The Count of Monte Cristo

Gaetano’s Shore Reconnaissance

Gaetano’s Shore Reconnaissance: After a whispered consultation, Gaetano strips to the waist, slips silently into the dark water, and swims ashore, leaving only a fading phosphorescent wake; the crew waits motionless with oars ready, and Franz quietly loads his two double-barrelled guns and rifle. Half an hour later Gaetano returns by the same luminous trail and reports that the shore party consists of four Spanish smugglers harboring two Corsican bandits fleeing the authorities. He admits that he himself occasionally aids such fugitives in exchange for safe landing spots, and assures Franz that smugglers are not thieves, though the bandits’ presence warrants caution.

Monte Cristo Shore Encounter

Monte Cristo Shore Encounter: Weighing the odds—four smugglers and two bandits matched against his own party—Franz orders the final approach, and Gaetano maneuvers the boat past the fire’s glare and into its illuminated circle, singing a fishing song whose chorus the crew takes up. The men ashore rise to inspect the new arrivals, then—with one sentry remaining on the beach bearing a carbine—return to roasting a goat. When the boat is within twenty paces, the sentry challenges them in Sardinian with “Who comes there?”; Franz coolly cocks both barrels of his gun while Gaetano responds in a dialect Franz cannot follow, setting up the negotiation that will decide their reception.

第三十一章 Italy: Sinbad the Sailor

In this chapter, Franz, a young Frenchman traveling incognito, lands on a deserted island where he is approached by a mysterious, pale figure known as “Sinbad the Sailor,” who invites him to supper on the condition that he be blindfolded. Franz is led into an opulent subterranean palace carved into the rock, where he finds a chamber lined with crimson and gold brocade and a magnificent marble dining room adorned with antique bas-reliefs, statues, and a splendidly appointed table of silver and Japanese china. Over the lavish meal, the enigmatic host—who is dressed in Tunisian costume and attended by a mute Nubian servant named Ali, whose life he once saved from the Bey of Tunis—speaks of himself as a “king of all creation” who wanders freely and dispenses a silent, personal form of justice, hinting through his pallor, voice, and fleeting ferocity at some profound past suffering beneath his present splendor.