The Count of Monte Cristo

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turned to flame, breasts of ice became like heated lava, so that to
Franz, yielding for the first time to the sway of the drug, love was a
sorrow and voluptuousness a torture, as burning mouths were pressed to
his thirsty lips, and he was held in cool serpent-like embraces. The
more he strove against this unhallowed passion the more his senses
yielded to its thrall, and at length, weary of a struggle that taxed his
very soul, he gave way and sank back breathless and exhausted beneath
the kisses of these marble goddesses, and the enchantment of his
marvellous dream.



Chapter 32. The Waking.

When Franz returned to himself, he seemed still to be in a dream. He
thought himself in a sepulchre, into which a ray of sunlight in pity
scarcely penetrated. He stretched forth his hand, and touched stone; he