Chapter XVI

THE CEMETERY OF THE CHÂTEAU D’IF

On the bed, at full length, faintly lighted by a dim ray that entered through the window, Dantès saw a sack of coarse cloth, under the ample folds of which he could distinctly discern a long, stiff form: it was Faria’s shroud. All was over then. Dantès was separated from his old friend. Faria, the helpful, kind companion, to whom he had become so attached, to whom he owed so much, existed now but in his memory. He sat on the edge of the bed and became a prey to deep and bitter melancholy.

Alone! He was quite alone once more! Alone! No longer to see, to hear the voice of, the only human being that attached him to life! Would it not be better to seek his Maker, as Faria had done, to learn the mystery of life even at the risk of passing through the dismal gates of suffering?

The idea of suicide which had been dispelled by his friend and which he himself had forgotten in his presence, rose again before him like a phantom beside Faria’s corpse.

“If I could only die,” he said, “I should go where he has gone. But how am I to die? It is quite simple,” said he with a smile. “I will stay here, throw myself on the first one who enters, strangle him and then I shall be guillotined.”

Dantès, however, recoiled from such an infamous death, and swiftly passed from despair to an ardent desire for life and liberty. “Die? Oh, no!” he cried out, “it would hardly have been worth while to live, to suffer so much and then to die now. No, I desire to live, to fight to the end. I wish to reconquer the happiness that has been taken from me. Before I die, I have my executioners to punish, and possibly also some friends to recompense. Yet they will forget me here and I shall only leave this dungeon in the same way that Faria has done.”

As he uttered these words, Edmond stood stock-still, with eyes fixed like a man struck by a sudden and terrifying idea.

“Oh, who has given me this thought?” he murmured. “My God, comes this from Thee? Since it is only the dead who go free from here, I must take the place of the dead!”

Without giving himself time to reconsider his decision, and as though he would not give reflection time to destroy his desperate resolution, he leaned over the hideous sack, slit it open with the knife Faria had made, took the dead body out, carried it to his own cell, and placed it on his bed, put round the head the piece of rag he always wore, covered it with the bed-clothes, kissed for the last time the ice-cold forehead, endeavoured to shut the rebellious eyes, which were still open, and stared so horribly, and turned the head to the wall so that, when the gaoler brought his evening meal, he would think he had gone to bed as he often did. Then he returned to the other cell, took the needle and thread from the cupboard, flung off his rags that the men might feel naked flesh under the sacking, slipped into the sack, placed himself in the same position as the corpse, and sewed the sack up again from the inside. If, by any chance, the gaolers had entered then, they would have heard the beating of his heart.

Now this is what Dantès intended doing. If the grave-diggers discovered that they were carrying a live body instead of a dead one, he would give them no time for thought. He would slit the sack open with his knife from top to bottom, jump out, and taking advantage of their terror, escape; if they tried to stop him, he would use his knife. If they took him to the cemetery and placed him in a grave, he would allow himself to be covered with earth; then, as it was night, as soon as the grave-diggers had turned their backs, he would cut his way through the soft earth and escape; he hoped the weight would not be too heavy for him to raise.

He had eaten nothing since the previous evening, but he had not thought of his hunger in the morning, neither did he think of it now. His position was much too precarious to allow him time for any thought but that of flight.

At last, toward the time appointed by the governor, he heard footsteps on the staircase. He realized that the moment had come, he summoned all his courage and held his breath.

The door was opened, a subdued light reached his eyes. Through the sacking that covered him he saw two shadows approach the bed. There was a third one at the door holding a lantern in his hand. Each of the two men who had approached the bed took the sack by one of its two extremities.

“He is very heavy for such a thin old man,” said one of them as he raised the head.

“They say that each year adds half a pound to the weight of one’s bones,” said the other, taking the feet.

They carried away the sham corpse on the bier. Edmond made himself rigid. The procession, lighted by the man with the lantern, descended the stairs. All at once Dantès felt the cold, fresh night air and the sharp northwest wind, and the sensation filled him at once with joy and with anguish.

The men went about twenty yards, then stopped and dropped the bier on to the ground. One of them went away, and Dantès heard his footsteps on the stones.

“Where am I?” he asked himself.

“He is by no means a light load, you know,” said the man who had remained behind, seating himself on the edge of the bier.

Dantès’ impulse was to make his escape, but, fortunately, he did not attempt it. He heard one of the men draw near and drop a heavy object on the ground; at the same moment a cord was tied round his feet, cutting into his flesh.

“Well, have you made the knot?” one of the men asked.

“Yes, and it is well made. I can answer for that.”

“Let’s on, then.”

The bier was lifted once more, and the procession proceeded. The noise of the waves breaking against the rocks on which the Château is built sounded more distinctly to Dantès with each step they took.

“Wretched weather!” said one of the men, “the sea will not be very inviting to-night.”

“Yes, the abbé runs a great risk of getting wet,” said the other, and they burst out laughing.

Dantès could not understand the jest, nevertheless his hair began to stand on end.

“Here we are at last!”

“No, farther on, farther on! You know the last one was dashed on the rocks and the next day the governor called us a couple of lazy rascals.”

They went another five yards, and then Dantès felt them take him by the head and feet and swing him to and fro.

“One! Two! Three!”

With the last word, Dantès felt himself flung into space. He passed through the air like a wounded bird falling, falling, ever falling with a rapidity which turned his heart to ice. At last—though it seemed to him like an eternity of time—there came a terrific splash; and as he dropped like an arrow into the icy cold water he uttered a scream which was immediately choked by his immersion.

Dantès had been flung into the sea, into whose depths he was being dragged down by a cannon-ball tied to his feet.

The sea is the cemetery of the Château d’If.