The Count of Monte Cristo (The Wild and Wanton Edition) Read online

  Then gloom settled heavily upon him. Dantes was a man of great simplicity of thought, and without education; he could not, therefore in the solitude of his dungeon, traverse in mental vision the history of the ages, bring to life the nations that had perished, and rebuild the ancient cities so vast and stupendous in the light of the imagination, and that pass before the eye glowing with celestial colors in Martin’s Babylonian pictures. He could not do this, he whose past life was so short, whose present so melancholy, and his future so doubtful. Nineteen years of light to reflect upon in eternal darkness! No distraction could come to his aid; his energetic spirit, that would have exalted in thus revisiting the past, was imprisoned like an eagle in a cage. He clung to one idea — that of his happiness, destroyed, without apparent cause, by an unheard-of fatality; he considered and reconsidered this idea, devoured it (so to speak), as the implacable Ugolino devours the skull of Archbishop Roger in the Inferno of Dante.

  Rage supplanted religious fervor. Dantes uttered blasphemies that made his jailer recoil with horror, dashed himself furiously against the walls of his prison, wreaked his anger upon everything, and chiefly upon himself, so that the least thing, — a grain of sand, a straw, or a breath of air that annoyed him, led to paroxysms of fury. Then the letter that Villefort had showed to him recurred to his mind, and every line gleamed forth in fiery letters on the wall like the mene tekel upharsin of Belshazzar. He told himself that it was the enmity of man, and not the vengeance of heaven, that had thus plunged him into the deepest misery. He consigned his unknown persecutors to the most horrible tortures he could imagine, and found them all insufficient, because after torture came death, and after death, if not repose, at least the boon of unconsciousness.

  By dint of constantly dwelling on the idea that tranquility was death, and if punishment were the end in view other tortures than death must be invented, he began to reflect on suicide. Unhappy he, who, on the brink of misfortune, broods over ideas like these!

  Before him is a dead sea that stretches in azure calm before the eye; but he who unwarily ventures within its embrace finds himself struggling with a monster that would drag him down to perdition. Once thus ensnared, unless the protecting hand of God snatch him thence, all is over, and his struggles but tend to hasten his destruction. This state of mental anguish is, however, less terrible than the sufferings that precede or the punishment that possibly will follow. There is a sort of consolation at the contemplation of the yawning abyss, at the bottom of which lie darkness and obscurity.

  Edmond found some solace in these ideas. All his sorrows, all his sufferings, with their train of gloomy specters, fled from his cell when the angel of death seemed about to enter. Dantes reviewed his past life with composure, and, looking forward with terror to his future existence, chose that middle line that seemed to afford him a refuge.

  “Sometimes,” said he, “in my voyages, when I was a man and commanded other men, I have seen the heavens overcast, the sea rage and foam, the storm arise, and, like a monstrous bird, beating the two horizons with its wings. Then I felt that my vessel was a vain refuge, that trembled and shook before the tempest. Soon the fury of the waves and the sight of the sharp rocks announced the approach of death, and death then terrified me, and I used all my skill and intelligence as a man and a sailor to struggle against the wrath of God. But I did so because I was happy, because I had not courted death, because to be cast upon a bed of rocks and seaweed seemed terrible, because I was unwilling that I, a creature made for the service of God, should serve for food to the gulls and ravens. But now it is different; I have lost all that bound me to life, death smiles and invites me to repose; I die after my own manner, I die exhausted and broken-spirited, as I fall asleep when I have paced three thousand times round my cell.”

  No sooner had this idea taken possession of him than he became more composed, arranged his couch to the best of his power, ate little and slept less, and found existence almost supportable, because he felt that he could throw it off at pleasure, like a worn-out garment. Two methods of self-destruction were at his disposal. He could hang himself with his handkerchief to the window bars, or refuse food and die of starvation. But the first was repugnant to him. Dantes had always entertained the greatest horror of pirates, who are hung up to the yard-arm; he would not die by what seemed an infamous death. He resolved to adopt the second, and began that day to carry out his resolve. Nearly four years had passed away; at the end of the second he had ceased to mark the lapse of time.

  Dantes said, “I wish to die,” and had chosen the manner of his death, and fearful of changing his mind, he had taken an oath to die. “When my morning and evening meals are brought,” thought he, “I will cast them out of the window, and they will think that I have eaten them.”

  He kept his word; twice a day he cast out, through the barred aperture, the provisions his jailer brought him — at first gaily, then with deliberation, and at last with regret. Nothing but the recollection of his oath gave him strength to proceed. Hunger made viands once repugnant, now acceptable; he held the plate in his hand for an hour at a time, and gazed thoughtfully at the morsel of bad meat, of tainted fish, of black and moldy bread. It was the last yearning for life contending with the resolution of despair; then his dungeon seemed less somber, his prospects less desperate. He was still young — he was only four or five and twenty — he had nearly fifty years to live. What unforeseen events might not open his prison door, and restore him to liberty? Then he raised to his lips the repast that, like a voluntary Tantalus, he refused himself; but he thought of his oath, and he would not break it. He persisted until, at last, he had not sufficient strength to rise and cast his supper out of the loophole. The next morning he could not see or hear; the jailer feared he was dangerously ill. Edmond hoped he was dying.

  Thus the day passed away. Edmond felt a sort of stupor creeping over him which brought with it a feeling almost of content; the gnawing pain at his stomach had ceased; his thirst had abated; when he closed his eyes he saw myriads of lights dancing before them like the will-o’-the-wisps that play about the marshes. It was the twilight of that mysterious country called Death!

  Just in that moment, the face of Mercedes appeared above his and when he turned to touch her, somehow, miraculously, she was there. If this was a dream, Edmond didn’t want it to end. It seemed Mercedes would usher him to death’s embrace.

  “Edmond, my love, you must not give up.”

  “I have nothing left, I will never leave this place, at least this way I have a choice.”

  “Then choose to live.”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I love you and need you to return to me.”

  “I do not believe I shall ever return. The next time I leave this place will be for my grave.”

  “You are wrong, Edmond, you will leave this place and you will exact your vengeance.”

  Edmond did not know what was reality or his mind playing a trick in order to buy time. He was a sailor, not a medical man, and had no knowledge of how his body might work in situations such as these. If the mind had some sort of protection against its own workings in order to dissuade a man from thoughts of causing his own death, or just allowing it.

  Edmond stroked a hand down Mercedes’ skin, it felt like sunlight, and days spent on deck of the Pharaon, she felt like home, like France.

  Perhaps Mercedes was an angel sent to take him to heaven because Edmond could recall no place more beautiful then Mercedes’ arms.

  “Am I dead?”

  “Not yet, my love.” She moved so she lay on top of him. It was odd, the slight weight of her body on his. He immediately recalled his state of filth and dishevel and sought to push her away. She could not see him like this.

  “You must leave; you cannot view me thus.”

  In an instant they were the lovers in Mercedes’ house in the Catalans. The sun streamed through the curtains casting dust mote shadows on the floor. Both Edmond and Mercedes looked just as they did tha
t day, that last day they made love. He recalled the taste of salt on her skin from the clean sweat of working around her home. The scent of her hair and sheets as he took her in his arms. All these fragments of memories making up the person of Mercedes came together at once, right here in shadow or imagination.

  This was a gift, from heaven or hell, he did not know but he would not cast her aside. He drew her down to him like a parched man seeking water. Her lips tasted of cool rain and he knew he had lost his heart to her all over again. The knot of hair at the nape of her neck was in disarray and Edmond loosened it allowing the mass to fall into his grasp. Spun silk, wild flowers, and ocean spray is exactly what it smelled like, just as he recalled the last time he had the pleasure of that scent.

  “Make love to me, Edmond, please.”

  He did not need instruction, simply pulled their clothing aside in haste, and pressing her down flat on the bed, but he didn’t enter her, he wanted to taste her first, carry the exquisite taste of her on his tongue. She was ready for him, wet and waiting. Just as he recalled, she felt like heaven. He eased his tongue into her body, lapping gently, just the way she liked. Mercedes enjoyed a slow evolution to climax and Edmond was happy to oblige her. Once his manhood strained against his pants almost painfully he finished, planting a kiss on the bone protruding from her hip. He pulled himself up and pressed inside her, his ministrations easing the way considerably.

  The crumpled clothing hastily cast aside crushed between them as he pressed his hips forward. There was nothing in the world that could stop it. He gripped the straw mattress, driving into Mercedes more fully and she took him.

  “Is this a dream,” he asked her through the haze of love and lust.

  “Of course, my love. Do you wish to wake?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Then show me.”

  He did. He kissed her lips one last time and began to move in her faster, harder, and with more alacrity then he thought he could muster in his weakened stated. He would push her over the edge before he reached his own completion. This memory, this dream, would be all he had of her for only God knew how long, he wanted to imprint every detail in his memory. If Mercedes was the angel of death, he followed willingly.

  He pressed on, the pair merged together, sweat beading on their brows. Mercedes started to pant, drawing in great gasps of air as she climbed the final peak. She gripped Edmond’s half open shirt as she plummeted off the other side into an abyss. He followed soon after, holding himself aloft but still completely immersed. It took some time before Edmond could speak and he spent that time analyzing each fleck and shade of Mercedes’ skin so she couldn’t slip away again.

  “If I am dead then I should have embraced it long ago.”

  “You are not dead.” Mercedes stroked his cheek.

  “A dream then, one I will cherish for as long as I live.”

  “It’s not over yet.” Mercedes moved her leg causing a clenching sensation around her sex. He dropped his head at the onslaught of pleasure against his sensitive flesh.

  “I’ll take as long as I have.” He moved his own hips in response causing them both to gasp aloud.

  She only smiled this time. They remained fused at the hips, lying in each other’s arms. No words came to either of their minds and each, dream or not, enjoyed the shared time. The sunlight slowly dimmed as Edmond simply held his bride. The night slowly creeping through the window. Just as fast as she appeared, she was gone. Mercedes was gone and Edmond felt nothing again, nothing at all except an acute longing for death, even stronger than before.

  Suddenly, about nine o’clock in the evening, Edmond heard a hollow sound in the wall against which he was lying. So many loathsome animals inhabited the prison, that their noise did not, in general, awake him; but whether abstinence had quickened his faculties, or whether the noise was really louder than usual, Edmond raised his head and listened. It was a continual scratching, as if made by a huge claw, a powerful tooth, or some iron instrument attacking the stones.

  Although weakened, the young man’s brain instantly responded to the idea that haunts all prisoners — liberty! It seemed to him that heaven had at length taken pity on him, and had sent this noise to warn him on the very brink of the abyss. Perhaps one of those beloved ones he had so often thought of was thinking of him, and striving to diminish the distance that separated them.

  No, no, doubtless he was deceived, and it was but one of those dreams that forerun death!

  Edmond still heard the sound. It lasted nearly three hours; he then heard a noise of something falling, and all was silent.

  Some hours afterwards it began again, nearer and more distinct. Edmond was intensely interested. Suddenly the jailer entered.

  For a week since he had resolved to die, and during the four days that he had been carrying out his purpose, Edmond had not spoken to the attendant, had not answered him when he inquired what was the matter with him, and turned his face to the wall when he looked too curiously at him; but now the jailer might hear the noise and put an end to it, and so destroy a ray of something like hope that soothed his last moments.

  The jailer brought him his breakfast. Dantes raised himself up and began to talk about everything; about the bad quality of the food, about the coldness of his dungeon, grumbling and complaining, in order to have an excuse for speaking louder, and wearying the patience of his jailer, who out of kindness of heart had brought broth and white bread for his prisoner.

  Fortunately, he fancied that Dantes was delirious; and placing the food on the rickety table, he withdrew. Edmond listened, and the sound became more and more distinct.

  “There can be no doubt about it,” thought he; “it is some prisoner who is striving to obtain his freedom. Oh, if I were only there to help him!” Suddenly another idea took possession of his mind, so used to misfortune, that it was scarcely capable of hope — the idea that the noise was made by workmen the governor had ordered to repair the neighboring dungeon.

  It was easy to ascertain this; but how could he risk the question? It was easy to call his jailer’s attention to the noise, and watch his countenance as he listened; but might he not by this means destroy hopes far more important than the short-lived satisfaction of his own curiosity? Unfortunately, Edmond’s brain was still so feeble that he could not bend his thoughts to anything in particular.

  He saw but one means of restoring lucidity and clearness to his judgment. He turned his eyes towards the soup which the jailer had brought, rose, staggered towards it, raised the vessel to his lips, and drank off the contents with a feeling of indescribable pleasure. He had often heard that shipwrecked persons had died through having eagerly devoured too much food. Edmond replaced on the table the bread he was about to devour, and returned to his couch — he did not wish to die. He soon felt that his ideas became again collected — he could think, and strengthen his thoughts by reasoning. Then he said to himself, “I must put this to the test, but without compromising anybody. If it is a workman, I need but knock against the wall, and he will cease to work, in order to find out who is knocking, and why he does so; but as his occupation is sanctioned by the governor, he will soon resume it. If, on the contrary, it is a prisoner, the noise I make will alarm him, he will cease, and not begin again until he thinks every one is asleep.”

  Edmond rose again, but this time his legs did not tremble, and his sight was clear; he went to a corner of his dungeon, detached a stone, and with it knocked against the wall where the sound came. He struck thrice. At the first blow the sound ceased, as if by magic.

  Edmond listened intently; an hour passed, two hours passed, and no sound was heard from the wall — all was silent there.

  Full of hope, Edmond swallowed a few mouthfuls of bread and water, and, thanks to the vigor of his constitution, found himself well-nigh recovered.

  The day passed away in utter silence — night came without recurrence of the noise.

  “It is a prisoner,” said Edmond joyfully. The night passed in perfect s
ilence. Edmond did not close his eyes.

  In the morning the jailer brought him fresh provisions — he had already devoured those of the previous day; he ate these listening anxiously for the sound, walking round and round his cell, shaking the iron bars of the loophole, restoring vigor and agility to his limbs by exercise, and so preparing himself for his future destiny. At intervals he listened to learn if the noise had not begun again, and grew impatient at the prudence of the prisoner, who did not guess he had been disturbed by a captive as anxious for liberty as himself.

  Three days passed — seventy-two long tedious hours which he counted off by minutes!

  At length one evening, as the jailer was visiting him for the last time that night, Dantes, with his ear for the hundredth time at the wall, fancied he heard an almost imperceptible movement among the stones. He moved away, walked up and down his cell to collect his thoughts, and then went back and listened.

  The matter was no longer doubtful. Something was at work on the other side of the wall; the prisoner had discovered the danger, and had substituted a lever for a chisel.

  Encouraged by this discovery, Edmond determined to assist the indefatigable laborer. He began by moving his bed, and looked around for anything with which he could pierce the wall, penetrate the moist cement, and displace a stone.

  He saw nothing, he had no knife or sharp instrument, the window grating was of iron, but he had too often assured himself of its solidity. All his furniture consisted of a bed, a chair, a table, a pail, and a jug. The bed had iron clamps, but they were screwed to the wood, and it would have required a screw-driver to take them off. The table and chair had nothing, the pail had once possessed a handle, but that had been removed.