Chapter 24 The Secret Cave.

Chapter 24 The Secret Cave.

 

The sun had nearly reached the meridian, and his scorching

rays fell full on the rocks, which seemed themselves

sensible of the heat. Thousands of grasshoppers, hidden in

the bushes, chirped with a monotonous and dull note; the

leaves of the myrtle and olive trees waved and rustled in

the wind. At every step that Edmond took he disturbed the

lizards glittering with the hues of the emerald; afar off he

saw the wild goats bounding from crag to crag. In a word,

the island was inhabited, yet Edmond felt himself alone,

guided by the hand of God. He felt an indescribable

sensation somewhat akin to dread -- that dread of the

daylight which even in the desert makes us fear we are

watched and observed. This feeling was so strong that at the

moment when Edmond was about to begin his labor, he stopped,

laid down his pickaxe, seized his gun, mounted to the summit

of the highest rock, and from thence gazed round in every

direction.

 

But it was not upon Corsica, the very houses of which he

could distinguish; or on Sardinia; or on the Island of Elba,

with its historical associations; or upon the almost

imperceptible line that to the experienced eye of a sailor

alone revealed the coast of Genoa the proud, and Leghorn the

commercial, that he gazed. It was at the brigantine that had

left in the morning, and the tartan that had just set sail,

that Edmond fixed his eyes. The first was just disappearing

in the straits of Bonifacio; the other, following an

opposite direction, was about to round the Island of

Corsica. This sight reassured him. He then looked at the

objects near him. He saw that he was on the highest point of

the island, -- a statue on this vast pedestal of granite,

nothing human appearing in sight, while the blue ocean beat

against the base of the island, and covered it with a fringe

of foam. Then he descended with cautious and slow step, for

he dreaded lest an accident similar to that he had so

adroitly feigned should happen in reality.

 

Dantes, as we have said, had traced the marks along the

rocks, and he had noticed that they led to a small creek.

which was hidden like the bath of some ancient nymph. This

creek was sufficiently wide at its mouth, and deep in the

centre, to admit of the entrance of a small vessel of the

lugger class, which would be perfectly concealed from

observation.

 

Then following the clew that, in the hands of the Abbe

Faria, had been so skilfully used to guide him through the

Daedalian labyrinth of probabilities, he thought that the

Cardinal Spada, anxious not to be watched, had entered the

creek, concealed his little barque, followed the line marked

by the notches in the rock, and at the end of it had buried

his treasure. It was this idea that had brought Dantes back

to the circular rock. One thing only perplexed Edmond, and

destroyed his theory. How could this rock, which weighed

several tons, have been lifted to this spot, without the aid

of many men? Suddenly an idea flashed across his mind.

Instead of raising it, thought he, they have lowered it. And

he sprang from the rock in order to inspect the base on

which it had formerly stood. He soon perceived that a slope

had been formed, and the rock had slid along this until it

stopped at the spot it now occupied. A large stone had

served as a wedge; flints and pebbles had been inserted

around it, so as to conceal the orifice; this species of

masonry had been covered with earth, and grass and weeds had

grown there, moss had clung to the stones, myrtle-bushes had

taken root, and the old rock seemed fixed to the earth.

 

Dantes dug away the earth carefully, and detected, or

fancied he detected, the ingenious artifice. He attacked

this wall, cemented by the hand of time, with his pickaxe.

After ten minutes' labor the wall gave way, and a hole large

enough to insert the arm was opened. Dantes went and cut the

strongest olive-tree he could find, stripped off its

branches, inserted it in the hole, and used it as a lever.

But the rock was too heavy, and too firmly wedged, to be

moved by any one man, were he Hercules himself. Dantes saw

that he must attack the wedge. But how? He cast his eyes

around, and saw the horn full of powder which his friend

Jacopo had left him. He smiled; the infernal invention would

serve him for this purpose. With the aid of his pickaxe,

Dantes, after the manner of a labor-saving pioneer, dug a

mine between the upper rock and the one that supported it,

filled it with powder, then made a match by rolling his

handkerchief in saltpetre. He lighted it and retired. The

explosion soon followed; the upper rock was lifted from its

base by the terrific force of the powder; the lower one flew

into pieces; thousands of insects escaped from the aperture

Dantes had previously formed, and a huge snake, like the

guardian demon of the treasure, rolled himself along in

darkening coils, and disappeared.

 

Dantes approached the upper rock, which now, without any

support, leaned towards the sea. The intrepid

treasure-seeker walked round it, and, selecting the spot

from whence it appeared most susceptible to attack, placed

his lever in one of the crevices, and strained every nerve

to move the mass. The rock, already shaken by the explosion,

tottered on its base. Dantes redoubled his efforts; he

seemed like one of the ancient Titans, who uprooted the

mountains to hurl against the father of the gods. The rock

yielded, rolled over, bounded from point to point, and

finally disappeared in the ocean.

 

On the spot it had occupied was a circular space, exposing

an iron ring let into a square flag-stone. Dantes uttered a

cry of joy and surprise; never had a first attempt been

crowned with more perfect success. He would fain have

continued, but his knees trembled, and his heart beat so

violently, and his sight became so dim, that he was forced

to pause. This feeling lasted but for a moment. Edmond

inserted his lever in the ring and exerted all his strength;

the flag-stone yielded, and disclosed steps that descended

until they were lost in the obscurity of a subterraneous

grotto. Any one else would have rushed on with a cry of joy.

Dantes turned pale, hesitated, and reflected. "Come," said

he to himself, "be a man. I am accustomed to adversity. I

must not be cast down by the discovery that I have been

deceived. What, then, would be the use of all I have

suffered? The heart breaks when, after having been elated by

flattering hopes, it sees all its illusions destroyed. Faria

has dreamed this; the Cardinal Spada buried no treasure

here; perhaps he never came here, or if he did, Caesar

Borgia, the intrepid adventurer, the stealthy and

indefatigable plunderer, has followed him, discovered his

traces, pursued them as I have done, raised the stone, and

descending before me, has left me nothing." He remained

motionless and pensive, his eyes fixed on the gloomy

aperture that was open at his feet.

 

"Now that I expect nothing, now that I no longer entertain

the slightest hopes, the end of this adventure becomes

simply a matter of curiosity." And he remained again

motionless and thoughtful.

 

"Yes, yes; this is an adventure worthy a place in the varied

career of that royal bandit. This fabulous event formed but

a link in a long chain of marvels. Yes, Borgia has been

here, a torch in one band, a sword in the other, and within

twenty paces, at the foot of this rock, perhaps two guards

kept watch on land and sea, while their master descended, as

I am about to descend, dispelling the darkness before his

awe-inspiring progress."

 

"But what was the fate of the guards who thus possessed his

secret?" asked Dantes of himself.

 

"The fate," replied he, smiling, "of those who buried

Alaric."

 

"Yet, had he come," thought Dantes, "he would have found the

treasure, and Borgia, he who compared Italy to an artichoke,

which he could devour leaf by leaf, knew too well the value

of time to waste it in replacing this rock. I will go down."

 

Then he descended, a smile on his lips, and murmuring that

last word of human philosophy, "Perhaps!" But instead of the

darkness, and the thick and mephitic atmosphere he had

expected to find, Dantes saw a dim and bluish light, which,

as well as the air, entered, not merely by the aperture he

had just formed, but by the interstices and crevices of the

rock which were visible from without, and through which he

could distinguish the blue sky and the waving branches of

the evergreen oaks, and the tendrils of the creepers that

grew from the rocks. After having stood a few minutes in the

cavern, the atmosphere of which was rather warm than damp,

Dantes' eye, habituated as it was to darkness, could pierce

even to the remotest angles of the cavern, which was of

granite that sparkled like diamonds. "Alas," said Edmond,

smiling, "these are the treasures the cardinal has left; and

the good abbe, seeing in a dream these glittering walls, has

indulged in fallacious hopes."

 

But he called to mind the words of the will, which he knew

by heart. "In the farthest angle of the second opening,"

said the cardinal's will. He had only found the first

grotto; he had now to seek the second. Dantes continued his

search. He reflected that this second grotto must penetrate

deeper into the island; he examined the stones, and sounded

one part of the wall where he fancied the opening existed,

masked for precaution's sake. The pickaxe struck for a

moment with a dull sound that drew out of Dantes' forehead

large drops of perspiration. At last it seemed to him that

one part of the wall gave forth a more hollow and deeper

echo; he eagerly advanced, and with the quickness of

perception that no one but a prisoner possesses, saw that

there, in all probability, the opening must be.

 

However, he, like Caesar Borgia, knew the value of time;

and, in order to avoid fruitless toil, he sounded all the

other walls with his pickaxe, struck the earth with the butt

of his gun, and finding nothing that appeared suspicious,

returned to that part of the wall whence issued the

consoling sound he had before heard. He again struck it, and

with greater force. Then a singular thing occurred. As he

struck the wall, pieces of stucco similar to that used in

the ground work of arabesques broke off, and fell to the

ground in flakes, exposing a large white stone. The aperture

of the rock had been closed with stones, then this stucco

had been applied, and painted to imitate granite. Dantes

struck with the sharp end of his pickaxe, which entered

someway between the interstices. It was there he must dig.

But by some strange play of emotion, in proportion as the

proofs that Faria, had not been deceived became stronger, so

did his heart give way, and a feeling of discouragement

stole over him. This last proof, instead of giving him fresh

strength, deprived him of it; the pickaxe descended, or

rather fell; he placed it on the ground, passed his hand

over his brow, and remounted the stairs, alleging to

himself, as an excuse, a desire to be assured that no one

was watching him, but in reality because he felt that he was

about to faint. The island was deserted, and the sun seemed

to cover it with its fiery glance; afar off, a few small

fishing boats studded the bosom of the blue ocean.

 

Dantes had tasted nothing, but he thought not of hunger at

such a moment; he hastily swallowed a few drops of rum, and

again entered the cavern. The pickaxe that had seemed so

heavy, was now like a feather in his grasp; he seized it,

and attacked the wall. After several blows he perceived that

the stones were not cemented, but had been merely placed one

upon the other, and covered with stucco; he inserted the

point of his pickaxe, and using the handle as a lever, with

joy soon saw the stone turn as if on hinges, and fall at his

feet. He had nothing more to do now, but with the iron tooth

of the pickaxe to draw the stones towards him one by one.

The aperture was already sufficiently large for him to

enter, but by waiting, he could still cling to hope, and

retard the certainty of deception. At last, after renewed

hesitation, Dantes entered the second grotto. The second

grotto was lower and more gloomy than the first; the air

that could only enter by the newly formed opening had the

mephitic smell Dantes was surprised not to find in the outer

cavern. He waited in order to allow pure air to displace the

foul atmosphere, and then went on. At the left of the

opening was a dark and deep angle. But to Dantes' eye there

was no darkness. He glanced around this second grotto; it

was, like the first, empty.

 

The treasure, if it existed, was buried in this corner. The

time had at length arrived; two feet of earth removed, and

Dantes' fate would be decided. He advanced towards the

angle, and summoning all his resolution, attacked the ground

with the pickaxe. At the fifth or sixth blow the pickaxe

struck against an iron substance. Never did funeral knell,

never did alarm-bell, produce a greater effect on the

hearer. Had Dantes found nothing he could not have become

more ghastly pale. He again struck his pickaxe into the

earth, and encountered the same resistance, but not the same

sound. "It is a casket of wood bound with iron," thought he.

At this moment a shadow passed rapidly before the opening;

Dantes seized his gun, sprang through the opening, and

mounted the stair. A wild goat had passed before the mouth

of the cave, and was feeding at a little distance. This

would have been a favorable occasion to secure his dinner;

but Dantes feared lest the report of his gun should attract

attention.

 

He thought a moment, cut a branch of a resinous tree,

lighted it at the fire at which the smugglers had prepared

their breakfast, and descended with this torch. He wished to

see everything. He approached the hole he had dug. and now,

with the aid of the torch, saw that his pickaxe had in

reality struck against iron and wood. He planted his torch

in the ground and resumed his labor. In an instant a space

three feet long by two feet broad was cleared, and Dantes

could see an oaken coffer, bound with cut steel; in the

middle of the lid he saw engraved on a silver plate, which

was still untarnished, the arms of the Spada family -- viz.,

a sword, pale, on an oval shield, like all the Italian

armorial bearings, and surmounted by a cardinal's hat;

Dantes easily recognized them, Faria had so often drawn them

for him. There was no longer any doubt: the treasure was

there -- no one would have been at such pains to conceal an

empty casket. In an instant he had cleared every obstacle

away, and he saw successively the lock, placed between two

padlocks, and the two handles at each end, all carved as

things were carved at that epoch, when art rendered the

commonest metals precious. Dantes seized the handles, and

strove to lift the coffer; it was impossible. He sought to

open it; lock and padlock were fastened; these faithful

guardians seemed unwilling to surrender their trust. Dantes

inserted the sharp end of the pickaxe between the coffer and

the lid, and pressing with all his force on the handle,

burst open the fastenings. The hinges yielded in their turn

and fell, still holding in their grasp fragments of the

wood, and the chest was open.

 

Edmond was seized with vertigo; he cocked his gun and laid

it beside him. He then closed his eyes as children do in

order that they may see in the resplendent night of their

own imagination more stars than are visible in the

firmament; then he re-opened them, and stood motionless with

amazement. Three compartments divided the coffer. In the

first, blazed piles of golden coin; in the second, were

ranged bars of unpolished gold, which possessed nothing

attractive save their value; in the third, Edmond grasped

handfuls of diamonds, pearls, and rubies, which, as they

fell on one another, sounded like hail against glass. After

having touched, felt, examined these treasures, Edmond

rushed through the caverns like a man seized with frenzy; he

leaped on a rock, from whence he could behold the sea. He

was alone -- alone with these countless, these unheard-of

treasures! was he awake, or was it but a dream?

 

He would fain have gazed upon his gold, and yet he had not

strength enough; for an instant he leaned his head in his

hands as if to prevent his senses from leaving him, and then

rushed madly about the rocks of Monte Cristo, terrifying the

wild goats and scaring the sea-fowls with his wild cries and

gestures; then he returned, and, still unable to believe the

evidence of his senses, rushed into the grotto, and found

himself before this mine of gold and jewels. This time he

fell on his knees, and, clasping his hands convulsively,

uttered a prayer intelligible to God alone. He soon became

calmer and more happy, for only now did he begin to realize

his felicity. He then set himself to work to count his

fortune. There were a thousand ingots of gold, each weighing

from two to three pounds; then he piled up twenty-five

thousand crowns, each worth about eighty francs of our

money, and bearing the effigies of Alexander VI. and his

predecessors; and he saw that the complement was not half

empty. And he measured ten double handfuls of pearls,

diamonds, and other gems, many of which, mounted by the most

famous workmen, were valuable beyond their intrinsic worth.

Dantes saw the light gradually disappear, and fearing to be

surprised in the cavern, left it, his gun in his hand. A

piece of biscuit and a small quantity of rum formed his

supper, and he snatched a few hours' sleep, lying over the

mouth of the cave.

 

It was a night of joy and terror, such as this man of

stupendous emotions had already experienced twice or thrice

in his lifetime.