Граф Монте-Кристо

The Fifth of October.

           Mysisterwouldbebathedintearsandfainting;Icouldnotbeartoseehersuffer.Emmanuelwouldteartheweaponfrommyhand,andalarmthehousewithhiscries.You,count,whoaremorethanmortal,will,Iamsure,leadmetodeathbyapleasantpath,willyounot?"

           "Myfriend,"saidthecount,"Ihavestillonedoubt—areyouweakenoughtoprideyourselfuponyoursufferings?"

           "No,indeed—Iamcalm,"saidMorrel,givinghishandtothecount;"mypulsedoesnotbeatslowerorfasterthanusual.No,IfeelthatIhavereachedthegoal,andIwillgonofarther.Youtoldmetowaitandhope;doyouknowwhatyoudid,unfortunateadviser?Iwaitedamonth,orratherIsufferedforamonth!Ididhope(manisapoorwretchedcreature),Ididhope.WhatIcannottell—somethingwonderful,anabsurdity,amiracle—ofwhatnaturehealonecantellwhohasmingledwithourreasonthatfollywecallhope.Yes,Ididwait—yes,Ididhope,count,andduringthisquarterofanhourwehavebeentalkingtogether,youhaveunconsciouslywounded,torturedmyheart,foreverywordyouhaveutteredprovedthattherewasnohopeforme.Oh,count,Ishallsleepcalmly,deliciouslyinthearmsofdeath."Morrelutteredthesewordswithanenergywhichmadethecountshudder."Myfriend,"continuedMorrel,"younamedthefifthofOctoberastheendoftheperiodofwaiting—todayisthefifthofOctober,"hetookouthiswatch,"itisnownineo’clock—Ihaveyetthreehourstolive.

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Страница 1918 из 1932