Граф Монте-Кристо

The Vendetta.

           Themaninthemantleadvancedtowardsme,butashedrewnearIsawthathehadaweaponinhishand.Iwasafraid,notofastruggle,butofafailure.Whenhewasonlyafewpacesfromme,IsawthatwhatIhadtakenforaweaponwasonlyaspade.IwasstillunabletodivineforwhatreasonM.deVilleforthadthisspadeinhishands,whenhestoppedclosetothethicketwhereIwas,glancedround,andbegantodigaholeintheearth.Ithenperceivedthathewashidingsomethingunderhismantle,whichhelaidonthegrassinordertodigmorefreely.Then,Iconfess,curiositymingledwithhatred;IwishedtoseewhatVillefortwasgoingtodothere,andIremainedmotionless,holdingmybreath.Thenanideacrossedmymind,whichwasconfirmedwhenIsawtheprocureurliftfromunderhismantleabox,twofeetlong,andsixoreightinchesdeep.Ilethimplacetheboxintheholehehadmade,then,whilehestampedwithhisfeettoremovealltracesofhisoccupation,Irushedonhimandplungedmyknifeintohisbreast,exclaiming‘IamGiovanniBertuccio;thydeathformybrother’s;thytreasureforhiswidow;thouseestthatmyvengeanceismorecompletethanIhadhoped.’Iknownotifheheardthesewords;Ithinkhedidnot,forhefellwithoutacry.Ifelthisbloodgushovermyface,butIwasintoxicated,Iwasdelirious,andthebloodrefreshed,insteadofburningme.

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