The Count of Monte Cristo

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Morrel had indeed placed a cross over the spot, but it had fallen down
and the grave-digger had burnt it, as he did all the old wood in the
churchyard. The worthy merchant had been more fortunate. Dying in the
arms of his children, he had been by them laid by the side of his
wife, who had preceded him in eternity by two years. Two large slabs of
marble, on which were inscribed their names, were placed on either side
of a little enclosure, railed in, and shaded by four cypress-trees.
Morrel was leaning against one of these, mechanically fixing his eyes
on the graves. His grief was so profound that he was nearly unconscious.
"Maximilian," said the count, "you should not look on the graves, but
there;" and he pointed upwards.

"The dead are everywhere," said Morrel; "did you not yourself tell me so
as we left Paris?"

"Maximilian," said the count, "you asked me during the journey to allow
you to remain some days at Marseilles. Do you still wish to do so?"