“Perhaps!” exclaimed Dantès, in grief-stricken tones.
“Help! help!” cried the abbé; “I—I—die—I———”
So sudden and violent was the fit, that the unfortunate prisoner was unable to complete the sentence began: a violent convulsion shook his whole frame, his eyes started from their sockets, his mouth was drawn on one side, his cheeks became purple, he struggled, foamed, dashed himself about, and uttered the most dreadful cries, which, however, Dantès prevented from being heard by covering his head with the blanket; the fit lasted two hours, then, more helpless than an infant, and colder and paler than marble, more crushed and broken than a reed trampled under foot, he stretched himself out as though in the agonies of death, and became of the ghastly hue of the tomb.
Edmond waited till life seemed extinct in the body of his friend; then taking up the chisel, he with difficulty forced open the closely fixed jaws, carefully poured the appointed number of drops down the rigid throat, and anxiously awaited the result.
An hour passed away without the old man’s giving the least sign of returning animation; Dantès began to fear he had delayed too long ere he administered the remedy, and, thrusting his hands into his hair, continued gazing on the lifeless features of his friend in an agony of despair. At length a slight colour tinged the livid cheeks, consciousness returned to the dull, open eyeballs; a faint sigh issued from the lips, and the sufferer made a feeble effort to move.
“He is saved!—he is saved!” cried Dantès, in a paroxysm of delight.
The sick man was not yet able to speak, but he pointed with evident anxiety towards the door. Dantès listened, and plainly distinguished the approaching steps of the gaoler; it was therefore near seven o’clock; but Edmond’s anxiety had put all thoughts of time out of his head.
The young man sprang to the entrance, darted through it, carefully drawing the stone over the opening, and hurried to his cell. He had scarcely done so before the door opened and disclosed to the gaoler’s inquisitorial gaze the prisoner seated as usual on the side of his bed.
Almost before the key had turned in the lock, and before the departing steps of the gaoler had died away in the long corridor he had to traverse, Dantès, whose restless anxiety concerning his friend left him no desire to touch the food brought him, hurried back to the abbé’s chamber, and raising the stone by pressing his head against it, was soon beside the sick man’s couch.
Faria had now fully regained his consciousness, but he still lay helpless and exhausted on his miserable bed.
“I did not expect to see you again,” said he feebly to Dantès.
“And why not?” asked the young man; “did you fancy yourself dying?”
“No, I had no such idea; but, knowing that all was ready for your flight, I considered you had availed yourself of it and were gone.”
The deep glow of indignation suffused the cheeks of Dantès.
“And did you really think so meanly of me,” cried he, “as to believe I would depart without you?”
“At least,” said the abbé, “I now see how wrong such an opinion would have been. Alas! alas! I am fearfully exhausted and debilitated by this attack.”
“Be of good cheer!” replied Dantès. “Your strength will return;” and as he spoke he seated himself on the bed beside Faria and tenderly chafed his chilled hands. The abbé shook his head.
“The former of these fits,” said he, “lasted but half an hour. At the termination of which I experienced no other feeling than a great sensation of hunger; and I rose from my bed without requiring the least help. Now I can neither move my right arm nor leg, and my head seems uncomfortable, proving a rush of blood to the brain. The next of these fits will either carry me off or leave me paralysed for life.”
“No, no,” cried Dantès. “You are mistaken—you will not die! And your third attack (if, indeed, you should have another) will find you at liberty. We shall save you another time, as we have done this, only with a better chance, because we shall be able to command every requisite assistance.”
“My good Edmond,” answered the abbé, “be not deceived. The attack which has just passed away condemns me for ever to the walls of a prison. None can fly from their dungeon but those who can walk.”
“Well, well, perhaps just now you are not in a condition to effect your escape; but there is no hurry; we have waited so long we can very easily defer our purpose a little longer; say a week, a month,—two, if necessary; by that time you will be quite well and strong; and as it only remains with us to fix the hour and minute, we will choose the first instant that you feel able to swim, to execute our project.”
“I shall never swim again,” replied Faria. “This arm is paralysed; not for a time, but for ever. Lift it, and judge by its weight if I am mistaken.”
The young man raised the arm, which fell back by its own weight perfectly inanimate and helpless. A sigh escaped him.
“You are convinced now, Edmond, are you not?” asked the abbé. “Depend upon it, I know what I say. Since the first attack I experienced of this malady I have continually reflected on it. Indeed, I expected it, for it is a family inheritance; both my father and grandfather having been taken off by it. The physician who prepared for me the remedy I have twice successfully taken was no other than the celebrated Cabanis; and he predicted a similar end for me.”
“The physician may be mistaken!” exclaimed Dantès. “And as for your poor arm, what difference will that make in our escape? Never mind, if you cannot swim I can take you on my shoulders and swim for both of us.”
“My son,” said the abbé, “you who are a sailor and a swimmer must know as well as I do, that a man so loaded would sink ere he had advanced fifty yards in the sea. Cease, then, to allow yourself to be duped by vain hopes, that even your own excellent heart refuses to believe in. Here I shall remain till the hour of my deliverance arrives: and that in all human probability, will be the hour of my death. As for you, who are young and active, delay not on my account, but fly—go—I give you back your promise.”
“It is well,” said Dantès. “And, now hear my determination also.” Then rising and extending his hand with an air of solemnity over the old man’s head, he slowly added, “Here I swear to remain with you so long as life is spared to you, and that death only shall divide us.”
Faria gazed fondly on his noble-minded but single-hearted young friend, and read in his honest, open countenance, ample confirmation of truthfulness, as well as sincere, affectionate, and faithful devotion.
“Thanks, my child,” murmured the invalid, extending the one hand of which he still retained the use. “Thanks for your generous offer, which I accept as frankly as it was made.” Then, after a short pause, he added, “You may one of these days reap the reward of your disinterested devotion; but as I cannot, and you will not, quit this place, it becomes necessary to fill up the excavation beneath the soldier’s gallery; he might, by chance, find out the hollow sound produced by his footsteps over the excavated ground, and call the attention of his officer to the circumstance; that would bring about a discovery which would inevitably lead to our being separated. Go, then, and set about this work, in which, unhappily, I can offer you no assistance; keep at it all night, if necessary, and do not return here tomorrow till after the gaoler has visited me. I shall have something of the greatest importance to communicate to you.”
Dantès took the hand of the abbé in his, and affectionately pressed it. Faria smiled encouragingly on him, and the young man retired to his task filled with a religious determination faithfully and unflinchingly to discharge the vow which bound him to his afflicted friend.