“My grief will kill me of itself.”

“My friend,” said Monte Cristo, with an expression of melancholy equal to his own, “listen to me. One day, in a moment of despair like yours, since it led to a similar resolution, I also wished to kill myself; one day your father, equally desperate, wished to kill himself too. If anyone had said to your father, at the moment he raised the pistol to his head⁠—if anyone had told me, when in my prison I pushed back the food I had not tasted for three days⁠—if anyone had said to either of us then, ‘Live⁠—the day will come when you will be happy, and will bless life!’⁠—no matter whose voice had spoken, we should have heard him with the smile of doubt, or the anguish of incredulity⁠—and yet how many times has your father blessed life while embracing you⁠—how often have I myself⁠—”

“Ah,” exclaimed Morrel, interrupting the count, “you had only lost your liberty, my father had only lost his fortune, but I have lost Valentine.”