s the end of the
period of waiting,--to-day is the fifth of October," he took out his
watch, "it is now nine o'clock,--I have yet three hours to live."

"Be it so," said the count, "come." Morrel mechanically followed the
count, and they had entered the grotto before he perceived it. He felt
a carpet under his feet, a door opened, perfumes surrounded him, and
a brilliant light dazzled his eyes. Morrel hesitated to advance; he
dreaded the enervating effect of all that he saw. Monte Cristo drew him
in gently. "Why should we not spend the last three hours remaining to
us of life, like those ancient Romans, who when condemned by Nero, their
emperor and heir, sat down at a table covered with flowers, and gently
glided into death, amid the perfume of heliotropes and roses?" Morrel
smiled. "As you please," he said; "death is always death,--that is
forgetfulness, repose, exclusion from life, and therefore from grief."
He sat down, and Monte Cristo placed himself opposite to him. They were
in the marvellous dining-room before described, where the statues had
baskets on their heads always filled with fruits and flowers. Morrel had
looked carelessly around, and had probably noticed nothing.

"Let us talk like men," he said, looking at the count.

"Go on!"

"Count," said Morrel, "you are the epitome of all human knowledge, and
you seem like a being descended from a wiser and more advanced world
than ours."

"There is something true in what you say," said the count, with that
smile which made him so handsome; "I have descended from a planet called
grief."

"I believe all you tell me without questioning its meaning; for
instance, you told me to live, and I did live; you told me to hope,
and I almost did so. I am almost inclined to ask you, as though you had
experienced death, 'is it painful to die?'"

Monte Cristo looked upon Morrel with indescribable tenderness. "Yes,"
he said, "yes, doubtless it is painful, if you violently break the outer
covering which obstinately begs for life. If you plunge a dagger into
your flesh, if you insinuate a bullet into your brain, which the least
shock disorders,--then certainly, you will suffer pain, and you will
repent quitting a life for a repose you have bought at so dear a price."

"Yes; I know that there is a secret of luxury and pain in death, as well
as in life; the only thing is to understand it."

"You have spoken truly, Maximilian; according to the care we bestow upon
it, death