urned towards the cemetery, where he felt sure of
finding Morrel. He, too, ten years ago, had piously sought out a tomb,
and sought it vainly. He, who returned to France with millions, had been
unable to find the grave of his father, who had perished from hunger.
Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it had fallen down
and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all the old wood in the
churchyard. The worthy merchant had been more fortunate. Dying in the
arms of his children, he had been by them laid by the side of his
wife, who had preceded him in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of
marble, on which were inscribed their names, were placed on either side
of a little enclosure, railed in, and shaded by four cypress-trees.
Morrel was leaning against one of these, mechanically fixing his eyes
on the graves. His grief was so profound that he was nearly unconscious.
"Maximilian," said the count, "you should not look on the graves, but
there;" and he pointed upwards.

"The dead are everywhere," said Morrel; "did you not yourself tell me so
as we left Paris?"

"Maximilian," said the count, "you asked me during the journey to allow
you to remain some days at Marseilles. Do you still wish to do so?"

"I have no wishes, count; only I fancy I could pass the time less
painfully here than anywhere else."

"So much the better, for I must leave you; but I carry your word with
me, do I not?"

"Ah, count, I shall forget it."

"No, you will not forget it, because you are a man of honor, Morrel,
because you have taken an oath, and are about to do so again."

"Oh, count, have pity upon me. I am so unhappy."

"I have known a man much more unfortunate than you, Morrel."

"Impossible!"

"Alas," said Monte Cristo, "it is the infirmity of our nature always to
believe ourselves much more unhappy than those who groan by our sides!"

"What can be more wretched than the man who has lost all he loved and
desired in the world?"

"Listen, Morrel, and pay attention to what I am about to tell you. I
knew a man who like you had fixed all his hopes of happiness upon a
woman. He was young, he had an old father whom he loved, a betrothed
bride whom he adored. He was about to marry her, when one of the
caprices of fate,--which would almost make us doubt the goodness of
providence, if that providence did not afterwards reveal itself by
proving that all is but a means of conducting to an end,--one of those
caprices deprived