The Count of Monte Cristo

Back Forward Menu

powerless to explain; in such cases the greatest poet is he who gives
utterance to the most natural and vehement outburst of sorrow. Those
who hear the bitter cry are as much impressed as if they listened to
an entire poem, and when the sufferer is sincere they are right in
regarding his outburst as sublime.

It would be difficult to describe the state of stupor in which Villefort
left the Palais. Every pulse beat with feverish excitement, every nerve
was strained, every vein swollen, and every part of his body seemed
to suffer distinctly from the rest, thus multiplying his agony a
thousand-fold. He made his way along the corridors through force of
habit; he threw aside his magisterial robe, not out of deference to
etiquette, but because it was an unbearable burden, a veritable garb
of Nessus, insatiate in torture. Having staggered as far as the Rue
Dauphine, he perceived his carriage, awoke his sleeping coachman by
opening the door himself, threw himself on the cushions, and pointed
towards the Faubourg Saint-Honore; the carriage drove on. The weight of