The Fifth of October
IT was about six o’clock in the evening; an opal-colored light, through which an autumnal sun shed its golden rays, streamed from heaven down on the blue sea. The heat of the day had gradually decreased, and a light breeze like the respiration of nature on awakening from the burning siesta of the south began to be felt; a delicious zephyr refreshing the coasts of the Mediterranean, and wafting from shore to shore the sweet perfume of the trees, mingled with the fresh smell of the sea.
A light yacht, chaste and elegant in its form, was gliding amidst the first dews of night over the immense lake, extending from Gibraltar to the Dardanelles, and from Tunis to Venice. The motion resembled that of the swan that opens its wings to the wind and seems to glide over the water. It advanced, at the same time, swiftly and gracefully, leaving behind it a phosphorescent track. By degrees the sun, whose last rays had faded, disappeared behind the western horizon; but, as though to prove the truth of the glittering dreams in heathen mythology, its indiscreet fires reappearing on the summit of each wave, seemed to reveal that the god of fire had just enfolded himself in the bosom of Amphitrite, who in vain endeavored to hide her lover beneath her azure mantle.
The yacht moved rapidly on, though there did not appear to be sufficient wind to ruffle the curling ringlets of a girl. Standing on the prow was a tall man, of a dark complexion, who saw with dilating eyes that they were approaching a dark mass of land in the shape of a cone, rising from the midst of the waves, like the hat of a Catalan.
“Is that Monte-Cristo?” asked the traveler, to whose orders the yacht was for the time submitted, in a melancholy voice.
“Yes, your excellency,” said the captain, “we have reached it!”
“We have reached it!” repeated the traveler, in an accent of indescribable sadness.
Then he added in a low tone, “Yes; that is the haven.”
And then he again plunged into a train of thought, the character of which was better revealed by a sad smile than it would have been by tears. A few minutes afterward a flash of light, which was extinguished instantly, was seen on the land, and the sound of fire-arms reached the yacht.
“Your excellency,” said the captain, “that was the land signal; will you answer it yourself?”
“What signal?”
The captain pointed toward the island, up the side of which ascended a volume of smoke, increasing as it rose.
“Ah, yes,” he said, as if awaking from a dream. “Give it to me.”
The captain gave him a loaded carbine; the traveler slowly raised it, and fired in the air. Ten minutes afterward, the sails were brailed, and they cast anchor about one hundred paces from a little harbor. The boat was already in the sea, loaded with four rowers and a pilot. The traveler descended and instead of sitting down at the stem of the boat, which had been decorated with a blue carpet for his accommodation, stood up with his arms crossed. The rowers waited, their oars half lifted out of the water, like birds drying their wings.
“Proceed,” said the traveler. The eight oars fell into the sea simultaneously without splashing a drop of water, and the boat, yielding to the impulsion, glided forward. In an instant they found themselves in a little creek, formed by a natural indentation; the boat touched a bottom of fine sand.
“Will your excellency be so good as to mount the shoulders of two of our men; they will carry you ashore?” The young man answered this invitation with a gesture of indifference, and stepping out of the boat, the sea immediately rose to his waist.
“Ah! your excellency,” murmured the pilot, “you should not have done so; our master will scold us for it.”
The young man continued to advance, following the sailors, who chose a firm footing. After about thirty paces they landed; the young man stamped on the ground to shake off the wet, and looked round for someone to show him his road, for it was quite dark. Just as he turned, a hand rested on his shoulder, and a voice, which made him shudder, exclaimed:
“Good-evening, Maximilian! you are punctual, thank you!”
“Ah! is it you, count?” said the young man, in an almost joyful accent, pressing Monte-Cristo’s hand with both his own.
“Yes; you see, I am as exact as you are. But you are dripping, my dear fellow; you must change your clothes, as Calypso said to Telem-achus. Come, I have a habitation prepared for you, in which you will soon forget fatigue and cold.”
Monte-Cristo perceived that the young man had turned round; indeed, Morrel saw with surprise that the men who had brought him had left without being paid, or uttering a word. Already the sound of their oars might be heard as they returned to the yacht.
“Oh, yes,” said the count, “you are looking for the sailors.”