The Count of Monte Cristo

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an hour had passed when the carriage stopped suddenly; the count had
just pulled the silken check-string, which was fastened to Ali's finger.
The Nubian immediately descended and opened the carriage door. It was
a lovely starlight night--they had just reached the top of the hill
Villejuif, from whence Paris appears like a sombre sea tossing its
millions of phosphoric waves into light--waves indeed more noisy, more
passionate, more changeable, more furious, more greedy, than those
of the tempestuous ocean,--waves which never rest as those of the sea
sometimes do,--waves ever dashing, ever foaming, ever ingulfing what
falls within their grasp. The count stood alone, and at a sign from his
hand, the carriage went on for a short distance. With folded arms, he
gazed for some time upon the great city. When he had fixed his piercing
look on this modern Babylon, which equally engages the contemplation
of the religious enthusiast, the materialist, and the scoffer,--"Great
city," murmured he, inclining his head, and joining his hands as if in
prayer, "less than six months have elapsed since first I entered thy
gates. I believe that the Spirit of God led my steps to thee and that he