Граф Монте-Крісто

The Vendetta.

           Nothing,then,preventingmyescapebythismeans,Iexaminedthegrounds.Thegardenwaslongandnarrow;astretchofsmoothturfextendeddownthemiddle,andatthecornerswereclumpsoftreeswiththickandmassyfoliage,thatmadeabackgroundfortheshrubsandflowers.Inordertogofromthedoortothehouse,orfromthehousetothedoor,M.deVillefortwouldbeobligedtopassbyoneoftheseclumpsoftrees.

           "ItwastheendofSeptember;thewindblewviolently.Thefaintglimpsesofthepalemoon,hiddenmomentarilybymassesofdarkcloudsthatweresweepingacrossthesky,whitenedthegravelwalksthatledtothehouse,butwereunabletopiercetheobscurityofthethickshrubberies,inwhichamancouldconcealhimselfwithoutanyfearofdiscovery.IhidmyselfintheonenearesttothepathVillefortmusttake,andscarcelywasItherewhen,amidstthegustsofwind,IfanciedIheardgroans;butyouknow,orratheryoudonotknow,yourexcellency,thathewhoisabouttocommitanassassinationfanciesthathehearslowcriesperpetuallyringinginhisears.Twohourspassedthus,duringwhichIimaginedIheardmoansrepeatedly.Midnightstruck.Asthelaststrokediedaway,Isawafaintlightshinethroughthewindowsoftheprivatestaircasebywhichwehavejustdescended.Thedooropened,andthemaninthemantlereappeared.Theterriblemomenthadcome,butIhadsolongbeenpreparedforitthatmyheartdidnotfailintheleast.Idrewmyknifefrommypocketagain,openedit,andmadereadytostrike.

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