way, and that without shock or violence,
without the display of the sufferings which, in the case of becoming a
punishment, make a martyr of the victim, and a butcher, in every sense
of the word, of him who inflicts them. Then there will be no blood, no
groans, no convulsions, and above all, no consciousness of that horrid
and compromising moment of accomplishing the act,--then one escapes the
clutch of the human law, which says, 'Do not disturb society!' This
is the mode in which they manage these things, and succeed in Eastern
climes, where there are grave and phlegmatic persons who care very
little for the questions of time in conjunctures of importance."

"Yet conscience remains," remarked Madame de Villefort in an agitated
voice, and with a stifled sigh.

"Yes," answered Monte Cristo "happily, yes, conscience does remain; and
if it did not, how wretched we should be! After every action requiring
exertion, it is conscience that saves us, for it supplies us with a
thousand good excuses, of which we alone are judges; and these reasons,
howsoever excellent in producing sleep, would avail us but very little
before a tribunal, when we were tried for our lives. Thus Richard
III., for instance, was marvellously served by his conscience after the
putting away of the two children of Edward IV.; in fact, he could say,
'These two children of a cruel and persecuting king, who have inherited
the vices of their father, which I alone could perceive in their
juvenile propensities--these two children are impediments in my way of
promoting the happiness of the English people, whose unhappiness they
(the children) would infallibly have caused.' Thus was Lady Macbeth
served by her conscience, when she sought to give her son, and not her
husband (whatever Shakespeare may say), a throne. Ah, maternal love is a
great virtue, a powerful motive--so powerful that it excuses a multitude
of things, even if, after Duncan's death, Lady Macbeth had been at all
pricked by her conscience."

Madame de Villefort listened with avidity to these appalling maxims and
horrible paradoxes, delivered by the count with that ironical simplicity
which was peculiar to him. After a moment's silence, the lady inquired,
"Do you know, my dear count," she said, "that you are a very terrible
reasoner, and that you look at the world through a somewhat distempered
medium? Have you really measured the world by scrutinies, or through
alembics and crucibles? For you must