The dignity of the wife checked the fervor of the lover and the mother. Her forehead almost touched the carpet, when the count sprang forward and raised her. Then seated on a chair, she looked at the manly countenance of Monte Cristo, on which grief and hatred still impressed a threatening expression. The count, fearing to yield to the entreaties of her he had so ardently loved, called his sufferings to the assistance of his hatred. Edmond, my friend, do not compel me to tarnish that noble and pure image reflected incessantly on the mirror of my heart.
Death is about to return to the tomb, the phantom to retire in darkness.
Monte Cristo pressed his forehead on his burning hands, as if his brain could no longer bear alone the weight of its thoughts. The count smiled bitterly. Adieu, Edmond, adieu, and thank you. But the count did not answer. The text of this work is in the public domain and is not copyrighted.