-
Главная
-
- Книги
-
- Авторы
-
- Александр Дюма
-
- Граф Монте-Кристо
-
- Стр. 1229/1279
Для того чтобы воспользоваться озвучкой предложений, необходимо
Войти или зарегистрироваться
Озвучка предложений доступна при наличии PRO-доступа
Купить PRO-доступ
The
journey
was
performed
with
that
marvellous
rapidity
which
the
unlimited
power
of
the
count
ever
commanded
.
Towns
fled
from
them
like
shadows
on
their
path
,
and
trees
shaken
by
the
first
winds
of
autumn
seemed
like
giants
madly
rushing
on
to
meet
them
,
and
retreating
as
rapidly
when
once
reached
.
The
following
morning
they
arrived
at
Chalons
,
where
the
count
's
steamboat
waited
for
them
.
Without
the
loss
of
an
instant
,
the
carriage
was
placed
on
board
and
the
two
travellers
embarked
without
delay
.
The
boat
was
built
for
speed
;
her
two
paddle-wheels
were
like
two
wings
with
which
she
skimmed
the
water
like
a
bird
.
Morrel
was
not
insensible
to
that
sensation
of
delight
which
is
generally
experienced
in
passing
rapidly
through
the
air
,
and
the
wind
which
occasionally
raised
the
hair
from
his
forehead
seemed
on
the
point
of
dispelling
momentarily
the
clouds
collected
there
.
As
the
distance
increased
between
the
travellers
and
Paris
,
almost
superhuman
serenity
appeared
to
surround
the
count
;
he
might
have
been
taken
for
an
exile
about
to
revisit
his
native
land
.
Ere
long
Marseilles
presented
herself
to
view
--
Marseilles
,
white
,
fervid
,
full
of
life
and
energy
--
Marseilles
,
the
younger
sister
of
Tyre
and
Carthage
,
the
successor
to
them
in
the
empire
of
the
Mediterranean
--
Marseilles
,
old
,
yet
always
young
.
Powerful
memories
were
stirred
within
them
by
the
sight
of
the
round
tower
,
Fort
Saint
--
Nicolas
,
the
City
Hall
designed
by
Puget
,
28
the
port
with
its
brick
quays
,
where
they
had
both
played
in
childhood
,
and
it
was
with
one
accord
that
they
stopped
on
the
Cannebiere
.
A
vessel
was
setting
sail
for
Algiers
,
on
board
of
which
the
bustle
usually
attending
departure
prevailed
.
The
passengers
and
their
relations
crowded
on
the
deck
,
friends
taking
a
tender
but
sorrowful
leave
of
each
other
,
some
weeping
,
others
noisy
in
their
grief
,
the
whole
forming
a
spectacle
that
might
be
exciting
even
to
those
who
witnessed
similar
sights
daily
,
but
which
had
no
power
to
disturb
the
current
of
thought
that
had
taken
possession
of
the
mind
of
Maximilian
from
the
moment
he
had
set
foot
on
the
broad
pavement
of
the
quay
.
28
Pierre
Puget
,
the
sculptor-architect
,
was
born
at
Marseilles
in
1622
.
"
Here
,
"
said
he
,
leaning
heavily
on
the
arm
of
Monte
Cristo
--
"
here
is
the
spot
where
my
father
stopped
,
when
the
Pharaon
entered
the
port
;
it
was
here
that
the
good
old
man
,
whom
you
saved
from
death
and
dishonor
,
threw
himself
into
my
arms
.
I
yet
feel
his
warm
tears
on
my
face
,
and
his
were
not
the
only
tears
shed
,
for
many
who
witnessed
our
meeting
wept
also
.
"
Monte
Cristo
gently
smiled
and
said
--
"
I
was
there
;
"
at
the
same
time
pointing
to
the
corner
of
a
street
.
As
he
spoke
,
and
in
the
very
direction
he
indicated
,
a
groan
,
expressive
of
bitter
grief
,
was
heard
,
and
a
woman
was
seen
waving
her
hand
to
a
passenger
on
board
the
vessel
about
to
sail
.
Monte
Cristo
looked
at
her
with
an
emotion
that
must
have
been
remarked
by
Morrel
had
not
his
eyes
been
fixed
on
the
vessel
.
"
Oh
,
heavens
!
"
exclaimed
Morrel
,
"
I
do
not
deceive
myself
--
that
young
man
who
is
waving
his
hat
,
that
youth
in
the
uniform
of
a
lieutenant
,
is
Albert
de
Morcerf
!
"
"
Yes
,
"
said
Monte
Cristo
,
"
I
recognized
him
.
"
"
How
so
?
--
you
were
looking
the
other
way
.
"
the
Count
smiled
,
as
he
was
in
the
habit
of
doing
when
he
did
not
want
to
make
any
reply
,
and
he
again
turned
towards
the
veiled
woman
,
who
soon
disappeared
at
the
corner
of
the
street
.
Turning
to
his
friend
--
"
Dear
Maximilian
,
"
said
the
count
,
"
have
you
nothing
to
do
in
this
land
?
"
"
I
have
to
weep
over
the
grave
of
my
father
,
"
replied
Morrel
in
a
broken
voice
.
