The door opened, and a dim light reached Dantès’ eyes through the coarse sack that covered him; he saw two shadows approach his bed, a third remaining at the door with a torch in its hand. The two men, approaching the ends of the bed, took the sack by its extremities.
“He’s heavy, though, for an old and thin man,” said one, as he raised the head.
“They say every year adds half a pound to the weight of the bones,” said another, lifting the feet.
“Have you tied the knot?” inquired the first speaker.
“What would be the use of carrying so much more weight?” was the reply, “I can do that when we get there.”
“Yes, you’re right,” replied the companion.
“What’s the knot for?” thought Dantès.
They deposited the supposed corpse on the bier. Edmond stiffened himself in order to play the part of a dead man, and then the party, lighted by the man with the torch, who went first, ascended the stairs.
Suddenly he felt the fresh and sharp night air, and Dantès knew that the mistral was blowing. It was a sensation in which pleasure and pain were strangely mingled.
The bearers went on for twenty paces, then stopped, putting the bier down on the ground. One of them went away, and Dantès heard his shoes striking on the pavement.
“Where am I?” he asked himself.
“Really, he is by no means a light load!” said the other bearer, sitting on the edge of the handbarrow.