Eleven

FARIA'S ROOM

The two friends passed quite easily along the underground way; a stone was raised in the floor, and they climbed up into Faria's room.

As he entered the room, Dantes looked round, seeking to see the expected wonders; but he noticed nothing uncommon.

"It is well," said Faria; "we have some hours before us; it is now just fifteen minutes after twelve."

"How," asked Dantes, "are you able to know the time within a minute?"

"Look at the light which enters my window," said Faria, "and then notice the lines which I have drawn on the wall."

Faria went to a corner of the room and raised a great stone: under it was a deep hole.

"What do you wish to see first?" he asked.

"Oh, your book about Italy."

Faria drew forth from their hiding-place several long pieces of white cloth. They were all carefully numbered, and were covered with small yet clear writing.

"There!" said he. "There is the book complete. I wrote 'The End' at the bottom of it about a week ago. It has used up almost all the clothes which I am not wearing."

"I see," answered Dantes. "Now let me see the curious pens with which you have written your book."

"Look," said Faria, showing the young man a thin stick about six inches long to the end of which was fixed one of those fish-bones of which he had already spoken.

Dantes looked at it in wonder. Then he turned, his eyes seeking for the knife with which it had been cut into shape.

"Ah, I see, you are wondering where I found my knife, are you not? I think that is one of the best things I have made. It was made out of a broken piece which fell from the keeper's lamp."

Dantes looked at these things with the same wonder as when he had seen the strange objects brought back by travellers from the islands of the South Seas.

"There is one thing which I still do not understand," said Dantes, "and that is how you found time to do all this by daylight."

"I work at night also."

"At night! Are your eyes like those of a cat so that you can see in the dark?"

"They are not. But God has given Man a mind so that he may supply his needs. I made a lamp for myself."

"You did! Pray tell me, how did you get oil?"

"I got the oil from my food, and it burns very well. This is my lamp." He showed it.

They sat and talked. Faria's words were full of learning and wisdom. Dantes listened to him in wonder. Sometimes he spoke of things well known to Dantes as a seaman; sometimes Edmond could not understand the things of which he spoke at all.

"You must teach me a small part of what you know," said Dantes, "if only so that you may not become tired of me. I can well believe that so learned a person as you would be as happy to be alone, as sitting with a person who knows and has read almost nothing. But, if I am ready to learn, and you to teach, then the hours might pass more easily for you. If you will do this, I will try not to think any more about escaping."

"Ah, my child," said Faria, "all that men know might be learnt very quickly. It would not require more than two years for me to pass on to you all the learning that I have."

"Two years!" cried Dantes; "do you really believe that in two years I could learn all that you know?"

"You could learn the facts, indeed. But to learn is not to know. To know all this, to understand the meaning, and use it in guiding your life, that cannot be done in two years, nor in many years. It is the work of a lifetime. Every day, until the sun sets upon my last day on earth, I shall still be learning, still drawing nearer to that perfect understanding which may, perhaps, be granted to us in heaven."

"Well then," said Dantes, "what will you teach me first? And when shall we begin?"

"At once, if you wish it," replied the old man.

Dantes had a quick understanding, and, having once learnt a thing, he never forgot it. He therefore learnt from Faria very quickly and easily. He learnt History, and some English, and many other things.

Time passed on. Dantes became a new man. But with Faria it was different. Although he found great pleasure in being with Dantes and teaching him, yet every day he grew sadder. One thought seemed always to be troubling his mind. Sometimes he would sit for hours in silence; then he would rise and begin to walk up and down the narrow floor.

One day, when Faria was walking thus, he stopped suddenly, and cried out, "Oh! If there were only no guard there."

"There shall not be a guard a minute longer than you please," said Dantes, who had followed the old man's thoughts quite clearly.

"I have already told you," answered Faria, "that I cannot bear the thought of killing a man."

"Yet here we shall not be killing because we are angry, nor from any badness of heart. We shall take life only to save ourselves from this living death."

"No matter. I could never allow it."

"And yet you have thought of it?"

"Too often!" cried the old man.

"And you have discovered a way of escape, have you not?" asked Dantes quickly.

"I have; if only it were possible to put on that pathway a blind soldier, a man who could not see nor hear."

"I can promise you that he shall do neither."

"No! no!" cried Faria. "I tell you the thing is not possible. Name it no more."

"I shall not kill him."

"Would you promise to do him no hurt, or to hurt him only if we are in the gravest danger?"

"I promise that I will not hurt a hair of his head, if it is not necessary in order to save both our lives."

"Then this plan becomes possible."

"Shall we begin at once?

"At once."

Faria then showed Dantes the plan which he had drawn for their escape. It showed his own room and that of Dantes, and the underground way between them. From this present underground way he meant to make another which would go just under the path on which the soldier marched. This path was covered with large stones. All the earth would be taken away from under one of these stones so that it was ready to fall. The stone would be held up in its place by a bar until all was ready. The bar would then be taken away. As soon as the guard set his feet on the stone, he would fall down with it. Dantes would seize him, and tie him up so that he might not move nor cry out. It would be possible to get down from that point to the sea, and from there they hoped to swim to one of the neighbouring islands.

The eyes of Dantes were bright with joy. He rubbed his hands with delight at the thought of a plan so simple and so certain.

They began work the next day. After the rest of the last few months they were able to labour all the harder. Nothing stopped the work except the need to return to their rooms before the hour at which the keeper always visited them. They had learnt to catch the least sound of his feet as he came down the steps, and were always prepared for him when he came.

The fresh earth taken out in this work was made into powder and thrown out of the window, so that the night wind carried it away.

At last the underground way was complete, and the stone was set ready to fall when the time came. They could hear the feet of the soldier as he marched up and down over their heads.

They had now only to wait for a night dark enough to help their escape. Their greatest fear now was that the stone might fall down before the proper time. Dantes was busy fixing another piece of wood under it. Faria had remained in Edmond's room for some other work. Suddenly, Edmond heard him cry out with pain. He hurried up to him, and found him standing in the middle of the room, his face white as death.

"Good heavens!" cried Dantes; "what is the matter? What has happened?"

"Quick! Quick!" replied Faria; "listen to what I have to say."

Dantes looked in fear and wonder at the face of Faria. His eyes were already dim, and round them were deep blue circles. His skin was white as that of a dead man, and his hair seemed to stand on end.

"In God's name!" cried Dantes, "what is the meaning of this? Tell me, I pray you, what is the matter?"

"All is ended," said Faria. "I am seized with a fearful illness which may end in my death. I can feel it fast coming over me. I had an illness of this same kind about a year before I was put in prison. There is only one thing to do for it. I will tell you what it is. Go into my room as quickly as you can. Draw out one of the feet which hold up the bed; you will find a hole in it, which contains a small jar full of a red liquid. Bring it to me. No, no! I may be discovered here. Therefore help me back to my room while I have any strength left. Who knows what may happen, or how long this illness may continue?"

Dantes was used to dealing with sudden dangers. He quickly went down into the underground way, pulling his unhappy friend after him. Then, half carrying him, he reached Faria's room, and laid the sufferer on his bed.

"Thank you," said the poor man, so cold now as if his blood had been frozen within him. "Now that I am safely here, let me tell you what this illness is. It is called 'Catalepsy'. When it reaches its height, I may lie without moving as if I were dead. Or I may become like a madman and shout and cry out. You must guard against that; for, if my cries were heard, I might be taken away to another part of the prison, and we should never see each other again. When I lie without moving and become as cold as death, then—and not before—force open my mouth and pour eight or ten drops of the liquid into it; and perhaps I may be well again."

"Perhaps!" cried Dantes, "Only 'perhaps'!"

"Help! help!" cried Faria; "I—I—die—I—!"

So sudden was the illness that he could say no more. His eyes were wide open; his mouth was drawn to one side; his face was blue. He fought; he threw himself this way and that. He gave fearful cries, so that Dantes had to put a cloth over the sick man's head for fear that he might be heard. This continued for two hours. Then, weaker than a baby, white and cold as a stone, he lay down as if to die. Across his face came the fearful greyness of death.

Dantes waited until life seemed to have left the body of his friend. Then, taking the knife, he forced open the mouth, and poured in nine drops of the liquid. Then he waited, in fear, to see what would happen.

One hour went by, and there was no change, no beginning of the return of life. Dantes began to fear that he had waited too long before giving the liquid. He stood there looking at the dead face of his friend, and tears ran down his own.

At last a little colour seemed to come. The dim wide-open eyes appeared to show a glimmer of life. And then the sufferer tried to move.

"He is saved! He is saved!" cried Dantes in delight.

The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed to the door, and there was fear in his eyes. Dantes listened, and heard clearly the steps of the keeper. It was therefore near seven, but Edmond's fear had driven all thought of time from his mind.

The young man sprang to the opening of the underground way; he drew the stone over the opening and hurried to his own room. Just as he reached it, the door opened and the keeper entered, and saw his prisoner sitting, as usual, on the side of his bed.

Dantes left untouched the food which the keeper had brought. As soon as the key had turned, he hurried back to Faria's room. He raised the stone by pressing his head against it, and was soon beside the sick man's bed.

Faria now knew where he was, and could speak; but he was still very weak.

"I did not expect to see you again," he said to Dantes.

"And why not?" asked the young man. "Did you think that you were going to die?

"No, I did not think that. But I knew that all was ready for your escape, and I thought that you had used the chance, and were gone."

Dantes' eyes were angry.

"And did you think so little of me as to believe that I would go without you?"

"At least," said the old man, "I now see how wrong such a thought would be. I am left fearfully weak by this illness.".

"Do not lose hope," replied Dantes. "Your strength will return"; and, as he spoke, he sat down on the bed beside Faria and rubbed the old man's cold hands.

"No," said Faria; "my last illness continued for only half an hour. When it was ended I had no feeling but of hunger. I rose from my bed without requiring the least help. Now I can neither move my right arm nor leg; and there is a pain in my head. The next of these illnesses will either kill me, or leave me without power to move at all."

"No, no!" cried Dantes. "You will not die. When your third illness comes, if indeed it ever comes, you will be free. We shall save you another time, as we have done this time, only with a better chance, because we shall be able to get all the help we need."

"My good Edmond," answered Faria, "do not make any mistake. This illness has decided that I must for ever remain within the walls of a prison. None can escape from a prison but those who can walk."

"No, indeed. Perhaps just now you are not in a condition to make your escape; but there is no need of hurry. We have waited so long that we can easily wait a little longer; say a week, a month, two if necessary. By that time you will be quite well and strong. It only remains for us to fix the hour and the minute; and that shall be the very first minute that you feel able to swim."

"I shall never swim again," replied Faria. "I have lost the power of moving this arm, not for a time, but for ever. Lift it and judge by its heaviness if this is not true."

The young man raised the arm, which fell back by its own weight, perfectly dead.

"Ah!" he said.

"You believe me now, Edmond, do you not? And it will never get well again."

"How can you be sure of that? And if you cannot swim, I will take you on my back and swim for both of us."

"My son," said Faria, "you who are a seaman and a swimmer must know, as well as I do, that a man so loaded could not go more than a hundred yards. Put away these foolish hopes in which even your own good heart is unable to believe. Here I shall remain until God sets me free, and that will be at the hour of my death. As for you, who are young and strong, do not waste time for me, but fly. Go! I give you back your promise not to go without me."

"It is well!" said Dantes. "And now hear what I have decided." Then rising and holding up his hand in a solemn manner over the old man's head, he slowly added, "Here I promise, in God's name, to remain with you so long as life is left to you, and that death only shall separate us."

Faria looked lovingly at his young friend, and read in his face the truth and strength of his feelings.

"Thanks, my child," he said quietly, holding out the one hand which he could still move. "I may one of these days make some return to you for being so true a friend to me. And now, as I cannot, and you will not, leave this place, it is necessary to fill up the hole under the pathway. The soldier might by chance notice the sound made by his footsteps over that stone, and point it out to his officer. Then all would be discovered, and we should be separated. Go and set about this work, in which I fear I cannot help you. Do not return here tomorrow until after the keeper has visited me. I shall then have something very important to tell you."

Dantes took the hand of Faria in his, and pressed it. Then he went to the work which was before him, his mind full of the great promise which he had made to his suffering friend.