The Meeting.

           AfterMercedeshadleftMonteCristo,hefellintoprofoundgloom.Aroundhimandwithinhimtheflightofthoughtseemedtohavestopped;hisenergeticmindslumbered,asthebodydoesafterextremefatigue."What?"saidhetohimself,whilethelampandthewaxlightswerenearlyburntout,andtheservantswerewaitingimpatientlyintheanteroom;"what?thisedificewhichIhavebeensolongpreparing,whichIhaverearedwithsomuchcareandtoil,istobecrushedbyasingletouch,aword,abreath!Yes,thisself,ofwhomIthoughtsomuch,ofwhomIwassoproud,whohadappearedsoworthlessinthedungeonsoftheChateaud’If,andwhomIhadsucceededinmakingsogreat,willbebutalumpofclaytomorrow.Alas,itisnotthedeathofthebodyIregret;forisnotthedestructionofthevitalprinciple,thereposetowhicheverythingistending,towhicheveryunhappybeingaspiresisnotthisthereposeofmatterafterwhichIsolongsighed,andwhichIwasseekingtoattainbythepainfulprocessofstarvationwhenFariaappearedinmydungeon?Whatisdeathforme?Onestepfartherintoresttwo,perhaps,intosilence.

           "No,itisnotexistence,then,thatIregret,buttheruinofprojectssoslowlycarriedout,solaboriouslyframed.Providenceisnowopposedtothem,whenImostthoughtitwouldbepropitious.ItisnotGod’swillthattheyshouldbeaccomplished.

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