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 burned it, as he did all the old wood in the church-yard.
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 inclosure, 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, he was nearly unconscious.
"Maximilian," said the count, "you should not look on the graves, but there"; and he pointed upward.
"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 sworn, 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 those caprices of fate,—which would almost make us doubt the goodness of Providence, if that Providence did not afterward reveal itself by proving that all is but a means of conducting to an end,—one of those caprices deprived him of his mistress, of the future of which he had
