The island was familiar to the crew of La Jeune Amélie,—it was one of her regular haunts. As to Dantès, he had passed it on his voyage to and from the Levant, but never touched at it. He questioned Jacopo.
“Where shall we pass the night?” he inquired.
“Why, on board the tartan,” replied the sailor.
“Should we not do better in the grottos?”
“What grottos?”
“Why, the grottos—caves of the island.”
“I do not know of any grottos,” replied Jacopo.
The cold sweat sprang forth on Dantès’ brow.
“What, are there no grottos at Monte Cristo?” he asked.
“None.”
For a moment Dantès was speechless; then he remembered that these caves might have been filled up by some accident, or even stopped up, for the sake of greater security, by Cardinal Spada. The point was, then, to discover the hidden entrance. It was useless to search at night, and Dantès therefore delayed all investigation until the morning. Besides, a signal made half a league out at sea, and to which La Jeune Amélie replied by a similar signal, indicated that the moment for business had come.
The boat that now arrived, assured by the answering signal that all was well, soon came in sight, white and silent as a phantom, and cast anchor within a cable’s length of shore.
Then the landing began. Dantès reflected, as he worked, on the shout of joy which, with a single word, he could evoke from all these men, if he gave utterance to the one unchanging thought that pervaded his heart; but, far from disclosing this precious secret, he almost feared that he had already said too much, and by his restlessness and continual questions, his minute observations and evident preoccupation, aroused suspicions. Fortunately, as regarded this circumstance at least, his painful past gave to his countenance an indelible sadness, and the glimmerings of gayety seen beneath this cloud were indeed but transitory.