The Count of Monte-Cristo/Volume 1/Chapter 24
CHAPTER XXIV
THE SECRET CAVE
HE sun had nearly reached the third of his course, and his warm and vivifying 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 continuous note; the leaves of the myrtle and olive trees waved and rustled in the wind. At every step that Edmond took on the burning granite, he disturbed the lizards glittering with the hues of the emerald; afar off he saw the wild goats, which sometimes attracted sportsmen, bounding from crag to crag. In a word, the isle 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 commence 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 poetic Corsica, the very houses of which he could distinguish; nor on almost unknown Sardinia; nor on the isle of Elba, with its historical associations; nor upon the 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 re-assured him. He then looked at the objects near him. He saw himself on the highest point of the cone-like isle, a statue on this vast pedestal,—on land not a human being, on sea not a sail; whilst 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.
Dantès, as we have said, had traced back the marks in the rock; and he had noticed that they led to a small creek, hidden like the bath of some ancient nymph. This creek was sufficiently wide at its mouth, and deep in the center, to admit of the entrance of a small vessel of the speronare class, which would be perfectly concealed from observation.
Then, following the clew that, in the hands of the Abbé Faria, had been so skillfully used to guide him through the Dædalian labyrinth of probabilities, he thought that the Cardinal Spada, anxious not to be watched, had entered the creek, concealed his little bark, 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 Dantès 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 upon the rock in order to look for 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 stone of ordinary size had served as a wedge; flints and pebbles had been scattered around it, so as to conceal the break: 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.
Dantès raised 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.
Dantès 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. Dantès reflected that he must attack this 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 Dantès dug, between the upper rock and the one that supported it, a mine similar to those formed by pioneers when they wish to spare human labor, filled it with powder, then made a fuse, by pulling threads from his handkerchief and rolling them in the powder. He lighted it and retired.
The explosion was instantaneous: 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 Dantès had previously formed, and a huge snake, like the guardian demon of the treasure, rolled himself along on his blue convolutions and peared. Dantès approached the upper rock, which now, without any support, leaned toward the sea. The intrepid treasure-seeker walked round it, and, selecting the spot from whence it appeared most easy to attack it, 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. Dantès 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, bounded, and finally disappeared in the ocean.
On the spot it had occupied was visible a circular place, and which exposed an iron ring let into a square flag-stone.
Dantès 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, his heart beat so violently, and his eyes became so dim, that he was forced to pause.
This feeling lasted but for the time of a flash. Edmond inserted his lever in the ring, and exerting all his strength, the flag-stone yielded, and disclosed a kind of stair that descended until it was lost in the increasing obscurity of a subterraneous grotto.
Any one else would have rushed on with a cry of joy. Dantès 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 extravagantly elated by the warm breath of hope, it relapses into cold reality. Faria has dreamed this; the Cardinal Spada buried no treasure here; perhaps he never came here, or if he did, Cæsar Borgia, the intrepid adventurer, the stealthy and indefatigable plunderer, has followed him, discovered his traces, pursued as I have done, like me raised the stone, and descending before me, has left me nothing."
He remained motionless and pensive, his eyes fixed on the somber 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 a simple matter of curiosity."
And he remained again motionless and thoughtful.
"Yes, yes; this is an adventure worthy a place in the lights and shades of the life of this royal bandit, in the tissue of strange events that compose the checkered web of his existence; this fabulous event has formed but a link of a vast chain. Yes, Borgia has been here, a torch in one hand, a sword in the other, whilst within twenty paces, at the foot of this rock, perhaps two guards kept watch on land, sea, and sky, whilst their master descended as I am about to descend, dispelling the darkness before his terrible and flaming arm."
"But what was the fate of these guards who thus possessed his secret?" asked Dantès of himself.
"The fate," replied he, smiling, "of those who buried Alaric, and were interred with the corpse."
"Yet, had he come," thought Dantès, "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, Dantès 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 invisible 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, and free from earthy smell, Dantès' 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 abbé, 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. Dantès commenced his search. He reflected that this second grotto must, doubtless, penetrate deeper into the isle; he examined the stones, and sounded one part of the wall where he fancied the opening existed, masked for precaution's sake.
The pickaxe sounded for a moment with a dull sound that covered Dantès' forehead with 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 it was there, in all probability, that the opening must be.
However, he, like Cæsar Borgia, knew the value of time; and, in order to avoid a 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 sight presented itself. As he struck the wall, a species of stucco similar to that used as the ground of frescoes detached itself, and fell to the ground in flakes, exposing a large white stone like common ashlar. The aperture of the rock had been closed with another sort of stones, then this stucco had been applied, and painted to imitate granite. Dantès struck with the sharp end of his pickaxe, which entered some way between the interstices of the stone.
It was there he must dig.
But by some strange phenomenon of the human organization, in proportion as the proofs that Faria had not been deceived became stronger, so did his heart give way, and a feeling of discouragement steal 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 he was ready to faint.
The isle 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.
Dantès 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 merely placed one upon the other, and covered with stucco; he inserted the point of his pickaxe, and using the handle as a lever, soon saw with joy 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 toward him one by one. The first aperture was sufficiently large to enter, but by waiting, he could still cling to hope, and retard the certainty of deception. At last, after fresh hesitation, Dantès entered the second grotto.
The second grotto was lower and more gloomy than the former; the air that could only enter by the newly formed opening had that mephitic smell Dantès was surprised not to find in the first. He waited in order to allow pure air to revive this dead atmosphere, and then entered.
At the left of the opening was a dark and deep angle. But to Dantès' eye there was no darkness. He glanced round 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 to remove was all that remained for Dantès between supreme joy and supreme despair.
He advanced toward 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 Dantès 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; Dantès 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 Dantès feared lest the report of his gun should attract attention.
He reflected an instant, 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 all. He approached the hole he had formed with the torch, and saw that he was not deceived, and his pickaxe had in reality struck against iron and wood.
In an instant a space three feet long by two feet broad was cleared, and Dantès could see an oaken coffer, bound with cut steel; in the midst of the lid he saw engraved on a silver plate, which was still untarnished, the arms of the Spada family — viz., a sword, en pale, on an oval shield, like all the Italian armorial bearings, and surmounted by a cardinal's hat.
Dantès 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.
Dantès seized the handles, and strove to lift the coffer; it was impossible.
He sought to open it; lock and padlock were closed: these faithful guardians seemed unwilling to surrender their trust.
Dantès 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 with a crash. The hinges yielded in their turn, and fell, still holding in their grasp fragments of the planks, and all was open.
A vertigo seized Edmond; he cocked his gun and laid it beside him. He then closed his eyes as children do in order to perceive in the 
shining 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, bars of unpolished gold, which possessed nothing attractive save their value, were ranged; in the third, half-full, Edmond grasped handfuls of diamonds, pearls, and rubies, which as they fell on one another in a glittering cascade, sounded like hail against glass.
After having touched, felt, examined these treasures of gold and gems, 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 fabulous treasures! Was he awake, or was it but a dream? Was it a transient vision, or was he face to face with reality?
He would fain have gazed upon his gold, and yet he felt that 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 without following — not a road, for there is no road in the island — any definite course, 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 through the first grotto into the second, 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 felt himself calmer and more happy, for now only he began to credit his felicity.
He then set himself to work to count his fortune. There were a thousand ingots of gold, each weighing from three pounds; then he piled up twenty-five thousand crowns, each worth about twenty dollars of our money, and bearing the effigies of Alexander VI. and his predecessors; and he saw that the compartment was not half empty. And he measured ten double-handfuls of precious stones, many of which, mounted by the most famous workmen, were valuable for their execution.
Dantès 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 wine formed his supper; then he replaced the stone, stretched himself upon it, and snatched a few hours' sleep, lying over the mouth of the cave.
This night was one of those delicious and yet terrible ones, of which this man of paralyzing emotions had already passed two or three in his lifetime.