Граф Монте-Кристо

The Fifth of September.

           Morrelfellbackinhischair,hiseyesfixedontheclock;thereweresevenminutesleft,thatwasall.Thehandmovedonwithincrediblerapidity,heseemedtoseeitsmotion.

           Whatpassedinthemindofthismanatthesuprememomentofhisagonycannotbetoldinwords.Hewasstillcomparativelyyoung,hewassurroundedbythelovingcareofadevotedfamily,buthehadconvincedhimselfbyacourseofreasoning,illogicalperhaps,yetcertainlyplausible,thathemustseparatehimselffromallhehelddearintheworld,evenlifeitself.Toformtheslightestideaofhisfeelings,onemusthaveseenhisfacewithitsexpressionofenforcedresignationanditstear-moistenedeyesraisedtoheaven.Theminutehandmovedon.Thepistolswereloaded;hestretchedforthhishand,tookoneup,andmurmuredhisdaughter’sname.Thenhelaiditdownseizedhispen,andwroteafewwords.Itseemedtohimasifhehadnottakenasufficientfarewellofhisbeloveddaughter.Thenheturnedagaintotheclock,countingtimenownotbyminutes,butbyseconds.Hetookupthedeadlyweaponagain,hislipspartedandhiseyesfixedontheclock,andthenshudderedattheclickofthetriggerashecockedthepistol.Atthismomentofmortalanguishthecoldsweatcameforthuponhisbrow,apangstrongerthandeathclutchedathisheart-strings.

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