ss to explain; in such cases the greatest poet is he who gives
utterance to the most natural and vehement outburst of sorrow. Those
who hear the bitter cry are as much impressed as if they listened to
an entire poem, and when the sufferer is sincere they are right in
regarding his outburst as sublime.

It would be difficult to describe the state of stupor in which Villefort
left the Palais. Every pulse beat with feverish excitement, every nerve
was strained, every vein swollen, and every part of his body seemed
to suffer distinctly from the rest, thus multiplying his agony a
thousand-fold. He made his way along the corridors through force of
habit; he threw aside his magisterial robe, not out of deference to
etiquette, but because it was an unbearable burden, a veritable garb
of Nessus, insatiate in torture. Having staggered as far as the Rue
Dauphine, he perceived his carriage, awoke his sleeping coachman by
opening the door himself, threw himself on the cushions, and pointed
towards the Faubourg Saint-Honore; the carriage drove on. The weight of
his fallen fortunes seemed suddenly to crush him; he could not
foresee the consequences; he could not contemplate the future with the
indifference of the hardened criminal who merely faces a contingency
already familiar. God was still in his heart. "God," he murmured, not
knowing what he said,--"God--God!" Behind the event that had overwhelmed
him he saw the hand of God. The carriage rolled rapidly onward.
Villefort, while turning restlessly on the cushions, felt something
press against him. He put out his hand to remove the object; it was
a fan which Madame de Villefort had left in the carriage; this fan
awakened a recollection which darted through his mind like lightning. He
thought of his wife.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, as though a redhot iron were piercing his heart.
During the last hour his own crime had alone been presented to his mind;
now another object, not less terrible, suddenly presented itself. His
wife! He had just acted the inexorable judge with her, he had condemned
her to death, and she, crushed by remorse, struck with terror,
covered with the shame inspired by the eloquence of his irreproachable
virtue,--she, a poor, weak woman, without help or the power of defending
herself against his absolute and supreme will,--she might at that very
moment, perhaps, be preparing to die! An hour had elapsed since her
condemnation; at that moment, doubtless, she was recalling a