Граф Монте-Кристо

The Rain of Blood.

           OverheadIcouldaccuratelydistinguisheverymovementofthejeweller,who,aftermakingthebestarrangementsinhispowerforpassingacomfortablenight,threwhimselfonhisbed,andIcouldhearitcreakandgroanbeneathhisweight.Insensiblymyeyelidsgrewheavy,deepsleepstoleoverme,andhavingnosuspicionofanythingwrong,Isoughtnottoshakeitoff.IlookedintothekitchenoncemoreandsawCaderoussesittingbythesideofalongtableupononeofthelowwoodenstoolswhichincountryplacesarefrequentlyusedinsteadofchairs;hisbackwasturnedtowardsme,sothatIcouldnotseetheexpressionofhiscountenanceneithershouldIhavebeenabletodosohadhebeenplaceddifferently,ashisheadwasburiedbetweenhistwohands.LaCarcontecontinuedtogazeonhimforsometime,thenshrugginghershoulders,shetookherseatimmediatelyoppositetohim.Atthismomenttheexpiringembersthrewupafreshflamefromthekindlingofapieceofwoodthatlaynear,andabrightlightflashedovertheroom.LaCarcontestillkepthereyesfixedonherhusband,butashemadenosignofchanginghisposition,sheextendedherhard,bonyhand,andtouchedhimontheforehead.

           "Caderousseshuddered.Thewoman’slipsseemedtomove,asthoughsheweretalking;butbecauseshemerelyspokeinanundertone,ormysensesweredulledbysleep,Ididnotcatchawordsheuttered.Confusedsightsandsoundsseemedtofloatbeforeme,andgraduallyIfellintoadeep,heavyslumber.

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