The Count of Monte Cristo

by Alexandre Dumas

It was a lovely starlit night. They were on top of the Villejuif hill, when Paris appeared like a dark sea, and her millions of lights like phosphorescent waves; waves which were more clamorous, more passionate, more greedy than those of the tempestuous ocean; waves which are ever raging, foaming, and ever ready to devour what comes in their way. At a sign from the Count, the carriage went on, leaving him alone. Then, with arms crossed, he contemplated for a long time this modern Babylon which inspires the poet, the religious enthusiast, and the materialist alike. Bowing his head and joining his hands as though in prayer, he murmured: “Oh, great city! In thy palpitating bosom have I found what I sought; like a patient miner have I dug out thy very entrails to root out the evil. My work is accomplished, my mission ended, and now thou canst hold neither pleasure nor pain for me. Farewell, Paris! Farewell!”