form; it was Faria's last winding-sheet, -- a winding-sheet
which, as the turnkey said, cost so little. Everything was
in readiness. A barrier had been placed between Dantes and
his old friend. No longer could Edmond look into those
wide-open eyes which had seemed to be penetrating the
mysteries of death; no longer could he clasp the hand which
had done so much to make his existence blessed. Faria, the
beneficent and cheerful companion, with whom he was
accustomed to live so intimately, no longer breathed. He
seated himself on the edge of that terrible bed, and fell
into melancholy and gloomy revery.

Alone -- he was alone again -- again condemned to silence --
again face to face with nothingness! Alone! -- never again
to see the face, never again to hear the voice of the only
human being who united him to earth! Was not Faria's fate
the better, after all -- to solve the problem of life at its
source, even at the risk of horrible suffering? The idea of
suicide, which his friend had driven away and kept away by
his cheerful presence, now hovered like a phantom over the
abbe's dead body.

"If I could die," he said, "I should go where he goes, and
should assuredly find him again. But how to die? It is very
easy," he went on with a smile; "I will remain here, rush on
the first person that opens the door, strangle him, and then
they will guillotine me." But excessive grief is like a
storm at sea, where the frail bark is tossed from the depths
to the top of the wave. Dantes recoiled from the idea of so
infamous a death, and passed suddenly from despair to an