The abbé did not know Monte Cristo, but Dantès knew it. He had often sailed past this island, which lies twenty-five miles from Pianosa, between Corsica and Elba; once he had even dropped anchor there. The island was, had always been and is still utterly deserted: it is a rock of almost conical shape, which appears to have been thrown up by some volcanic cataclysm from the depths to the surface of the sea.

Now that the treasure, which had been for so long the object of the abbé's meditations, might ensure the future happiness of the man whom Faria loved truly as a son, it doubled in worth in his eyes. Every day, he dwelt on the amount, explaining to Dantès how much a man could do nowadays, in the way of good to his friends, with a fortune of thirteen or fourteen millions. Then Dantès' face clouded, because he recalled the oath of vengeance that he had taken and he considered how much, nowadays, with a fortune of thirteen or fourteen millions, a man could do in the way of harm to his enemies.

Dantès made a plan of the island for Faria, and Faria gave Dantès advice on the best way to recover the treasure. But Dantès was considerably less enthusiastic and above all less confident than the old man. Admittedly he was now quite certain that Faria was not mad, and the means by which he had arrived at the discovery that had made others believe him insane only added to Dantès' admiration for him. But he could also not believe that the cache, assuming that it had ever existed, existed still; and, while he did not consider the treasure as a chimera, he did at least think of it as absent.

"You see," the young man told Faria wistfully. "God wishes to deprive me even of the merit of what you call my devotion to you. I promised to stay with you for ever and I am no longer free to break my promise. I shall no more have the treasure than you will: neither one of us will leave this place. Moreover, my true treasure, my friend, is not the one that awaits me under the dark rocks of Monte Cristo, but your presence, and the time that we spend together for five or six hours a day, in spite of our jailers; it is those rays of understanding that you have shone into my brain and the languages that you have implanted in my memory and which now grow there, putting out further branches of language in their turn. The many sciences that you have brought within my grasp by the depth of your own knowledge of them and the clarity of the basic principles which you have derived from them -- this is my treasure, my friend, this is what you have given to make me rich and happy. Believe me, and console yourself; this is worth more to me than tons of gold and trunkloads of diamonds, even if they were not uncertain, like those clouds which can be seen in the morning above the sea and which appear to be dry land, but which evaporate, disperse and fade away as one approaches them. Having you close to me for as long as possible, hearing your eloquent voice as it enlightens my mind, re-tempering my soul, making my whole being capable of great and awe-inspiring deeds if ever I should be free, filling my mind and soul so thoroughly that the despair to which I was ready to give way when I met you can no longer find any place in them -- this is my fortune. It is not a chimera. I truly owe it to you, and all the sovereigns on earth, were they all Cesare Borgias, could not succeed in taking it away from me."

However, as if destiny wanted to deprive the prisoners of their last hope and let them know that they were condemned to prison for life, a new misfortune struck. The gallery beside the sea, which had been crumbling for many years, was rebuilt, the stone courses were repaired and the hole that had already been half excavated by Dantès was filled with huge blocks of stone. Without the precautions that (as the reader will remember) had been suggested to Dantès by the abbé, the misfortune would have been greater still, because the attempted escape would have been discovered and they would certainly have been separated. In any case, a new door, stronger and more impenetrable than the rest, had been closed before them.

For the two unfortunates, these days, if not exactly happy, did at least speed past as quickly as those that followed. Faria, who had kept silent about the treasure for many years, now spoke incessantly about it. As he had predicted, he remained paralysed in the right arm and left leg, and had almost lost any hope of being able to enjoy the fortune himself, but he continually dreamed that his young companion might be freed, or escape, and would enjoy it for him. Fearing that the letter might be mislaid or lost one day, he obliged Dantès to learn it by heart; and, since the first day, Dantès had known it from the first word to the last. Then he destroyed the second half, convinced that if the first was found, no one would be able to understand its true meaning. Sometimes whole hours passed in which Faria gave Dantès instructions, to be carried out when he was free. And, once he was free, from the very day, hour, instant of his freedom, he must have no thought except that of somehow reaching Monte Cristo, remaining alone there under some pretext and, once there, once alone, trying to find the wonderful grottoes and searching the spot indicated in the letter: this, you may remember, was the furthest angle of the second opening.

One night Edmond woke up with a start, thinking he had heard a cry. He opened his eyes and tried to penetrate the darkness. He faintly heard his name; or, rather, a plaintive voice trying to speak his name. He rose up on his bed, sweat rising to his forehead, and listened. There was no doubt. The cry was coming from his friend's dungeon.

Meanwhile, the hours passed, if not quickly, at least bearably. Faria, as we said, had not recovered the use of his hand and foot, but his mind was perfectly clear and, apart from the moral precepts which we have mentioned, he had taught his young companion the patient and noble craft of the prisoner, which is to make something out of nothing. So they were constantly occupied, Faria to ward off old age, Dantès in order to forget a past that was now almost extinct, and which only hovered in the furthest depths of his memory like a distant light flickering in the darkness. So time passed, as it does for those lives which have remained untroubled by misfortune and which continue calmly and mechanically under the eye of Providence. But beneath this calm surface, in the young man's heart, and also perhaps in that of the older one, there were many suppressed emotions and stifled sighs, which emerged when Faria was alone and Edmond had gone back to his own cell.

He moved his bed, pushed aside the stone, rushed into the passage and reached the far end; the paving-stone was up.

"Good God!" he muttered. "Could it be…?"

Faria still had enough strength to restrain him.

Edmond cried out in pain and sorrow, and -- completely losing his head -- ran to the door, shouting: "Help! Help!"

"Silence!" he said. "Otherwise you are lost. From now on we must think only of you, my child, and of how to make your captivity bearable or your flight possible. It would take you years by yourself to do alone all that I have done here, and it would be destroyed at once if our warders learned about the meetings between us. In any case, be calm, dear friend. The dungeon that I leave will not remain empty for long: some other unfortunate will come to take my place. This other man will look on you as a guardian angel. He may be young, strong and patient like yourself, he may help you in your escape, while I would only hinder you. You will no longer have half a corpse tied to you, impeding all your movements. Decidedly, God is at last doing something for you: he is giving you more than he is taking away. It is time I was dead."

In the vague, shimmering light of the lamp (which has already been mentioned), Edmond could see the old man: pale, still standing, clinging to his wooden bedpost. His face was already contorted by those fearful symptoms that Edmond now recognized, which had so terrified him when he saw them for the first time.

"So, my friend," said Faria, in a resigned voice, "you understand? I don't need to tell you anything."

He picked up the leg of the bed and took out the flask, still one-third full of red liquid.

Edmond could only clasp his hands and exclaim: "Oh, my friend, be quiet!" Then, recovering himself after the first shock and the old man's dispiriting words, he said: "I have already saved you once, I can save you again."

"Look, we still have some of the life-giving draught. Quickly, tell me what I must do this time. Are there any new instructions? Please tell me, my friend, I am listening."

"Yes, yes! I shall save you!"

"There is no longer any hope," Faria replied, shaking his head. "No matter; God wants Man, whom he has created and in whose heart he has so profoundly entrenched a love for life, to do all he can to preserve an existence that is sometimes so painful, but always so dear to him."

"Well, then, you may try. I am starting to feel cold and can feel the blood rushing to my head. The awful shivering that makes my teeth chatter and seems to unhinge my bones has begun to spread through my body. In five minutes the seizure will strike me, and in a quarter of an hour I shall be nothing but a corpse."

"Do as you did before, only do not wait so long. All the springs of my life are by now worn out and death" (indicating his paralysed arm and leg) "will only have half its work left to do. If, after pouring twelve drops -- instead of ten -- into my mouth, you observe that I am still not coming to, then give me the rest. Now, take me to my bed. I cannot stand up any longer."

"Oh!" Dantès cried sorrowfully, his heart smitten.

Edmond took the old man in his arms and put him on the bed.

"But above all, listen to what I am telling you in these final moments: the Spadas' treasure does exist. God has abolished all distance and every obstacle for me: I can see it, at the bottom of the second grotto; my eyes penetrate the depths of the earth and are dazzled by such riches. If you manage to escape, remember that the poor abbé, whom everyone believed mad, was not so. Hasten to Monte Cristo, take advantage of our fortune, enjoy it -- you have suffered enough."

The young man fell to his knees, pressing his head against the old man's bed.

"Now, my friend," said Faria, "the only consolation of my unhappy life, you whom heaven has given me -- late, but given me none the less -- an inestimable present, for which I thank it… at this moment when we are to be separated for ever, I wish you all the happiness and prosperity that you deserve: my son, I bless you!"

"Be quiet, be quiet," the dying man muttered. "If you can save me, we must not be separated."

A violent trembling interrupted his words. Dantès looked up and saw the eyes becoming bloodshot: it was as though a wave of blood had flowed up from the chest to the forehead.

"Farewell, farewell," the old man murmured, convulsively grasping the young one's hand. "Adieu!"

"Not yet, not yet," Dantès cried. "Oh, God, do not abandon us. Help him! Help! Help…"

"Do not be deceived: I am suffering less, because I have less strength in me to suffer. At your age, you have faith in life; it is a privilege of youth to believe and to hope. But old men see death more clearly. Here it is! It is coming… it is the end… my life is going… my reason is clouded… Dantès, your hand… Adieu, adieu!" And rising in one final effort of his whole being, he said: "Monte Cristo! Do not forget Monte Cristo!"

"You are right. Oh, yes! Have no fear, I shall save you! And, though you are suffering a great deal, you seem to suffer less than the first time."

Dantès took the lamp and put it by the head of the bed on a jutting stone, so that its flickering flame cast a strange and fantastic light on these twisted features and this stiff, inert body. Staring directly at it, he waited imperturbably for the moment when he could administer the life-saving medicine.

At this, he fell back on the bed. The fit was terrible. All that remained on the bed of pain in place of the intelligent being that had lain there a moment before were twisted limbs, swollen eyes, bloody froth and a motionless corpse.

He waited ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, half an hour: there was no movement. Trembling, his hair standing on end, his forehead bathed in cold sweat, he counted the seconds by the beating of his heart.

When he thought it was time, he took the knife, prised apart the lips, which offered less resistance than they had the first time, and counted the ten drops one by one. Then he waited. The phial still contained about twice the amount that he had poured from it.

Then he thought it was time to try the last resort: he brought the phial to Faria's violet lips and, without needing to prise apart the jaw, which was still open, he emptied it of all its contents.

The medicine produced an immediate effect, galvanizing the old man with a violent shudder through all his limbs. His eyes re-opened with a terrifying expression, he let out a sigh that was closer to a shout, then the whole trembling body relapsed gradually into immobility. Only the eyes remained open.

Half an hour, an hour, an hour and a half passed. During this hour and a half of anguish, Edmond leant over, with his hand pressed against his friend's heart, and felt the body gradually grow cold and the beating of the heart become more muffled and more dull. At last, nothing remained. The last trembling of the heart ceased and the face became livid; the eyes stayed open but lifeless.

It was six in the morning. Day began to break and its pale light, penetrating the dungeon, dimmed the dying light of the lamp. Strange shadows passed across the face, at times giving it the appearance of life. While this struggle between day and night continued, Dantès could still doubt, but as soon as day triumphed he knew for certain that he was alone with a corpse.

Then a deep and invincible terror seized him. He no longer dared to hold the hand that dangled outside the bed, he no longer dared to look into those staring white eyes, which he tried several times to close, but in vain; they always reopened. He put out the lamp, hid it carefully and made his retreat, replacing the stone above his head as best he could.

This morning, he began his round with Dantès. After his cell, he went to Faria's, bringing breakfast and fresh linen. Nothing in the man's manner indicated that he knew anything about the accident that had occurred. He went out.

He was just in time. The jailer was about to appear.

The other warders soon entered. Then you could hear the heavy, regular footsteps typical of soldiers, even when they are off duty. Behind the soldiers came the governor.

Dantès was now seized with an unspeakable impatience to know what would happen in his unfortunate friend's cell; so he went back down the underground passage and arrived in time to hear the turnkey's cries, as he called for help.

"Since he is a churchman," said one of the first two voices, "perhaps they will go to some extra expense for him."

Edmond listened to the sound of the bed moving as they shook the body, then the governor's voice ordering water to be thrown in its face and, seeing that despite this the prisoner was not coming to, demanding the doctor.

"Well, well, then!" one of them said. "The madman has gone to find his treasure. Bon voyage!"

The governor went out and a few words of compassion reached Dantès' ears, mixed with ironic laughter.

"Winding-sheets are not expensive at the Château d'If," remarked a third voice.

"For all his millions he won't have enough to pay for his winding-sheet," said another.

Edmond listened and did not miss a word, but he understood very little of what was said. Soon the voices faded and he decided that the men had left the cell. However, he did not dare go in: they might have left a turnkey to guard the body. So he remained silent and motionless, hardly daring to breathe.

"In that case he will have the honour of a sack."

"I am sad to hear it," the governor said, in reply to the doctor's confirmation of the old man's death. "He was a mild and inoffensive prisoner, who delighted us with his follies, and was above all easy to guard."

"As for that," said the warder, "we could not have guarded him at all and I guarantee that this one would have stayed here fifty years without once attempting to escape."

The doctor diagnosed the patient's condition and declared him dead. The questions and answers were delivered with a nonchalance that infuriated Dantès: it seemed to him that everyone should feel at least part of his own affection for the poor abbé.

When someone returned, it was the governor, followed by the doctor and several officers. There was a brief silence: obviously the doctor was going up to the bed and examining the body. Then the questions began.

"However," the governor continued, "as I am responsible in this matter, I think that, certain as you are -- and I don't doubt your competence -- it is important as soon as possible to ensure that the prisoner is truly dead."

There was a moment of utter silence during which Dantès, still listening, guessed that the doctor must be examining the body for a second time.

There was a further moment's silence, then the sound of burning flesh, emitting a heavy, sickening odour which even penetrated the wall behind which Dantès was listening, horrified. At the smell of burning human flesh, sweat bathed the young man's brow and he thought that he was about to faint.

"You can set your mind entirely at rest," he said shortly. "He is dead, I guarantee it."

"But as you know, Monsieur," the governor insisted, "we are not satisfied in such cases with a simple examination; so, despite all appearances, please complete your duties and carry out the formalities prescribed by law."

"Let the irons be heated," said the doctor. "But, in truth, this is a quite useless precaution."

The order to heat the irons made Dantès shudder. He heard steps hurrying back and forth, the door grating on its hinges, some comings and goings inside the cell and, a few moments later, a turnkey returning and saying: "Here is the brazier with a hot iron."

"Wasn't he called Faria?" asked one of the officers accompanying the governor.

"Yes, Monsieur, and he claimed that it was an old family. He was certainly very well educated and even quite reasonable on any matter not touching his treasure; on that, it must be said, he was intractable."

"Have you ever had to complain about him?" the governor asked the jailer responsible for bringing the abbé's food.

"It is an affliction which we call monomania," said the doctor.

"Yes, yes, have no fear, he will be decently shrouded in the newest sack we can find. Does that satisfy you?"

"You see, governor: he is indeed dead," said the doctor. "A burn on the heel is conclusive: the poor idiot is cured of his folly and delivered from his captivity."

"Ah, ah! I didn't know that he was a colleague," said the doctor; the he added, with a laugh: "I hope, governor, that you will treat him accordingly?"

"Never, governor," the jailer replied. "Never, not the slightest! On the contrary: at one time he used to entertain me greatly by telling me stories; and one day, when my wife was ill, he even gave me a recipe which cured her."

"Of course, but hurry. I cannot stay all day in this cell."

"Must we carry out this final formality in your presence, Monsieur?" asked a turnkey.

Dantès heard further comings and goings; then, a moment later, the sound of cloth being rumpled. The bed grated on its springs, there was a heavy step on the paving like that of a man lifting a burden, then the bed creaked again under the weight that was returned to it.

"Will there be a Mass?" asked one of the officers.

"Until this evening, then," said the governor.

"Impossible," the governor replied. "The prison chaplain came to me yesterday to ask for leave to go on a short journey for one week to Hyères, and I told him that I could take care of my prisoners for that time. The poor abbé shouldn't have been in such a hurry, then he would have had his requiem."

"Pooh!" said the doctor, with the customary impiety of his profession. "He is a churchman. God will consider his state and not give hell the satisfaction of receiving a priest."

This ill-judged quip was greeted with a burst of laughter. And meanwhile the preparation of the corpse continued.

The footsteps and the voices faded, Dantès heard the groaning lock on the door and its creaking bolts, and a silence more melancholy than solitude, the silence of death, fell over all, penetrating deep into the young man's soul. Then he slowly raised the paving-stone with his head and looked around the cell. It was empty. Dantès emerged from the tunnel.

"Around ten or eleven, of course."

"Till this evening, then," the governor said, when it was completed.

"Should we guard the body?"

"At what time?" the turnkey asked.

"Why? We shall lock the cell as if he were alive, that's all."