“Look at me,” said Monte Cristo, with that expression which sometimes made him so eloquent and persuasive⁠—“look at me. There are no tears in my eyes, nor is there fever in my veins, yet I see you suffer⁠—you, Maximilian, whom I love as my own son. Well, does not this tell you that in grief, as in life, there is always something to look forward to beyond? Now, if I entreat, if I order you to live, Morrel, it is in the conviction that one day you will thank me for having preserved your life.”

“Oh, heavens,” said the young man, “oh, heavens⁠—what are you saying, count? Take care. But perhaps you have never loved!”

“Child!” replied the count.