Граф Монте-Крісто

The Hand of God.

           "

           "No,"saidCaderousse,"no;Iwillnotrepent.ThereisnoGod;thereisnoprovidenceallcomesbychance."—

           "Thereisaprovidence;thereisaGod,"saidMonteCristo,"ofwhomyouareastrikingproof,asyoulieinutterdespair,denyinghim,whileIstandbeforeyou,rich,happy,safeandentreatingthatGodinwhomyouendeavornottobelieve,whileinyourheartyoustillbelieveinhim."

           "Butwhoareyou,then?"askedCaderousse,fixinghisdyingeyesonthecount."Lookwellatme!"saidMonteCristo,puttingthelightnearhisface."Well,theabbetheAbbeBusoni."MonteCristotookoffthewigwhichdisfiguredhim,andletfallhisblackhair,whichaddedsomuchtothebeautyofhispallidfeatures."Oh?"saidCaderousse,thunderstruck,"butforthatblackhair,IshouldsayyouweretheEnglishman,LordWilmore."

           "IamneithertheAbbeBusoninorLordWilmore,"saidMonteCristo;"thinkagaindoyounotrecollectme?"Thosewasamagiceffectinthecount’swords,whichoncemorerevivedtheexhaustedpowersofthemiserableman."Yes,indeed,"saidhe;"IthinkIhaveseenyouandknownyouformerly."

           "Yes,Caderousse,youhaveseenme;youknewmeonce."

           "Who,then,areyou?andwhy,ifyouknewme,doyouletmedie?"

           "Becausenothingcansaveyou;yourwoundsaremortal

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