Ten years had elapsed since that awful night when Monte-Cristo, with blanched hair, carried away the body of his only son.
A man stood alone on a rock on the island of Monte-Cristo. And this man was Edmond Dantès. For ten years he had lived on this rock. In all that time he had not seen a human face nor heard a human voice, except at rare intervals when some ship, driven from her course by contrary winds, sent her boats to this island for water. Then Monte-Cristo, concealing himself, watched these men and heard their joyous laughter.
Once, when Monte-Cristo had been on the rock eight years, he saw a ship coming toward it at full sail. It was not driven there by contrary winds or by a storm, and Monte-Cristo saw a man on deck surveying the island through a glass. Concealing himself he saw several men, whom he did not know, land, and search the island.
It will be remembered that long before, Ali and Bertuccio had, by their master's orders, blown up the grottos, the last vestiges of the Spada treasures.
He saw these men sound the rocks and try them with pickaxes. They were adventurers, who knew something of what the island had contained, but yet they found nothing. Monte-Cristo contrived to get near them without their knowledge. They were disputing, one insisting that the treasure was "there," and he laid his finger on a plan he had drawn.
"Have you not heard," said the other, "that the island was inhabited?"
"Sailors say that they often see at sunset a tall form on these rocks."
"An optical delusion."
"No—these sailors know what they say, but Italians are inclined to carry their religion into everything, so they call this form the Abbé of Monte-Cristo."