The Count of Monte Cristo

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Morrel allowed his hand to fall into that which the count extended to
him; then with an inexpressibly sorrowful inclination of the head he
quitted the count and bent his steps to the east of the city. Monte
Cristo remained on the same spot until Maximilian was out of sight; he
then walked slowly towards the Allees de Meillan to seek out a small
house with which our readers were made familiar at the beginning of this
story. It yet stood, under the shade of the fine avenue of lime-trees,
which forms one of the most frequent walks of the idlers of Marseilles,
covered by an immense vine, which spreads its aged and blackened
branches over the stone front, burnt yellow by the ardent sun of the
south. Two stone steps worn away by the friction of many feet led to the
door, which was made of three planks; the door had never been painted or
varnished, so great cracks yawned in it during the dry season to
close again when the rains came on. The house, with all its crumbling
antiquity and apparent misery, was yet cheerful and picturesque, and was
the same that old Dantes formerly inhabited--the only difference being
that the old man occupied merely the garret, while the whole house was