The Cemetery of the Chateau D’If.

           Onthebed,atfulllength,andfaintlyilluminatedbythepalelightthatcamefromthewindow,layasackofcanvas,andunderitsrudefoldswasstretchedalongandstiffenedform;itwasFaria’slastwinding-sheet—awinding-sheetwhich,astheturnkeysaid,costsolittle.Everythingwasinreadiness.AbarrierhadbeenplacedbetweenDantesandhisoldfriend.NolongercouldEdmondlookintothosewide-openeyeswhichhadseemedtobepenetratingthemysteriesofdeath;nolongercouldheclaspthehandwhichhaddonesomuchtomakehisexistenceblessed.Faria,thebeneficentandcheerfulcompanion,withwhomhewasaccustomedtolivesointimately,nolongerbreathed.Heseatedhimselfontheedgeofthatterriblebed,andfellintomelancholyandgloomyrevery.

           Alone—hewasaloneagain—againcondemnedtosilence—againfacetofacewithnothingness!Alone!—neveragaintoseetheface,neveragaintohearthevoiceoftheonlyhumanbeingwhounitedhimtoearth!WasnotFaria’sfatethebetter,afterall—tosolvetheproblemoflifeatitssource,evenattheriskofhorriblesuffering?Theideaofsuicide,whichhisfriendhaddrivenawayandkeptawaybyhischeerfulpresence,nowhoveredlikeaphantomovertheabbe’sdeadbody.

           "IfIcoulddie,"hesaid,"Ishouldgowherehegoes,andshouldassuredlyfindhimagain.Buthowtodie?Itisveryeasy,"hewentonwithasmile;"Iwillremainhere,rushonthefirstpersonthatopensthedoor,stranglehim,andthentheywillguillotineme.

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Roboto Lora
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Сторінка 295 з 1932