Граф Монте-Крісто

The Rain of Blood.

           Thechiefbeautyoftreesconsistsinthedeepshadowoftheirumbrageousboughs,whilefancypicturesamovingmultitudeofshapesandformsflittingandpassingbeneaththatshade.HereIhaveagardenlaidoutinsuchawayastoaffordthefullestscopefortheimagination,andfurnishedwiththicklygrowntrees,beneathwhoseleafyscreenavisionarylikemyselfmayconjureupphantomsatwill.Thistome,whoexpectedbuttofindablankenclosuresurroundedbyastraightwall,is,Iassureyou,amostagreeablesurprise.Ihavenofearofghosts,andIhaveneverhearditsaidthatsomuchharmhadbeendonebythedeadduringsixthousandyearsasiswroughtbythelivinginasingleday.Retirewithin,Bertuccio,andtranquillizeyourmind.ShouldyourconfessorbelessindulgenttoyouinyourdyingmomentsthanyoufoundtheAbbeBusoni,sendforme,ifIamstillonearth,andIwillsootheyourearswithwordsthatshalleffectuallycalmandsootheyourpartingsoulereitgoesforthtotraversetheoceancalledeternity."

           Bertucciobowedrespectfully,andturnedaway,sighingheavily.MonteCristo,leftalone,tookthreeorfourstepsonwards,andmurmured,"Here,beneaththisplane-tree,musthavebeenwheretheinfant’sgravewasdug.Thereisthelittledooropeningintothegarden.Atthiscorneristheprivatestaircasecommunicatingwiththesleepingapartment.

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Сторінка 813 з 1932