nothing. They were thus perpetually employed, — Faria, that he
might not see himself grow old; Dantes, for fear of recalling the
almost extinct past which now only floated in his memory like a
distant light wandering in the night. So life went on for them as
it does for those who are not victims of misfortune and whose
activities glide along mechanically and tranquilly beneath the eye
of providence.
But beneath this superficial calm there were in the heart of the
young man, and perhaps in that of the old man, many repressed
desires, many stifled sighs, which found vent when Faria was left
alone, and when Edmond returned to his cell. One night Edmond awoke
suddenly, believing that he heard some one calling him. He opened
his eyes upon utter darkness. His name, or rather a plaintive voice
which essayed to pronounce his name, reached him. He sat up in bed
and a cold sweat broke out upon his brow. Undoubtedly the call came
from Faria's dungeon. "Alas," murmured Edmond; "can it be?"
He moved his bed, drew up the stone, rushed into the passage,
and reached the opposite extremity; the secret entrance was open.
By the light of the wretched and wavering lamp, of which we have
spoken, Dantes saw the old man, pale, but yet erect, clinging to
the bedstead. His features were writhing with those horrible
symptoms which he already knew, and which had so seriously alarmed
him when he saw them for the first time.
"Alas, my dear friend," said Faria in a resigned tone, "you
understand, do you not, and I need not attempt to explain to
you?"
Edmond uttered a cry of agony, and, quite out of his senses,
rushed towards the door, exclaiming, "Help, help!" Faria had just
sufficient strength to restrain him.
"Silence," he said, "or you are lost. We must now only think of
you, my dear friend, and so act as to render your captivity
supportable or your flight possible. It would require years to do
again what I have done here, and the results would be instantly
destroyed if our jailers knew we had communicated with each other.destroyed if our jailers knew we had communicated with each other.
Besides, be assured, my dear Edmond, the dungeon I am about to
leave will not long remain empty; some other unfortunate being will
soon take my place, and to him you will appear like an angel of
salvation. Perhaps he will be young, strong, and enduring, like
yourself, and will aid you in your escape, while I have been but a
hindrance. You will no longer have half a dead body tied to you as
a drag to all your movements. At length providence has done
something for you; he restores to you more than he takes away, and
it was time I should die."
Edmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim, "Oh, my friend,
my friend, speak not thus!" and then resuming all his presence of
mind, which had for a moment staggered under this blow, and his
strength, which had failed at the words of the old man, he said,
"Oh, I have saved you once, and I will save you a second time!" And
raising the foot of the bed, he drew out the phial, still a third
filled with the red liquor.
"See," he exclaimed, "there remains still some of the magic
draught. Quick, quick! tell me what I must do this time; are there
any fresh instructions? Speak, my friend; I listen."
"There is not a hope," replied Faria, shaking his head, "but no
matter; God wills it that man whom he has created, and in whose
heart he has so profoundly rooted the love of life, should do all
in his power to preserve that existence, which, however painful it
may be, is yet always so dear."
"Oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed Dantes; "and I tell you that I will
save you yet."
"Well, then, try. The cold gains upon me. I feel the blood
flowing towards my brain. These horrible chills, which make my
teeth chatter and seem to dislocate my bones, begin to pervade my
whole frame; in five minutes the malady will reach its height, and
in a quarter of an hour there will be nothing left of me but a
corpse."
"Oh!" exclaimed Dantes, his heart wrung with anguish.
"Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs"Do as you did before, only do not wait so long, all the springs
of life are now exhausted in me, and death," he continued, looking
at his paralyzed arm and leg, "has but half its work to do. If,
after having made me swallow twelve drops instead of ten, you see
that I do not recover, then pour the rest down my throat. Now lift
me on my bed, for I can no longer support myself."
Edmond took the old man in his arms, and laid him on the
bed.
"And now, my dear friend," said Faria, "sole consolation of my
wretched existence, — you whom heaven gave me somewhat late, but
still gave me, a priceless gift, and for which I am most grateful,
— at the moment of separating from you forever, I wish you all the
happiness and all the prosperity you so well deserve. My son, I
bless thee!" The young man cast himself on his knees, leaning his
head against the old man's bed.
"Listen, now, to what I say in this my dying moment. The
treasure of the Spadas exists. God grants me the boon of vision
unrestricted by time or space. I see it in the depths of the inner
cavern. My eyes pierce the inmost recesses of the earth, and are
dazzled at the sight of so much riches. If you do escape, remember
that the poor abbe, whom all the world called mad, was not so.
Hasten to Monte Cristo — avail yourself of the fortune — for you
have indeed suffered long enough." A violent convulsion attacked
the old man. Dantes raised his head and saw Faria's eyes injected
with blood. It seemed as if a flow of blood had ascended from the
chest to the head.
"Adieu, adieu!" murmured the old man, clasping Edmond's hand
convulsively — "adieu!"
"Oh, no, — no, not yet," he cried; "do not forsake me! Oh,
succor him! Help — help — help!"
"Hush — hush!" murmured the dying man, "that they may not
separate us if you save me!"
"You are right. Oh, yes, yes; be assured I shall save you!
Besides, although you suffer much, you do not seem to be in such
agony as you were before."
"Do not mistake. I suffer less because there is in me less