juif, from whence Paris appears like a sombre sea tossing its
millions of phosphoric waves into light--waves indeed more noisy, more
passionate, more changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those
of the tempestuous ocean,--waves which never rest as those of the sea
sometimes do,--waves ever dashing, ever foaming, ever ingulfing what
falls within their grasp. The count stood alone, and at a sign from his
hand, the carriage went on for a short distance. With folded arms, he
gazed for some time upon the great city. When he had fixed his piercing
look on this modern Babylon, which equally engages the contemplation
of the religious enthusiast, the materialist, and the scoffer,--"Great
city," murmured he, inclining his head, and joining his hands as if in
prayer, "less than six months have elapsed since first I entered thy
gates. I believe that the Spirit of God led my steps to thee and that he
also enables me to quit thee in triumph; the secret cause of my presence
within thy walls I have confided alone to him who only has had the power
to read my heart. God only knows that I retire from thee without pride
or hatred, but not without many regrets; he only knows that the power
confided to me has never been made subservient to my personal good or to
any useless cause. Oh, great city, it is in thy palpitating bosom that
I have found that which I sought; like a patient miner, I have dug
deep into thy very entrails to root out evil thence. Now my work is
accomplished, my mission is terminated, now thou canst neither afford me
pain nor pleasure. Adieu, Paris, adieu!"

His look wandered over the vast plain like that of some genius of the
night; he passed his hand over his brow, got into the carriage, the door
was closed on him, and the vehicle quickly disappeared down the other
side of the hill in a whirlwind of noise and dust.

Ten leagues were passed and not a single word was uttered.

Morrel was dreaming, and Monte Cristo was looking at the dreamer.

"Morrel," said the count to him at length, "do you repent having
followed me?"

"No, count; but to leave Paris"--

"If I thought happiness might await you in Paris, Morrel, I would have
left you there."

"Valentine reposes within the walls of Paris, and to leave Paris is like
losing her a second time."

"Maximilian," said the count, "the friends that we have lost do not
repose in the bosom of the earth, but are buried deep in our hearts, and
it has been thus ordained tha