The Count of Monte Cristo

until the day when God shall deign to reveal the future to man, all human wisdom is summed up in these two words,—' Wait and hope.'—Your friend, "Edmond Dantes, Count of Monte Cristo."

I have always had more dread of a pen, a bottle of ink, and a sheet of paper, than of a sword or pistol."

"And how did this misfortune occur?" inquired the latter, resuming the interrupted conversation.

"Eh? the thing is simple enough. You who are in power have only the means that money produces—we who are in expectation, have those which devotion prompts."

"Eh? the thing is simple enough. You who are in power have only the means that money produces—we who are in expectation, have those which devotion prompts."

He told himself that it was the enmity of man, and not the vengeance of heaven, that had thus plunged him into the deepest misery.

"That proves," returned the abbe, "that you are like those of Holy Writ, who having ears hear not, and having eyes see not."

"Eh? the thing is simple enough. You who are in power have only the means that money produces—we who are in expectation, have those which devotion prompts."

"You do not speak affectionately to me, Benedetto, my old friend, that is not right—take care, or I may become troublesome.

Days and weeks passed away, then months—Dantes still waited; he at first expected to be freed in a fortnight.