Reading Help The Count of Monte Cristo Ch.11-39
`
` "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 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. `
` `
` `
` `
` Chapter 20 `
` The Cemetery of the Chateau D'If. `
` `
` 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 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 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. 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 on the `
` pavement. `
` `
` "Where am I?" he asked himself. `
` `
` "Really, he is by no means a light load!" said the other `
` bearer, sitting on the edge of the hand-barrow. Dantes' `
` first impulse was to escape, but fortunately he did not `
` attempt it. `
` `
` "Give us a light," said the other bearer, "or I shall never `
` find what I am looking for." The man with the torch `
` complied, although not asked in the most polite terms. `
` `
` "What can he be looking for?" thought Edmond. "The spade, `
` perhaps." An exclamation of satisfaction indicated that the `
` grave-digger had found the object of his search. "Here it is `
` at last," he said, "not without some trouble though." `
` `
` "Yes," was the answer, "but it has lost nothing by waiting." `
` `
` As he said this, the man came towards Edmond, who heard a `
` heavy metallic substance laid down beside him, and at the `
` same moment a cord was fastened round his feet with sudden `
` and painful violence. `
` `
` "Well, have you tied the knot?" inquired the grave-digger, `
` who was looking on. `
`
` "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 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. `
` `
` `
` `
` Chapter 20 `
` The Cemetery of the Chateau D'If. `
` `
` 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 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 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. 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 on the `
` pavement. `
` `
` "Where am I?" he asked himself. `
` `
` "Really, he is by no means a light load!" said the other `
` bearer, sitting on the edge of the hand-barrow. Dantes' `
` first impulse was to escape, but fortunately he did not `
` attempt it. `
` `
` "Give us a light," said the other bearer, "or I shall never `
` find what I am looking for." The man with the torch `
` complied, although not asked in the most polite terms. `
` `
` "What can he be looking for?" thought Edmond. "The spade, `
` perhaps." An exclamation of satisfaction indicated that the `
` grave-digger had found the object of his search. "Here it is `
` at last," he said, "not without some trouble though." `
` `
` "Yes," was the answer, "but it has lost nothing by waiting." `
` `
` As he said this, the man came towards Edmond, who heard a `
` heavy metallic substance laid down beside him, and at the `
` same moment a cord was fastened round his feet with sudden `
` and painful violence. `
` `
` "Well, have you tied the knot?" inquired the grave-digger, `
` who was looking on. `
`