Respawned as The Count of Glow-Up-Chapter 266: Return to the Château d’If: II

The Count looked around, truly recognizing his old prison.

"Yes," he said softly. "There’s the stone where I used to sit. There’s the impression my shoulders left on the wall. There’s the mark of my blood from the day I smashed my head against the stone. Those figures on the wall, I remember making them. I calculated my father’s age to know if he’d still be alive when I got out. I calculated Mercédès’s age to know if she’d still be free."

His voice turned bitter. "After those calculations, I had one minute of hope. What I didn’t account for was hunger and betrayal."

A harsh laugh escaped him.

In his mind, he saw his father’s burial and Mercédès’s wedding to another man.

On the opposite wall, he noticed an inscription. White letters still visible against the green stone:

"O God, preserve my memory!"

"Yes," he cried out. "That was my only prayer at the end. I stopped begging for freedom, only for memory. I was terrified of going mad and forgetting everything. God, you preserved my memory. Thank you."

The torch’s light reflected on the walls, the guide was returning. Monte Cristo went to meet him.

"Follow me, sir."

Instead of climbing stairs, the guide led him through an underground passage to another entrance. Here, new thoughts assailed Monte Cristo. The first thing he saw was a meridian line drawn on the wall, the priest’s way of tracking time. Then he saw the remains of the bed where the poor prisoner had died.

Instead of causing anguish like his own cell had, this sight filled his heart with a gentle, grateful feeling. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

"This is where they kept the mad priest, sir. That opening is where the young man broke through."

The guide pointed at the hole, which had never been closed.

"Based on the stonework, some scholar figured the prisoners must have communicated for ten years. Poor souls. Those must have been long, weary years."

Dantès pulled some gold coins from his pocket and gave them to the man who had unknowingly pitied him twice.

The guide took them, thinking they were just cheap coins. But when the torchlight revealed their true value, his eyes went wide.

"Sir, you’ve made a mistake. You gave me gold."

"I know."

The caretaker stared at the Count in amazement. "Sir, I don’t understand your generosity!"

"It’s simple, my friend. I used to be a sailor, and your story moved me more than it would others."

"Then sir, since you’re so generous, I should offer you something in return."

"What could you possibly offer me? Seashells? Straw crafts? No thanks."

"No sir, something connected to this story."

"Really? What?"

"Listen. I thought to myself, ’Something always gets left behind in a cell occupied for fifteen years.’ So I started tapping on the walls and floor."

"Ah," Monte Cristo said, remembering the priest’s two hiding places.

"After searching, I found the floor sounded hollow near the head of the bed and by the fireplace."

"Yes," the Count said eagerly.

"I lifted the stones and found-"

"A rope ladder and some tools?"

"How did you know?" the guide asked in shock.

"I didn’t know. Just guessed. That’s the kind of thing usually found in prisoners’ cells."

"Exactly, a rope ladder and tools."

"Do you still have them?"

"No sir, I sold them to visitors who thought they were fascinating curiosities. But I kept something."

"What?" the Count asked impatiently.

"A kind of book, written on strips of cloth."

"Go get it immediately. If it’s what I think it is, you’ll be well rewarded."

"Right away, sir!"

The guide hurried out. The Count knelt beside the bed, which death had transformed into an altar.

"Oh, second father," he said, his voice breaking. "You gave me freedom, knowledge, and wealth. You understood good and evil like higher beings do. If anything of us remains after death, if the soul can still hear the voices of those left behind, if the dead can revisit the places where they lived and suffered, then noble heart, sublime soul, I beg you, give me a sign, some revelation! Remove this doubt from me. If it doesn’t turn into conviction, it will become remorse."

He bowed his head and clasped his hands together.

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

Monte Cristo jumped and stood up. The caretaker held out the strips of cloth on which the old priest had recorded his brilliant mind’s work. It was the manuscript of his great study of regional kingdoms and politics.

The Count grabbed it eagerly. His eyes immediately found the epigraph, and he read aloud, "You shall tear out the dragons’ teeth and trample the lions underfoot, says the Lord."

"Ah!" he exclaimed. "Here’s my answer. Thank you, father. Thank you!"

Feeling in his pocket, he pulled out a small wallet containing ten banknotes, each worth a thousand francs.

"Here, take this."

"You’re giving it to me?"

"Yes, but only if you promise not to open it until I’m gone."

Tucking the manuscript, more valuable to him than the richest jewel, into his coat, he rushed out of the corridor. Reaching his boat, he cried, "To the city!"

As he departed, he stared at the gloomy prison. "Woe to those who locked me in that wretched place," he said. "And woe to those who forgot I was there!"

As he passed the fishing village, the Count turned, buried his head in his cloak, and murmured a woman’s name. The victory was complete, he’d overcome his doubts twice now. The name he spoke with such tenderness, with something almost like love, was Haydée.

After landing, the Count headed toward the cemetery where he knew he’d find Morrel. Ten years ago, Monte Cristo himself had desperately searched for a tomb and searched in vain. Despite returning to his homeland with millions, he’d been unable to find his father’s grave, his father who had died of starvation. Morrel had placed a cross over the spot, but it had fallen and the groundskeeper had burned it like all the old wood in the churchyard.

Morrel’s father had been more fortunate. He’d died in his children’s arms and been buried beside his wife, who had passed two years earlier. Two large marble slabs with their names marked a small enclosed plot, shaded by four cypress trees.

Morrel was leaning against one of the trees, mechanically staring at the graves. His grief ran so deep he was barely conscious of his surroundings.

"Maximilian," the Count said gently, "you shouldn’t look at the graves. Look there instead." He pointed upward.

"The dead are everywhere," Morrel replied flatly. "Didn’t you tell me that yourself when we left Paris?"

"Maximilian, during our journey you asked to stay in the city for a few days. Do you still want to?"

"I have no desires, Count. I just think I might suffer less here than anywhere else."

"Good, because I have to leave you. But I’m taking your word with me, aren’t I?"

"Count, I’ll forget."

"No, you won’t. You’re a man of honor, Morrel. You’ve given your oath, and you’re about to give it again."

"Count, have pity on me. I’m so unhappy."

"I’ve known a man far more unfortunate than you, Morrel."

"Impossible!"

"Unfortunately," Monte Cristo said, "it’s human nature to always believe we’re more miserable than those suffering beside us."

"What could be worse than losing everything you loved and wanted in this world?"

"Listen carefully to what I’m about to tell you. I knew a man who, like you, had pinned all his hopes of happiness on a woman. He was young. He had an elderly father whom he loved and a fiancée he adored. He was about to marry her when fate, one of those cruel twists that might make us doubt God’s goodness if that same Providence didn’t later reveal that everything leads to a purpose, fate snatched away his love, destroyed his future, and threw him into a dungeon."

"A person can leave a dungeon in a week, a month, or a year," Morrel said.

"He stayed there fourteen years, Morrel." The Count placed his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

Maximilian shuddered. "Fourteen years," he whispered.

"Fourteen years," the Count repeated. "During that time, he experienced countless moments of despair. He too, like you, considered himself the most unfortunate man alive."

"And?"

"And at the peak of his despair, God helped him through human means. At first, maybe he didn’t recognize the Lord’s infinite mercy, but eventually he learned patience and waited. One day he miraculously escaped the prison, transformed, rich and powerful. His first thought was for his father. But his father was dead."

"My father is dead too," Morrel said.

"Yes, but your father died in your arms, happy, respected, wealthy, and full of years. His father died poor, desperate, nearly doubting God. When the son searched for the grave ten years later, the tomb had disappeared. No one could tell him, ’Your beloved father sleeps here.’"

"Oh!" Morrel exclaimed.

"So he was a more unfortunate son than you, Morrel. He couldn’t even find his father’s grave."

"But he still had the woman he loved?"

"You’re wrong, Morrel. That woman-"

"She was dead?"

"Worse. She was faithless. She’d married one of the men who’d persecuted her fiancé. So you see, he was a more unfortunate lover than you."

"And has he found consolation?"

"He’s at least found peace."

"Does he ever expect to be happy?"

"He hopes so, Maximilian."

The young man’s head dropped to his chest. After a moment of silence, he extended his hand to Monte Cristo.

"You have my promise," he said. "Just remember-"

"On October 5th, Morrel, I’ll expect you at the island. On the 4th, a yacht will wait for you in the port. It’ll be called the Eurus. Give your name to the captain, and he’ll bring you to me. Understood?"

"But Count, do you remember that October 5th is-"

"Child," the Count interrupted. "Don’t you know the value of a man’s word? I’ve told you twenty times, if you want to die that day, I’ll help you. Farewell, Morrel."

"You’re leaving me?"

"Yes. I have business elsewhere. I’m leaving you alone with your grief and with hope, Maximilian."

"When do you leave?"

"Immediately. The steamer is waiting. In an hour I’ll be far from you. Will you walk with me to the harbor?"

"I’m entirely yours, Count."

Morrel accompanied him to the port. White steam rose like a plume of feathers from the black smokestack. The steamer soon disappeared, and within an hour, just as the Count had said, it was barely visible on the horizon through the evening fog.