towards him one by one. The