Thirteen

THE DEATH OF FARIA

Faria now thought all the more about the treasure, knowing now that it might bring happiness to him whom he loved as a son. Every day he spoke about it, telling how large was the amount, what it would be worth to-day, how much good Dantes might do with so large an amount of money.

Faria did not know the Island of Monte Cristo, but Dantes knew it and had often passed it, about twenty-five miles from Pianosa, between Corsica and Elba. The island had been, and always would be, desert. He drew a map of the island for Faria, and Faria told Dantes what would be the best way of finding the treasure and safely taking it away.

Then it seemed as if God had decided to take from the prisoners their last chance of escape, and make them understand that they must remain behind these walls for ever. Labourers were set to work upon the pathway outside. They pulled it all up; they threw large masses of stone into the hole which Dantes had only half filled; they made it all as new. Thus a new and even stronger door was closed upon them.

"You see," said the young man to Faria, "I promised to remain with you for ever; and now I could not break my promise if I tried. I shall not have the treasure any more than you will; for neither of us will leave this prison. My real treasure is the teaching which you give me, the wisdom which I have learned from you, the joy of talking to you for five or six hours each day."

Thus, if they were not really happy, yet the days passed quickly—and not unhappily. Faria still talked of his treasure, and he was always thinking over ways of escape for his young friend. For fear that the letter might be lost, he made Dantes learn it word by word, and he burnt the paper on which he had written the words which completed the meaning.

Faria had not got back the use of his arm and leg, but all the clearness of his understanding had returned to him. He continued to teach Dantes history and English, and other subjects; and he taught him also the first duty of a prisoner—that is, to make something out of nothing. Thus they were always busy. Faria kept himself busy so that he might not see himself grow old; Dantes, so that he might not remember the past.

One night Edmond awoke suddenly, believing that he heard someone calling him. He opened his eyes. His name, or rather a weak voice trying to say his name, came to him through the darkness.

"What can it be?" said Edmond.

He moved his bed, took out the stone, and hurried along the underground way. The other end of it was open. By the weak light of Faria's lamp he saw the old man, white faced, standing holding on to the end of his bed. On his face was that fearful pain which Dantes already knew.

"Ah, my dear friend," said Faria, "you understand, do you not? I need not tell you."

Edmond was almost mad with fear of what might happen to his friend. He ran wildly to the door, crying, "Help! Help!"

Faria had just enough strength to stop him.

"Silence!" he said, "or you are lost. It would take years to do again what I have done, and that will at once be destroyed if our keepers know that we can reach each other's rooms. This room, which I am about to leave, will soon contain some other unhappy person. To him you will appear as an angel of joy. Perhaps he will be young and strong like yourself, and will help you in your escape. You will no longer have a half-dead body to make escape harder. At last God has done something for you; he gives to you more than he takes away. And it was time that I should die."

"Oh, my friend," cried Edmond, "do not speak thus! I have saved you once. I will save you again."

He quickly raised the foot of the bed and took out the little jar, in which there still remained some of the red liquid.

"See, see!" he cried, "there is still some left. Tell me what I must do this time. Is there anything different that I must do? Speak, friend; I listen."

"There is not a hope," replied Faria. "But it is right in the eyes of God that you should do all that you can to save a life."

"Oh, yes, yes!" said Dantes, "and, I tell you, you shall be saved."

"Well, then, try. Coldness is coming over me; my blood is freezing. In five minutes the illness will reach its height, and in fifteen minutes there will be nothing left of me but a dead body."

"Oh!” cried Dantes in pain and fear.

"Do as you did before; only do not wait so long. All the springs of life in me are now dry, and death has only half its work to do. Give me twelve drops. Then, if I do not get better, pour the rest into my mouth. Now, put me on my bed, for I can no longer stand."

Edmond took the old man in his arms and laid him on the bed.

"Dear friend," said Faria, "one joy of my life, you whom Heaven gave me rather late—but gave me, and I am thankful. Dear friend, this is the time when we must separate for ever. I wish you all happiness. My son, I bless you."

Edmond was on his knees beside the old man's bed.

"Listen now to what I say in this hour of death. The treasure of the Spadas is there; it is there—now. I see it. My eyes reach into the hidden places of the earth, and the glimmer of the jewels and the gold is before me. If you escape, remember that poor Faria, whom all the world called mad, was not so. Go to Monte Cristo. Take the treasure and enjoy it—for you have indeed suffered long enough."

The old man moved. Dantes raised his head.

"God be with you," he said, seizing Edmond's hand.

"Oh, no! No, not yet!" cried Dantes. "Do not leave me. Oh, help him. Help! Help!"

"Silence," said Faria, "or they will take me from you, even if you save me."

"You are right. Oh, yes, I shall save you. And, though you suffer much, you do not seem to be in such pain as before."

"Make no mistake. I suffer less because I have less strength to bear it. The young trust in life, believe, and hope, and hold to life; but old men see death more clearly. Oh—it is here! My sight is gone. My spirit flies. Your hand, Dantes. God bless you."

Then raising himself with one last glimmer of life, and gathering all his strength, he said:

"Monte Cristo! Forget not Monte Cristo!”

And he fell back on his bed.

Dantes waited, the jar of liquid in his hand. The glimmering lamp filled the room with strange dancing shadows. When he believed the right time had come, he poured twelve drops into Faria's mouth; and waited. The jar contained perhaps just so much more. He waited, ten minutes—fifteen—half an hour. Then he put the jar to Faria's mouth and poured in all that was left.

Faria moved. His eyes opened. He gave a little cry. Then silence.

Half an hour—an hour—an hour and a half passed, and still Edmond sat with his hand laid over Faria's heart. The heart became weaker and weaker ... And then the body slowly became cold.

It was six; dawn was just breaking; its light made the lamp grow dim. Strange shadows passed over the face of the dead man, which at times made it appear almost as if he lived. While this battle between day and night continued, Dantes still doubted. But, as soon as daylight had conquered, he saw that he was alone with the dead.

Then a wild fear seized him. He dared not again press the hand that hung over the edge of the bed; he dared no longer look on those fixed eyes. He put out the lamp, and carefully hid it. Then he went down into the underground way, closing it after him as well as he could.

He was just in time; for the keeper was coming. He came first to Dantes' room, and, leaving him, he went on to Faria's room to which he was taking breakfast and some clothes.

Nothing showed that the man knew anything of what had happened. He went on his way.

Dantes was then seized with a desire to know what was going on in his friend's room. He went down the underground path and arrived just in time to hear the keeper cry out for help.

Other keepers came.

Then he heard the feet of soldiers, and behind them came the Governor.

Edmond heard them moving the body upon the bed. He heard the voice of the Governor who desired them to throw water on the face. This was done. Silence. Then the Governor went out.

Dantes could hear the keepers talking.

"Well, well," said one, "the madman has gone to look after his treasure. A good journey to him!"

"And, with all his money, he will not have enough to pay for a grave-cloth!"

"Oh, the grave-clothes of the Chateau d'If do not cost much. A simple bag, of plain cloth. That will be all he will get."

Edmond heard every word, but he understood very little of what was said. Then there was silence, as if they had gone away. Still he dared not enter; they might have left someone to watch.

At the end of an hour he heard a noise. The Governor had come back, and there was someone with him.

"Yes," said an unknown voice, "he is certainly dead. The cause of death appears to be Catalepsy."

"That is very sad," said the Governor; "for he was a quiet prisoner, happy in his foolishness, and he required no watching."

"Ah," added the keeper, "there was no need to watch him; he would have stayed here for thirty years, without once trying to escape."

"I do not doubt what you have told me," continued the Governor, "but the Rules of the Prison require that we should be perfectly certain that the prisoner is dead."

There was a short silence. Someone was looking at, and touching the body.

"You may make your mind easy," said the voice; "he is dead. There is no question of that."

"You know," continued the Governor, "that in these matters we are required to do more than look at the body. Be so good, therefore, as to finish your duty in the manner set down in the rules."

"Bring a hot coal," said the voice; "but really it is not necessary."

There was the sound of a door, and someone came in. There was silence; and then a smell of burning skin. Dantes, in his hiding-place, felt sick.

"You see he really is dead," said the voice. "Poor fool, he is no longer mad now—and no longer a prisoner."

"You never had any trouble with him?" said the Governor to the keeper.

"Never! He used to tell me stories. One day when my wife was ill, he told me how to put her right again."

"Oh," said the unknown voice, "I did not know that I had a fellow-worker. But I hope, Mr. Governor, that you will treat his dead body with greater honour for that."

"Yes, yes. He shall enter his grave in the newest bag we can find. Will that please you?"

"Must we finish this while you are here?" asked the keeper.

"Certainly. But be quick. I cannot stay here all day."

Fresh footsteps were heard, going and coming. Then there was the sound of some large piece of cloth being pulled along the floor. There was a sound from the bed; then the heavy feet of a man as if he were lifting a weight; then a sound from the bed moving under some weight laid upon it again.

"In the evening," said the Governor.

"Ah what time?" asked the keeper.

"About ten or eleven."

"Shall we watch by the body?"

"Of what use would that be? Shut the door as if he were alive—that is all."

The steps went away. The voices died into the distance. There was the noise of a door being closed. Then there was silence, the deepest of all silences—the silence of death.

Dantes raised the stone with his head. He looked carefully round the room. There was no one.

Dantes entered.