The Count of Monte Cristo

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glaring eyes seemed to watch over the threshold, and the lips bore the
stamp of a terrible and mysterious irony. Through the open door was
visible a portion of the boudoir, containing an upright piano and a blue
satin couch. Villefort stepped forward two or three paces, and beheld
his child lying--no doubt asleep--on the sofa. The unhappy man uttered
an exclamation of joy; a ray of light seemed to penetrate the abyss of
despair and darkness. He had only to step over the corpse, enter the
boudoir, take the child in his arms, and flee far, far away.

Villefort was no longer the civilized man; he was a tiger hurt unto
death, gnashing his teeth in his wound. He no longer feared realities,
but phantoms. He leaped over the corpse as if it had been a burning
brazier. He took the child in his arms, embraced him, shook him, called
him, but the child made no response. He pressed his burning lips to the
cheeks, but they were icy cold and pale; he felt the stiffened limbs; he
pressed his hand upon the heart, but it no longer beat,--the child
was dead. A folded paper fell from Edward's breast. Villefort,