In the Pantheon of literary gods, Alexandre Dumas (1802-1870) stands beneath its dome like a bronze colossus. Even illiterates know his name; and he remains the most widely read French author in the world.

Dumas was blessed with an enormous intellect and exceptional memory, invaluable gifts for one who would singularly create a romantic fictional history of France. He combined immense charm with “imperturbable affability and a barbed wit”; the most adept verbal hatchet-men of his day were wary of his tongue.

He also possessed Herculean stamina: after an evening of revelry he would stop by his study, often remaining through that night and the entire next day. (He wrote standing up, claiming he could catnap in that position, five minutes of shut-eye restoring him sufficiently for several more hours.)

His appetite in all things was huge: women, work, travel, and the pleasures of the kitchen (he composed exotic cookbooks simply to relax). A womanizer of the first order, he was no hypocrite. Upon returning home to find his wife in bed with his good friend, Roger de Beauvoir, he placidly pulled on his nightshirt and patiently observed: "It's a cold night. Move over and make room for me."

In 1838, after early success as a playwright, Dumas turned his attention to novels. And the timing was perfect! He was among the first—along with Honoré de Balzac and Eugène Sue—to profitably exploit the possibilities of roman feuilleton: the serial book.

With the lifting of press censorship (after Waterloo and a return to the monarchy: Louis XVIII) the newspaper business exploded. Serializing was a sure way to increase circulation. Appearing as installments, the complete story would later be sold in volume form. (Charles Dickens published this same way.)

Authors were paid by the line and that is why books of this era were so lengthy. As a master dialogist, Dumas knew how keep the action moving, which also served to extend his column inches to a “profitable maximum”—and he was unusually good at “teaser endings.” In this sense these stories were not unlike “chapter-plays” at Saturday matinées during Hollywood’s Golden Age: Flash Gordon, Buck Rogers, and the rest.

Soon his fame surpassed even his most celebrated contemporaries. Imposing of height and girth, something of a fashion plate, and with a skin tone the result of mixed blood, he was easy to spot. (His grandfather, of minor Norman nobility, settled in San-Domingo—today the Dominican Republic and Haiti; his paternal grandmother, Marie-Cessette, had been a black slave in the French colony.) When sighted, Parisians would cry out, “Dumas Père; Dumas Père!” Father Dumas! He was also known as the “Prince of Paris.”

The Count of Monte-Cristo is Dumas’ most famous book after The Three Musketeers (both were written during 1844-1845). Set against the flaming years at the close of the Napoleonic era, it has held readers spellbound for 160 years.

The “Back Story”: There are two “legends” as to the origin of the Monte Cristo story in Dumas’ mind—or that of his most famous collaborator, history professor, Auguste Maquet (1813–1888). Dumas’ literary ambitions were so grand he needed ghostwriters. Maquet proposed plots and wrote elaborate outlines, then The Master added the details, dialogue, and final chapters, all with his own trademark flourish.

Dumas was an acquaintance of Jérôme Bonaparte, the emperor’s brother, whose younger son he often took on short educational journeys. (Dumas’ father had been a general in Napoleon’s army.) One such voyage was to Elba. Sailing home Dumas spotted another island, the deserted Monte-Carlo, and began thinking about writing something in remembrance of this trip.

It is also claimed Dumas was inspired by an old newspaper account he (or Maquet) discovered about a shoemaker named Francois Picaud—who lived in Paris in 1807 and was engaged to a wealthy woman. Four jealous friends accused him of spying for England. He was unjustly imprisoned for seven years, during which a dying “fellow unfortunate” bequeathed to him a treasure hidden in Milan. Once free he located it, returned to Paris with a new identity, and spent ten years getting his revenge.

Both tales work for me; and in all likelihood each contains some truth.

The Plot in a Nutshell: Nineteen-year-old Edmond Dàntes is first mate on the trading vessel Pharaon. Returning to Marseilles, the mortally ill Captain Leclère commands Dàntes to anchor off the Isle of Elba—home to exiled Napoleon—and deliver a package. Later, when Monsieur Morrell, the ship’s owner, elevates young Edmond to the captaincy, its purser, Danglars—a nasty piece of work who believes the promotion should have been his—sets out to destroy him. The stopover at Elba gives him what he needs.

Dàntes is about to marry his fiancée, the stunning Mercédès. Her cousin, Fernand Mondego, is also desperately in love with her, making him Danglars’ ready ally. Together they send an anonymous letter to deputy prosecutor, Villefort, accusing Edmond of being a courier for “the Bonapartist party of Paris.”

Edmond is arrested at his betrothal feast and appears before Villefort (whose father remains a partisan of “the usurper”). A letter Dàntes brought back from Elba is addressed to Monsieur Noirtier, 13 Rue Coq Héron. “If he knows what’s in this letter,” thought Villefort, “and if he ever learns that Noirtier is (my) father, I’m ruined, ruined forever!” So, he condemns Edmond to rot in the Château d’If: a bleak, impregnable fortress offshore of Marseilles, the Devil’s Island of its day. He will not emerge until fourteen years later.

After years in solitary an old priest, Abbé Faria, tunnels his way into Dàntes’ lonely cell. Faria was once secretary to Cardinal Spada—the last member of a once powerful Roman family. In 1807, shortly after Spada dies, he discovers “an old piece of paper, yellowed with age” in the family breviary—part of a 5,000 volume library left to him by his patron. Although half-burned, he manages to complete the message penned upon it, thereby learning of a vast treasure buried by Spada’s ancestor in 1498 on Monte Cristo, a deserted volcanic islet between Corsica and Elba. Within days Faria—a supporter of the Unification of Italy, but now without the protection of the Cardinal—is arrested and imprisoned in the fortress of Fenestrella, Piedmont, Italy. In 1811 he is transferred to France and the Chateau d’If.

While digging, he tutors Dàntes. “Alas my boy,” said Faria, smiling, “human knowledge is quite limited. When you’ve learned mathematics, physics, history and the three or four living languages I speak, you’ll know everything I do.” But he does give him more: an understanding of spirituality, theology, and how to comport himself at the very top of the European class structure. Before they can finish the new tunnel Faria suffers a recurrence of an old illness and within days is dead. Sewing himself inside the priest’s shroud, Dàntes makes his spectacular escape.

And there you have it: Unquenchable Thirst For Revenge + Unimaginable Wealth = Avenging Angel. Armed with encyclopedic knowledge, and more money than Croesus, Edmond Dàntes transforms himself into the fantastic Count of Monte-Cristo—and it is a delight to watch him ruthlessly, meticulously, enthusiastically, destroy his tormentors one-by-one.

More about Dumas: The author’s robust physicality finally failed him; he died of a stroke December 5, 1870, age 68, at Puys, near Dieppe, in the home of his son, Alexandre Dumas fils (also a famous writer). It is said his last words were: "I shall never know how it all comes out now," referring to an unfinished manuscript.

As his spirit left him, German armies—as they would twice more in the century to come—were sweeping across France. This was the Franco-Prussian War (July 19, 1870-May 10, 1871): Prime Minister Otto von Bismarck versus Napoleon III. Ironically, with the passing of the man who spent so much of his life recreating the history of France, Dumas departed this earth just as the modern German state was, quite literally, being “born.”

“For the sword outweighs its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest...” (“So, We’ll Go No More A-Rowing” – Byron (1788-1824), Dumas’ favorite English poet.)

Copyright © 2006 by Michael Orr

About the author:
Michael Orr has written numerous short subject films and documentaries, been a speechwriter and a journalist. He fell in love with movies as a youngster and continues to publish essays about American cinema. A special interest is the late 1920s when “silents, talkies, and radio all violently collide resulting in a cinematic cosmic big bang”—at the heart of novel, Hollywood’s A Scary Place! to be released later this year. He makes his home in Toronto and has one grown daughter. You may contact him at This email address is being protected from spam bots, you need Javascript enabled to view it

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