The gloomy light, the silence and the awful poetry of night had no doubt combined with the fearful poetry of her conscience: the poisoner was afraid to see her work.
I have to admit that my historical work is my favourite occupation. When I go back to the past, I forget the present. I walk free and independently through history, and forget that I am a prisoner.
He could not do this, he whose past life was so short, whose present so melancholy, and his future so doubtful.
It is wicked of you to call on the wrath of God to satisfy your jealousy!
I am forgetting that, before I die, I have my enemies to punish and, who knows? – perhaps a few friends to reward.
Lead two sheep to the butcher’s, two oxen to the slaughterhouse, and make one of them understand that his companion will not die; the sheep will bleat for pleasure, the ox will bellow with joy. But man – man, whom God created in his own image – man, upon whom God has laid his first, his sole commandment, to love his neighbor – man, to whom God has given a voice to express his thoughts – what is his first cry when he hears his fellow-man is saved?
His pistol? But a man does not go to a boar-hunt with a pistol.
Conceal your wounds when you have any; silence is the last joy of the unhappy. Beware of giving anyone the clue to your griefs; the curious suck our tears as flies suck the blood of a wounded hart.
Thus Dantes, who but three months before had no desire but liberty, had now not liberty enough and panted for wealth. The cause was not in Dantes but in Providence who, whilst limiting the power of man, has filled him with boundless desires.
It was one of the magnificent autumn days which make amends for a short summer;.
Happy? Who can answer for that? Happiness or unhappiness is the secret known but to one’s self and the walls – walls have ears but no tongue; but if a large fortune produces happiness, Danglars is happy.
So! Isn’t it worth one’s curiosity to study the different ways that the soul may leave the body and how, according to the character, the temperament, or even the local customs of a country, individuals face up to that supreme journey from being to nothingness? As for me, I can assure you of one thing: the more you have seen others die, the easier it becomes to die oneself. So, in my opinion, death may be a torment, but it is not an expiation.
Be happy, noble heart. Be blessed for all the good you have done and will yet do. Let my gratitude remain hidden in the shadows like your good deeds.
Don’t hope too much, Bertuccio,’ said the count. ‘The wicked do not die in that way: God seems to take them under his protection to use them as the instruments of his vengeance.
Having reached the summit of his vengeance by a long and tortuous path, he saw an abyss of doubt yawning before him.
The past, like the country through which we walk, becomes indistinct as we advance.
I do believe that disgust makes me sicker than hatred.
My wish was not to confine myself to domestic cares, or the caprices of any man, but to be an artist, and consequently free in heart, in person, and in thought.
Oh, God,” said Monte Cristo, “your vengeance may sometimes be slow in coming, but I think that then it is all the more complete.
Remember, nowadays it’s only by personal courage that a man can get on in this world.
Punctuality,’ said Monte Cristo, ’is the politeness of kings, or so I believe one of your sovereigns claimed.