《基督山伯爵》第113章 往事

　　THE COUNT departed with a sad heart from the house in which he had left Mercédès, probably never to behold her again. Since the death of little Edward a great change had taken place in Monte Cristo. Having reached the summit of his vengeance by a long and tortuous path, he saw an abyss of doubt yawning before him. More than this, the conversation which had just taken place between Mercédès and himself had awakened so many recollections in his heart that he felt it necessary to combat with them. A man of the count's temperament could not long indulge in that melancholy which can exist in common minds, but which destroys superior ones. He thought he must have made an error in his calculations if he now found cause to blame himself.

　　"I cannot have deceived myself," he said; "I must look upon the past in a false light. What！" he continued, "can I have been following a false path?--can the end which I proposed be a mistaken end?--can one hour have sufficed to prove to an architect that the work upon which he founded all his hopes was an impossible, if not a sacrilegious, undertaking? I cannot reconcile myself to this idea--it would madden me. The reason why I am now dissatisfied is that I have not a clear appreciation of the past. The past, like the country through which we walk, becomes indistinct as we advance. My position is like that of a person wounded in a dream; he feels the wound, though he cannot recollect when he received it. Come, then, thou regenerate man, thou extravagant prodigal, thou awakened sleeper, thou all-powerful visionary, thou invincible millionaire,--once again review thy past life of starvation and wretchedness, revisit the scenes where fate and misfortune conducted, and where despair received thee. Too many diamonds, too much gold and splendor, are now reflected by the mirror in which Monte Cristo seeks to behold Dantès. Hide thy diamonds, bury thy gold, shroud thy splendor, exchange riches for poverty, liberty for a prison, a living body for a corpse！" As he thus reasoned, Monte Cristo walked down the Rue de la Caisserie. It was the same through which, twenty-four years ago, he had been conducted by a silent and nocturnal guard; the houses, to-day so smiling and animated, were on that night dark, mute, and closed. "And yet they were the same," murmured Monte Cristo, "only now it is broad daylight instead of night; it is the sun which brightens the place, and makes it appear so cheerful."

　　He proceeded towards the quay by the Rue Saint-Laurent, and advanced to the Consigne; it was the point where he had embarked. A pleasure-boat with striped awning was going by. Monte Cristo called the owner, who immediately rowed up to him with the eagerness of a boatman hoping for a good fare. The weather was magnificent, and the excursion a treat.

　　The sun, red and flaming, was sinking into the embrace of the welcoming ocean. The sea, smooth as crystal, was now and then disturbed by the leaping of fish, which were pursued by some unseen enemy and sought for safety in another element; while on the extreme verge of the horizon might be seen the fishermen's boats, white and graceful as the sea-gull, or the merchant vessels bound for Corsica or Spain.

　　But notwithstanding the serene sky, the gracefully formed boats, and the golden light in which the whole scene was bathed, the Count of Monte Cristo, wrapped in his cloak, could think only of this terrible voyage, the details of which were one by one recalled to his memory. The solitary light burning at the Catalans; that first sight of the Chateau d'If, which told him whither they were leading him; the struggle with the gendarmes when he wished to throw himself overboard; his despair when he found himself vanquished, and the sensation when the muzzle of the carbine touched his forehead--all these were brought before him in vivid and frightful reality. Like the streams which the heat of the summer has dried up, and which after the autumnal storms gradually begin oozing drop by drop, so did the count feel his heart gradually fill with the bitterness which formerly nearly overwhelmed Edmond Dantès. Clear sky, swift-flitting boats, and brilliant sunshine disappeared; the heavens were hung with black, and the gigantic structure of the Chateau d'If seemed like the phantom of a mortal enemy. As they reached the shore, the count instinctively shrunk to the extreme end of the boat, and the owner was obliged to call out, in his sweetest tone of voice, "Sir, we are at the landing."

　　Monte Cristo remembered that on that very spot, on the same rock, he had been violently dragged by the guards, who forced him to ascend the slope at the points of their bayonets. The journey had seemed very long to Dantès, but Monte Cristo found it equally short. Each stroke of the oar seemed to awaken a new throng of ideas, which sprang up with the flying spray of the sea.

　　There had been no prisoners confined in the Chateau d'If since the revolution of July; it was only inhabited by a guard, kept there for the prevention of smuggling. A concièrge waited at the door to exhibit to visitors this monument of curiosity, once a scene of terror. The count inquired whether any of the ancient jailers were still there; but they had all been pensioned, or had passed on to some other employment. The concièrge who attended him had only been there since 1830. He visited his own dungeon. He again beheld the dull light vainly endeavoring to penetrate the narrow opening. His eyes rested upon the spot where had stood his bed, since then removed, and behind the bed the new stones indicated where the breach made by the Abbé Faria had been. Monte Cristo felt his limbs tremble; he seated himself upon a log of wood.

　　"Are there any stories connected with this prison besides the one relating to the poisoning of Mirabeau?" asked the count; "are there any traditions respecting these dismal abodes,--in which it is difficult to believe men can ever have imprisoned their fellow-creatures?"

　　"Yes, sir; indeed, the jailer Antoine told me one connected with this very dungeon."

　　Monte Cristo shuddered; Antoine had been his jailer. He had almost forgotten his name and face, but at the mention of the name he recalled his person as he used to see it, the face encircled by a beard, wearing the brown jacket, the bunch of keys, the jingling of which he still seemed to hear. The count turned around, and fancied he saw him in the corridor, rendered still darker by the torch carried by the concièrge. "Would you like to hear the story, sir?"

　　"Yes; relate it," said Monte Cristo, pressing his hand to his heart to still its violent beatings; he felt afraid of hearing his own history.

　　"This dungeon," said the concièrge, "was, it appears, some time ago occupied by a very dangerous prisoner, the more so since he was full of industry. Another person was confined in the Chateau at the same time, but he was not wicked, he was only a poor mad priest."

　　"Ah, indeed?--mad！" repeated Monte Cristo; "and what was his mania?"

　　"He offered millions to any one who would set him at liberty."

　　Monte Cristo raised his eyes, but he could not see the heavens; there was a stone veil between him and the firmament. He thought that there had been no less thick a veil before the eyes of those to whom Faria offered the treasures. "Could the prisoners see each other?" he asked.

　　"Oh, no, sir, it was expressly forbidden; but they eluded the vigilance of the guards, and made a passage from one dungeon to the other."

　　"And which of them made this passage?"

　　"Oh, it must have been the young man, certainly, for he was strong and industrious, while the abbé was aged and weak; besides, his mind was too vacillating to allow him to carry out an idea."

　　"Blind fools！" murmured the count.

　　"However, be that as it may, the young man made a tunnel, how or by what means no one knows; but he made it, and there is the evidence yet remaining of his work. Do you see it?" and the man held the torch to the wall.

　　"Ah, yes; I see," said the count, in a voice hoarse from emotion.

　　"The result was that the two men communicated with one another; how long they did so, nobody knows. One day the old man fell ill and died. Now guess what the young one did?"

　　"Tell me."

　　"He carried off the corpse, which he placed in his own bed with its face to the wall; then he entered the empty dungeon, closed the entrance, and slipped into the sack which had contained the dead body. Did you ever hear of such an idea?" Monte Cristo closed his eyes, and seemed again to experience all the sensations he had felt when the coarse canvas, yet moist with the cold dews of death, had touched his face. The jailer continued: "Now this was his project. He fancied that they buried the dead at the Chateau d'If, and imagining they would not expend much labor on the grave of a prisoner, he calculated on raising the earth with his shoulders, but unfortunately their arrangements at the Chateau frustrated his projects. They never buried the dead; they merely attached a heavy cannon-ball to the feet, and then threw them into the sea. This is what was done. The young man was thrown from the top of the rock; the corpse was found on the bed next day, and the whole truth was guessed, for the men who performed the office then mentioned what they had not dared to speak of before, that at the moment the corpse was thrown into the deep, they heard a shriek, which was almost immediately stifled by the water in which it disappeared." The count breathed with difficulty; the cold drops ran down his forehead, and his heart was full of anguish.

　　"No," he muttered, "the doubt I felt was but the commencement of forgetfulness; but here the wound reopens, and the heart again thirsts for vengeance. And the prisoner," he continued aloud, "was he ever heard of afterwards?"

　　"Oh, no; of course not. You can understand that one of two things must have happened; he must either have fallen flat, in which case the blow, from a height of ninety feet, must have killed him instantly, or he must have fallen upright, and then the weight would have dragged him to the bottom, where he remained--poor fellow！"

　　"Then you pity him?" said the count.

　　"Ma foi, yes; though he was in his own element."

　　"What do you mean?"

　　"The report was that he had been a naval officer, who had been confined for plotting with the Bonapartists."

　　"Great is truth," muttered the count, "fire cannot burn, nor water drown it！ Thus the poor sailor lives in the recollection of those who narrate his history; his terrible story is recited in the chimney-corner, and a shudder is felt at the description of his transit through the air to be swallowed by the deep." Then, the count added aloud, "Was his name ever known?"

　　"Oh, yes; but only as No. 34."

　　"Oh, Villefort, Villefort," murmured the count, "this scene must often have haunted thy sleepless hours！"

　　"Do you wish to see anything more, sir?" said the concièrge.

　　"Yes, especially if you will show me the poor abbé's room."

　　"Ah--No. 27."

　　"Yes; No. 27." repeated the count, who seemed to hear the voice of the abbé answering him in those very words through the wall when asked his name.

　　"Come, sir."

　　"Wait," said Monte Cristo, "I wish to take one final glance around this room."

　　"This is fortunate," said the guide; "I have forgotten the other key."

　　"Go and fetch it."

　　"I will leave you the torch, sir."

　　"No, take it away; I can see in the dark."

　　"Why, you are like No. 34. They said he was so accustomed to darkness that he could see a pin in the darkest corner of his dungeon."

　　"He spent fourteen years to arrive at that," muttered the count.

　　The guide carried away the torch. The count had spoken correctly. Scarcely had a few seconds elapsed, ere he saw everything as distinctly as by daylight. Then he looked around him, and really recognized his dungeon.

　　"Yes," he said, "there is the stone upon which I used to sit; there is the impression made by my shoulders on the wall; there is the mark of my blood made when one day I dashed my head against the wall. Oh, those figures, how well I remember them！ I made them one day to calculate the age of my father, that I might know whether I should find him still living, and that of Mercédès, to know if I should find her still free. After finishing that calculation, I had a minute's hope. I did not reckon upon hunger and infidelity！" and a bitter laugh escaped the count. He saw in fancy the burial of his father, and the marriage of Mercédès. On the other side of the dungeon he perceived an inscription, the white letters of which were still visible on the green wall. "'O God,'" he read, "'preserve my memory！' Oh, yes," he cried, "that was my only prayer at last; I no longer begged for liberty, but memory; I dreaded to become mad and forgetful. O God, thou hast preserved my memory; I thank thee, I thank thee！" At this moment the light of the torch was reflected on the wall; the guide was coming; Monte Cristo went to meet him.

　　"Follow me, sir;" and without ascending the stairs the guide conducted him by a subterraneous passage to another entrance. There, again, Monte Cristo was assailed by a multitude of thoughts. The first thing that met his eye was the meridian, drawn by the abbé on the wall, by which he calculated the time; then he saw the remains of the bed on which the poor prisoner had died. The sight of this, instead of exciting the anguish experienced by the count in the dungeon, filled his heart with a soft and grateful sentiment, and tears fell from his eyes.

　　"This is where the mad abbé was kept, sir, and that is where the young man entered; "and the guide pointed to the opening, which had remained unclosed. "From the appearance of the stone," he continued, "a learned gentleman discovered that the prisoners might have communicated together for ten years. Poor things！ Those must have been ten weary years."

　　Dantès took some louis from his pocket, and gave them to the man who had twice unconsciously pitied him. The guide took them, thinking them merely a few pieces of little value; but the light of the torch revealed their true worth. "Sir," he said, "you have made a mistake; you have given me gold."

　　"I know it." The concièrge looked upon the count with surprise. "Sir," he cried, scarcely able to believe his good fortune--"sir, I cannot understand your generosity！"

　　"Oh, it is very simple, my good fellow; I have been a sailor, and your story touched me more than it would others."

　　"Then, sir, since you are so liberal, I ought to offer you something."

　　"What have you to offer to me, my friend? Shells? Straw-work? Thank you！"

　　"No, sir, neither of those; something connected with this story."

　　"Really? What is it?"

　　"Listen," said the guide; "I said to myself, 'Something is always left in a cell inhabited by one prisoner for fifteen years,' so I began to sound the wall."

　　"Ah," cried Monte Cristo, remembering the abbé's two hiding-places.

　　"After some search, I found that the floor gave a hollow sound near the head of the bed, and at the hearth."

　　"Yes," said the count, "yes."

　　"I raised the stones, and found"--

　　"A rope-ladder and some tools?"

　　"How do you know that?" asked the guide in astonishment.

　　"I do not know--I only guess it, because that sort of thing is generally found in prisoners' cells."

　　"Yes, sir, a rope-ladder and tools."

　　"And have you them yet?"

　　"No, sir; I sold them to visitors, who considered them great curiosities; but I have still something left."

　　"What is it?" asked the count, impatiently.

　　"A sort of book, written upon strips of cloth."

　　"Go and fetch it, my good fellow; and if it be what I hope, you will do well."

　　"I will run for it, sir;" and the guide went out. Then the count knelt down by the side of the bed, which death had converted into an altar. "Oh, second father," he exclaimed, "thou who hast given me liberty, knowledge, riches; thou who, like beings of a superior order to ourselves, couldst understand the science of good and evil; if in the depths of the tomb there still remain something within us which can respond to the voice of those who are left on earth; if after death the soul ever revisit the places where we have lived and suffered,--then, noble heart, sublime soul, then I conjure thee by the paternal love thou didst bear me, by the filial obedience I vowed to thee, grant me some sign, some revelation！ Remove from me the remains of doubt, which, if it change not to conviction, must become remorse！" The count bowed his head, and clasped his hands together.

　　"Here, sir," said a voice behind him.

　　Monte Cristo shuddered, and arose. The concièrge held out the strips of cloth upon which the Abbé Faria had spread the riches of his mind. The manuscript was the great work by the Abbé Faria upon the kingdoms of Italy. The count seized it hastily, his eyes immediately fell upon the epigraph, and he read, "'Thou shalt tear out the dragons' teeth, and shall trample the lions under foot, saith the Lord.'"

　　"Ah," he exclaimed, "here is my answer. Thanks, father, thanks." And feeling in his pocket, he took thence a small pocket-book, which contained ten bank-notes, each of 1,000 francs.

　　"Here," he said, "take this pocket-book."

　　"Do you give it to me?"

　　"Yes; but only on condition that you will not open it till I am gone;" and placing in his breast the treasure he had just found, which was more valuable to him than the richest jewel, he rushed out of the corridor, and reaching his boat, cried, "To Marseilles！" Then, as he departed, he fixed his eyes upon the gloomy prison. "Woe," he cried, "to those who confined me in that wretched prison; and woe to those who forgot that I was there！" As he repassed the Catalans, the count turned around and burying his head in his cloak murmured the name of a woman. The victory was complete; twice he had overcome his doubts. The name he pronounced, in a voice of tenderness, amounting almost to love, was that of Haidée.

　　On landing, the count turned towards the cemetery, where he felt sure of finding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, had piously sought out a tomb, and sought it vainly. He, who returned to France with millions, had been unable to find the grave of his father, who had perished from hunger. Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it had fallen down and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all the old wood in the churchyard. The worthy merchant had been more fortunate. Dying in the arms of his children, he had been by them laid by the side of his wife, who had preceded him in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of marble, on which were inscribed their names, were placed on either side of a little enclosure, railed in, and shaded by four cypress-trees. Morrel was leaning against one of these, mechanically fixing his eyes on the graves. His grief was so profound that he was nearly unconscious. "Maximilian," said the count, "you should not look on the graves, but there;" and he pointed upwards.

　　"The dead are everywhere," said Morrel; "did you not yourself tell me so as we left Paris?"

　　"Maximilian," said the count, "you asked me during the journey to allow you to remain some days at Marseilles. Do you still wish to do so?"

　　"I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the time less painfully here than anywhere else."

　　"So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your word with me, do I not?"

　　"Ah, count, I shall forget it."

　　"No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor, Morrel, because you have taken an oath, and are about to do so again."

　　"Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so unhappy."

　　"I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel."

　　"Impossible！"

　　"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "it is the infirmity of our nature always to believe ourselves much more unhappy than those who groan by our sides！"

　　"What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all he loved and desired in the world?"

　　"Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to tell you. I knew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes of happiness upon a woman. He was young, he had an old father whom he loved, a betrothed bride whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when one of the caprices of fate,--which would almost make us doubt the goodness of providence, if that providence did not afterwards reveal itself by proving that all is but a means of conducting to an end,--one of those caprices deprived him of his mistress, of the future of which he had dreamed （for in his blindness he forgot he could only read the present）， and cast him into a dungeon."

　　"Ah," said Morrel, "one quits a dungeon in a week, a month, or a year."

　　"He remained there fourteen years, Morrel," said the count, placing his hand on the young man's shoulder. Maximilian shuddered.

　　"Fourteen years！" he muttered--"Fourteen years！" repeated the count. "During that time he had many moments of despair. He also, Morrel, like you, considered himself the unhappiest of men."

　　"Well?" asked Morrel.

　　"Well, at the height of his despair God assisted him through human means. At first, perhaps, he did not recognize the infinite mercy of the Lord, but at last he took patience and waited. One day he miraculously left the prison, transformed, rich, powerful. His first cry was for his father; but that father was dead."

　　"My father, too, is dead," said Morrel.

　　"Yes; but your father died in your arms, happy, respected, rich, and full of years; his father died poor, despairing, almost doubtful of providence; and when his son sought his grave ten years afterwards, his tomb had disappeared, and no one could say, 'There sleeps the father you so well loved.'"

　　"Oh！" exclaimed Morrel.

　　"He was, then, a more unhappy son than you, Morrel, for he could not even find his father's grave."

　　"But then he had the woman he loved still remaining?"

　　"You are deceived, Morrel, that woman"--

　　"She was dead?"

　　"Worse than that, she was faithless, and had married one of the persecutors of her betrothed. You see, then, Morrel, that he was a more unhappy lover than you."

　　"And has he found consolation?"

　　"He has at least found peace."

　　"And does he ever expect to be happy?"

　　"He hopes so, Maximilian." The young man's head fell on his breast.

　　"You have my promise," he said, after a minute's pause, extending his hand to Monte Cristo. "Only remember"--

　　"On the 5th of October, Morrel, I shall expect you at the Island of Monte Cristo. On the 4th a yacht will wait for you in the port of Bastia, it will be called the Eurus. You will give your name to the captain, who will bring you to me. It is understood--is it not?"

　　"But, count, do you remember that the 5th of October"--

　　"Child," replied the count, "not to know the value of a man's word！ I have told you twenty times that if you wish to die on that day, I will assist you. Morrel, farewell！"

　　"Do you leave me?"

　　"Yes; I have business in Italy. I leave you alone with your misfortunes, and with hope, Maximilian."

　　"When do you leave?"

　　"Immediately; the steamer waits, and in an hour I shall be far from you. Will you accompany me to the harbor, Maximilian?"

　　"I am entirely yours, count." Morrel accompanied the count to the harbor. The white steam was ascending like a plume of feathers from the black chimney. The steamer soon disappeared, and in an hour afterwards, as the count had said, was scarcely distinguishable in the horizon amidst the fogs of the night.

　　伯爵心情悲伤地离开那座他和美塞苔丝分手的小屋，或许他永远也见不到她了。自从小爱德华去世以来，基督山的心情发生了大变化。当他经过一条艰苦漫长的道路达到复仇的高峰以后，他在高峰的那一边看到了怀疑的深谷。尤其是，他与美塞苔丝刚才的那一番谈话在他心里唤醒了的许多许多的回忆，他觉得他有必要与那些回忆搏斗。象伯爵这样性格刚毅的人是不会长期沉浸在这种抑郁状态里的。那种抑郁状态或许可以刺激普通的头脑，促使它们产生一些新思想，但对于一个出类拔萃的人是有害的。他想，既然他现在几乎到了责备自己的地步，那么他以前的策划一定有错误了。

　　“我不能这样自欺，”他说，“我没有把以前看清楚，为什么！”他继续说，“难道在过去的十年内，我走的道路是错误的吗？难道我预计的竟是一个错误的结果？难道一小时的时间就足以向一位建筑师证明：他那寄托着全部希望的工程，即使不是不可能，至少却是违反上帝旨意的吗？我不能接受这种想法，它会使我发疯的。我现在之所以不满意，是因为我对于往事没有一个清楚的了解。象我们所经过的地方一样，我们走得愈远，它便愈模糊。我的情况象是一个在梦里受伤的人，虽然感觉到受了伤，但却记不得是在什么时候受的伤。那么，来吧，你这个获得再生的人，你这个豪侈的阔佬，你这个醒来的梦游者，你这个万能的幻想家，你这个无敌的百万富翁！再来回忆一下你过去那种饥饿痛苦的生活吧。再去访问一下那逼迫你、或不幸引导你、或绝望接受人的地方吧。在现在这面基督山想认出唐太斯的镜子里，看到的是钻石、黄金和华丽的服饰。藏起你的钻石，埋掉你的黄金，遮住你华丽的服饰，变富为穷，自由人变为罪犯，由一个重生的人变回到尸体上吧！”

　　基督山一面这样沉思默想，一面顺着凯塞立街走。二十四年以前，他在夜里被一言不发的宪兵押走的时候，也是走的这条街。那些房子，今天虽充满欢乐富有生气，那天晚上却黑乎乎、静悄悄的，门户紧闭着。”可是，它们还是以前的那些房子，”基督山对自己说，“只是现在不是黑夜而是大白天，是太阳照亮了这个地方，让它看来使人这样高兴。”

　　他顺着圣·洛朗街向码头走过去，走到灯塔那儿，这是他登船的地方。一艘装着条纹布篷的游艇正巧经过这里。基督山向船老板招呼了一下，船老板便立刻带着一个船夫和希望做一笔好生意时那种急切的心情向他划拢来。

　　天气好极了，正宜于出游。鲜红的、光芒四射的太阳正在向水里沉下去，渐渐被水吞没。海面光滑得象玻璃一样，只是偶尔被一条为了躲避敌人的追捕跳出海面来寻求安全的鱼暂时扰乱了它的宁静；从地平线远望，那些船象海鸥一样白，那样姿态优美，可以看见回到马地古去的渔艇和开赴科西嘉或西班牙的商船。

　　但虽然睛朗的天气有美丽的船只，和那笼罩着一切的金色的光芒，紧裹在大氅里的基督山却只想到那次可怕的航程。

　　过去的一切都一一在他的记忆里复活了。迦太兰村那盏孤独的灯光；初见伊夫堡猛然觉悟到他们要带他到那儿去时的那种感觉，当他想逃走时与宪兵的那一场挣扎；马枪枪口触到他额头时那种冷冰冰的感觉，——这一切都在他眼前成了生动而可怕的现实。象那些被夏天的炎热所蒸干、但在多雨的秋天又渐渐贮积起流水的小溪一样，伯爵也觉得他的心里渐渐地充满了以前几乎压毁爱德蒙·唐太斯的那种痛苦。他再也看不见那晴朗的天空，那美丽的船只，那沐浴在金色阳光下的迷人的景色：天空中似乎布满乌云，庞大的伊夫堡象是一个死鬼的幽灵。当他们抵岸的时候，伯爵不由自主地退到船尾，船夫不得不用迫切催促的口气说：“先生，我们到岸啦。”

　　基督山记得：就在这个地方，就在这块礁石上，他曾被士兵凶暴地拖上去，用刺刀顶着他的腰走上那个斜坡。当初唐太斯眼前漫长的路程；现在基督山却觉得它非常短。每一桨都唤醒了许多记忆，往事象海的泡沫一样浮升了起来。

　　自从七月革命以来，伊夫堡里便不再关犯人。这儿现在只住着一队缉私队。一个看守在门口站着，等待引导访客去参观这个恐怖的遗迹。伯爵虽然知道这些事实，但当他走进那个拱形的门廊，走上那座黑洞洞的楼梯，向导应他的要求领他到黑牢里去的时候，他的脸色还是变成了惨白色，他的心里在一阵阵发冷。他问旧时的狱卒还有没有留下来的；但他们不是退休，就是转业去做另外的行当了。带他参观的那个向导是一八三○年来的。向导把他带到了当年他自己的那间黑牢。他又看见了那从那狭窗口透进来的微弱的光线。他又看见了当年放床的那个地方。但那张床早已搬走了，床后的墙脚下有几块新的石头，这是以前法利亚长老所掘的那条地道的出口，基督山感到他的四肢发抖，他拉过一个木凳坐了下来。

　　“除了毒死米拉波［米拉波伯爵（一七四九—一七九一），法国大革命时代的政治家，在伊夫堡被他的政敌用毒药毒死。——译注］的故事以外，在这座监狱里还发生过什么故事没有啊？”伯爵问道，“这些阴森可怕的地方竟关押过我们的同类，简直不可思议，关于这些房间可有什么传说吗？”

　　“有的，先生，狱卒安多尼对我讲过一个关于这间黑牢的故事。”

　　基督山打了一个哆嗦，安多尼就是看管他的狱卒。他几乎已经忘掉他的名和长相了，但一听到他的名字，他便想起了他，——他那满是络腮胡子的脸，棕色的短褂和钥匙串。伯爵似乎现在还能听到那种玎玲当啷的响声，他回过头去，在那条被火把映得更显阴森的地道里，他好象又见到了那个狱卒。

　　“您想听那个故事吗，先生？”

　　“是的，讲吧。”基督山说，用把手压在胸膛上，按着怦怦直跳的心，他觉得怕听自己的往事。

　　“这间黑牢，”向导说，“以前曾住过一个非常可怕的犯人，可怕的是因为他富于心计。当时堡里还关着另外一个人；但那个人并不坏，他只是一个可怜的疯长老。”

　　“啊，真的？是疯子吗？”基督山说，“他为什么会疯？”

　　“他老是说，谁放他出去，他就给谁几百万块钱。”

　　基督山抬头向上望，但看不见天空，在他和苍穹之间，隔着一道石墙。他想，在得到法利亚的宝藏的那些人的眼睛和宝库之间，也有一道厚厚的墙啊。

　　“犯人可以互相见面的吗？”他问道。

　　“噢，不，先生，这是被明文禁止的，但他们逃过了看守的监视，在两个黑牢之间挖一条地道。”

　　“这条地道是谁挖的呢？”

　　“噢，那一定是那个年轻人干的，当然罗，他身体强壮，而长老则已年老衰弱。而且，他疯疯癫癫的，决想不出这个办法。”

　　“睁眼的瞎子！”伯爵低声说道。

　　“但是，不管它吧，那个年轻人挖了一条地道，至于如何挖的，用什么工具挖的，谁都不知道，但他总算是挖成了，那边还有新砌的石头为证明。您看见了吗？”

　　“啊，是的，我看见了。”伯爵说，他的声音因激动而变嘶哑了。

　　“结果是：两个人相互可以来往了，他们来往了多久，谁都不知道。有一天，那长老生病死了。您猜那年轻人怎么做的？”

　　“怎么做的？”

　　“他搬走那具尸体，把它放在自己的床上，使它面向墙壁；然后他走进长老的黑牢里，把进口塞住，钻进装尸体的那只布袋里。您想到过这样的计策吗？”

　　基督山闭上眼睛，似乎又体验到冰冷的粗布碰到他面孔时的万种感触。那导游继续讲道：“他的计划是这样的：他以为他们是把死人埋在伊夫堡，认为他们不会给犯人买棺材，所以可以用他的肩胛顶开泥土。但不幸的是伊夫堡规定。他们从不埋葬死人，只是给死人脚上绑上一颗很重的铁球，然后把它抛到海里。结果是：那个年轻人从悬岩顶上被抛了下去。第二天，床上发现了长老的尸体，真相大白了，抛尸体的那两个人说出了他们当时曾听到尖声的喊叫，但尸体一沉到水里，那喊声便听不到了。”

　　伯爵呼吸困难，大滴的冷汗从他的额头上滚下来，他的心被痛苦填满了。“不，”他喃喃地说道，“我所感到的怀疑动摇只是健忘的结果，现在，伤口又被撕裂开了，心里又渴望着报复了。而那个犯人，”伯爵提高了嗓门说，“此后听到他的消息吗？”

　　“噢，没有，当然没有。您知道，下面这两种情形他必定得遭遇一种，——他不是平跌下去便是竖跌下去，如果从五十尺的高度平跌下去，他立刻会摔死，如果竖跌下去，则脚上的铁球就会拉他到海底，他就永远留在那儿了，可怜的人！”

　　“那么你怜悯他吗？”伯爵说。

　　“我当然怜悯他，虽然他也是自作孽。”

　　“你是什么意思？”

　　“据说他本来是一个海军军官，因为参加拿破仑党才坐牢的。”

　　“的确！”伯爵重又自言自语道，“你是死里逃生的！那可怜的水手只活在讲述他故事的那些人记忆里。他那可怕的经历被人当作故事在屋角里传述着，当向导讲到他从空中被大海吞噬的时候，便使人颤栗发抖。”随后伯爵提高了声音又说，“你可知道他的名字吗？”

　　“噢，只知道是三十四号。”

　　“噢，维尔福，维尔福！”伯爵轻轻地说，“当你无法入眠的时候，我的灵魂一定常常使你想到这件事情！”

　　“您还想看什么吗，先生？”向导说。

　　“是的，如果你可以领我去看一下那可怜的长老房间的话。”

　　“啊！二十七号。”

　　“是的，二十七号。”伯爵复述一遍向导的话，他似乎听到长老的声音隔着墙壁在说。

　　“来，先生。”

　　“等一等，”基督山说，“我想再看一看这个房间。”

　　“好的，”向导说，“我碰巧忘了带这个房间的钥匙。”

　　“再回去拿吧。”

　　“我把火把留给您，先生。”

　　“不，带走吧，我能够在黑暗里看东西。”

　　“咦，您就象那三十四号一样。他们说，他是那样习惯于黑暗，竟能在他的黑牢最黑暗的角落里看出一枚针。”

　　“他需要十年时间才能练就那种功夫。”伯爵心里这样自语。

　　向导拿着火把走了，伯爵说得很对。在几秒钟以后，他对一切都看得象在白天看时一样的清晰。他向四周看看，完全看清了他曾呆过的黑牢。

　　“是的，”他说，“那是我常坐的石头，那墙上是我的肩膀留下的印记，那是我以头撞壁时所留下的痕迹。噢，那些数字！我记得清楚呀！这是我有一天用它来计算我父亲和美塞苔丝的年龄的，想知道当我出去的时候，父亲是否还活着，美塞苔丝是不是依然年轻，那次计算以后，我曾有过短暂的希望。我却没有计算到饥饿和背叛！”于是伯爵发出一声苦笑。

　　他在幻想中看到了他父亲的丧事和美塞苔丝的婚礼。在黑牢的另一面墙上，他看出一片刻划的痕迹，绿色的墙上依旧还可以看出那些白字。那些字是这样的，“噢，上帝呀，”他念道，“保留我的记忆吧！”

　　“噢，是的！”他喊道，“那是我临终时的祈祷，我那时不再祈求自由，而祈求记忆。我怕自己会发疯，忘了一切。噢，上帝呀，您保全了我的记忆！我感谢您！我感谢您！”

　　这当儿，墙上映出火把的光，向导走过来了。基督山向他迎上去。

　　“跟我来，先生。”向导说，他不上楼梯，领着伯爵从一条地道走到另一间黑牢的门口。到了那儿，另一些纪念又冲到伯爵脑子里。他的眼睛首先看到的是长老画在墙上、用来计算时间的子午线，然后他又看到那可怜的长老死时所躺的那张破床。这些东西不但没有激起伯爵在他自己的牢里的那种悲哀，反而使他的心里充满了一种柔和的感激的心情，他的眼睛里禁不注流下泪来。

　　“疯长老就曾关在那儿的，先生，这是那年轻人进来的地方，”向导指着那仍未填塞的洞口。“根据那块石头的外表，”

　　他继续说，“一位有学问的专家考证出那两个犯人大概已经互相往来了十年。可怜的人！那十年时间一定很难过的。”

　　唐太斯从口袋里摸出几块金路易，交给那个虽不认识他但却已两次对他表示同情的向导。向导接过来，心里以为那只几块银币，但火把的火使他看清了它们的真实价值。“先生，”他说，“您弄错啦，您给我的是金洋。”

　　“我知道。”

　　向导吃惊地望着伯爵。“先生，”他喊道，简直无法相信他的好运，“您的慷慨我无法理解！”

　　“噢，非常简单，我的好人，我也曾当过水手，你的故事在我听来比别人更感动。”

　　“那么，先生，既然您这样慷慨，我也应该送你一样东西。”

　　“你有什么东西送给我，我的朋友？贝壳吗？麦杆纺织的东西吗？谢谢你！”

　　“不，先生。不是那些，——是一样和这个故事有关的东西。”

　　“真的？”伯爵急切地问道，“是什么？”

　　“听我说，”向导说，“我想，‘在一个犯人住了十五年的牢房里，总是留有一些东西的。’所以我就开始敲墙壁。”

　　“呀！”基督山喊道，想起了长老藏东西的那两个地方。

　　“找了一些时候以后，我发觉床头和壁炉底下听来象是空的。”

　　“是的，”伯爵说，“是的。”

　　“我翻开石板，找到了——”

　　“一条绳梯和一些工具？”

　　“您怎么知道的？”向导惊奇地问道。

　　“我并不知道，我只是这样猜测，因为牢房里所发现的大多是那一类的东西。”

　　“是的，先生，是一条绳梯和一些工具。”

　　“你还留着吗？”

　　“不，先生，我把它卖给游客了，他们认为那是件很稀奇的东西，但我还留着一件东西。”

　　“是什么？”伯爵着急地问。

　　“象是一本书，写在布条子上的。”

　　“去把它拿来，我的好人，可能那是我感兴趣的东西，你放心好了。”

　　“我这就去拿，先生。”那向导出去了。

　　伯爵于是在那张死神使它变成了一座祭台的床前跪下来。“噢，我的再生之父呀！”他叹道，“您给了我自由、知识和财富，您，象天上的神一样，能分辨善恶，—— 如果死人和那些活人之间还能互相沟通的话，如果人死后的灵魂还能重访我们曾经生活和受苦的地方——那么，高贵的心呀！崇高的灵魂呀！那么，我求求您，为着您给我的父爱，为着我对您的服从，赐我一些征兆，赐我一些启示吧！除去我心中剩余的怀疑吧，那种怀疑如果不变成满足，也会变成悔恨的。”

　　伯爵低下头，两手合在一起。

　　“拿来了，先生。”背后传来向导的声音。

　　基督山打了一个寒颤，站起身来。向导递给他一卷布片，那些布片是法利亚长老的知识宝藏，这是法利亚长老论建立意太利统一王国的那篇文章的原稿。伯爵急忙拿过来，他的眼光落到题铭上，他读道，“主说：‘你将拔掉龙的牙齿，将狮子踩在你的脚下。’”

　　“啊！”他喊道，“这就是回答。谢谢您，我的父亲，谢谢您！”他伸手从口袋里摸出一只夹着十张一千法郎钞票的小皮夹。“喏，”他说，“这个皮夹送给你。”

　　“送给我？”

　　“是的，但有一个条件：你得等我走了以后才能打开来看，”于是，把他刚才找到的那卷布条藏在怀里——在他看来，它比最值钱的珠宝还更珍贵——他跑出地道，跳上船，喊道：“回马赛！”然后，他回头用眼睛盯住那座阴森森的牢狱。“该死，”他喊道，“那些关我到那座痛苦的监狱里去的人！该死，那些忘记我曾在那里的人！”

　　当他经过迦太兰村的时候，伯爵把头埋在大衣里，轻声呼唤一个女人的名字。他两次消除了疑虑。他用一种温柔的几乎近于爱恋的声音所呼唤的那个名字，是海黛。

　　上岸以后，伯爵向坟地走去，他相信在那儿一定可以找到莫雷尔。十年以前，他也曾虔敬地去找一座坟墓，但他枉费了一番心思。他带着千百万钱财回法国来的他，却没找到他那饿死的父亲的坟墓。老莫雷尔的确在那个地方插过一个十字架，但十字架早已倒了，掘坟的人已经把它烧毁，象他们的坟场里所有腐朽的木头十字架一样。而那可敬的商人就比较幸运了。他是在他儿女的怀抱里去世的；他们把他埋在先他两年逝世的妻子身边。两块大理石上分别刻着他们的名字，竖在一片小坟地的两边，四周围着栏杆，种着四棵柏树。

　　莫雷尔正靠在一棵柏树上，两眼直盯着坟墓。他悲痛欲绝，几乎失去了知觉。

　　“马西米兰，”伯爵说，“你不应该看坟墓，而应该看那儿。”他以手指天。

　　“死者是无所不在的，”莫雷尔说，“我们离开巴黎的时候，你是这样告诉过我吗？”

　　“马西米兰，”伯爵说，“你在途中要求我让你在马赛住几天。你现在还这样想吗？

　　“我什么都不想，伯爵，我只是想，我在这里可以比别处少一点儿痛苦。

　　“那也好，因为我必须得离开你了，但我还带着你的诺言呢，是不是？”

　　“啊，伯爵，我会忘了它的。”

　　“不，你不会忘记的，你要莫雷尔，因为你是一个讲信用的人，因为你曾经发过誓，而且你要重发一遍誓。”

　　“噢，伯爵，可怜可怜我吧！我是这样不幸。”

　　“我知道有一个人比你更不幸，莫雷尔。”

　　“不可能的！”

　　“唉！”基督山说，“这是我们人类的可怜的骄傲，每一个人都以为他自己比那在他身旁哭泣呻吟的人更痛苦。”

　　“一个人丧失了他在世界上一切所爱所希望的东西，谁还会比他更痛苦？”

　　“听着，莫雷尔，注意听。我认识一个人，他也象你一样，曾把他全部幸福的希望寄托在一个女人身上。他很年轻，有一个他所爱的老父，一个他的所恋慕的未婚妻。他们快要结婚了，但那时，命中一场使我们几乎要怀疑上帝公正的波折，夺去了他的爱人，夺去了他所梦想的未来，他被关了一间黑牢里。”

　　“啊！”莫雷尔说，：黑牢里的人迟早是可以出来的。”

　　“他在那儿住了十四年，莫雷尔。”伯爵把手放在那青年的肩头上说。

　　马西米兰打了一个寒颤。“十四年？”他自言自语地说。

　　“十四年！”伯爵重复说，“在那个期间，他有过许多绝望的时候。也象你一样，认为自己是最不幸的人，想要自杀。”

　　“是吗？”莫雷尔问道。

　　“是的，在他绝望到顶点的时候，上帝显灵了，——因为上帝已不再创造奇迹了。在一开始，他大概并没有在那个人身上显示出无穷的仁慈，因为蒙着泪水的眼睛看不清东西，最后，他接受了忍耐和等待。有一天，他神奇地离开了那座死牢，变成为有钱有势的人。他首先去找他的父亲，但他的父亲已经死了。”

　　“我的父亲也死了。”莫雷尔说。

　　“是的，但你的父亲是在你的怀抱里去世的，他有钱，受人尊敬，享受过快乐，享足了天年。他的父亲却死在穷苦、绝望、怀疑之中。当他的儿子在十年以后来找他的坟墓时候，他的坟墓无法辩认了，没有一个人能说，那儿躺着你深爱的父亲！”

　　“上帝啊！”莫雷尔叹道。

　　“所以他是一个比你更不幸的人，莫雷尔，因为他甚至连他父亲的坟墓都找不到了！”

　　“但他至少还有他所爱的那个女人。”

　　“你错了，莫雷尔，那个女人——”

　　“她死了吗？”

　　“比那更糟——她忘情负义，嫁给一个迫害她未婚夫的人了。所以，你看，莫雷尔，他是一个比你更不幸的情人。”

　　“他得到上帝的安慰了吗？”

　　“上帝至少给了他安宁。”

　　“他还希望再得到快乐吗？”

　　“他一直在追求着马西米兰。”

　　年轻人把头垂到他的胸前。“你牢记我的诺言吧，”他沉思了一下，把手伸向基督山说，“只是记得——”

　　“十月五日，莫雷尔，我在基督山岛上等你。在四日那天，一艘游艇会在巴斯蒂亚港等你，船名叫欧罗斯号。你把你的名字告诉船长，他就会带你来见我了。就这样约定了，是不是？”

　　“说定了，伯爵，我会照你的话做的，但你记得住十月五日——”

　　“孩子！”伯爵答道，“你不知道一个男子汉的承诺意味着什么！我对你讲过二十遍啦，假如你想在那一天死，我可以帮你的忙。莫雷尔，再见了！”

　　“你要离开我了吗？”

　　“是的，我在意大利有事情要办。我让你自己在这儿和不幸奋斗，独自和上帝派来迎他的选民的神鹰搏斗。甘密蒂的故事［希腊神话：甘密蒂是弗烈琪亚地方一个美丽而孤苦伶仃的牧羊童子，有一天，宇宙大神经过，看出他是一个可造之材，便激太阳神化为神鹰，飞到牧场上，把它抓到奥林匹斯山，叫他充当众神的司酒童子。—— 译注］不是一个神话，马西米兰，它是一个比喻。”

　　“你什么时候走？”

　　“立刻就走，汽船已经在那儿等着了，一个钟头以后，我就离开你很远啦。你可以陪我到港口去吗，马西米兰？”

　　“我悉听你的吩咐，伯爵。”

　　莫雷尔把伯爵送到港口，黑色的烟囱里已经冒出象鹅绒似的白色水蒸气。汽船不久就开航了，一小时后，正如伯爵所说的，烟囱里冒出的白烟消失在地平线上，与夜雾融在一起，分辩不清。