use to God's anger--well, who says your supposition is not reality?
Do not notice things which those whose interest it is to see them pass
over. If it is God's justice, instead of his anger, which is walking
through that house, Maximilian, turn away your face and let his justice
accomplish its purpose." Morrel shuddered. There was something mournful,
solemn, and terrible in the count's manner. "Besides," continued he, in
so changed a tone that no one would have supposed it was the same person
speaking--"besides, who says that it will begin again?"

"It has returned, count," exclaimed Morrel; "that is why I hastened to
you."

"Well, what do you wish me to do? Do you wish me, for instance, to give
information to the procureur?" Monte Cristo uttered the last words with
so much meaning that Morrel, starting up, cried out, "You know of whom I
speak, count, do you not?"

"Perfectly well, my good friend; and I will prove it to you by putting
the dots to the 'i,' or rather by naming the persons. You were walking
one evening in M. de Villefort's garden; from what you relate, I suppose
it to have been the evening of Madame de Saint-Meran's death. You
heard M. de Villefort talking to M. d'Avrigny about the death of M. de
Saint-Meran, and that no less surprising, of the countess. M. d'Avrigny
said he believed they both proceeded from poison; and you, honest man,
have ever since been asking your heart and sounding your conscience to
know if you ought to expose or conceal this secret. Why do you torment
them? 'Conscience, what hast thou to do with me?' as Sterne said. My
dear fellow, let them sleep on, if they are asleep; let them grow pale
in their drowsiness, if they are disposed to do so, and pray do you
remain in peace, who have no remorse to disturb you." Deep grief was
depicted on Morrel's features; he seized Monte Cristo's hand. "But it is
beginning again, I say!"

"Well," said the Count, astonished at his perseverance, which he could
not understand, and looking still more earnestly at Maximilian, "let it
begin again,--it is like the house of the Atreidae; [*] God has condemned
them, and they must submit to their punishment. They will all disappear,
like the fabrics children build with cards, and which fall, one by one,
under the breath of their builder, even if there are two hundred of
them. Three months since it was M. de Saint-Meran; Madame de Saint-Meran
two months since; the other day it was Barrois; to-day, the old
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