The Count left Mercédès's house with a heavy heart, knowing he'd probably never see her again. Ever since young Edward's death, something fundamental had shifted inside Monte Cristo. He'd climbed the mountain of his revenge through a long, twisted path, only to find himself staring into an abyss of doubt on the other side.
The conversation with Mercédès had stirred up too many memories. He needed to push them down, to fight against them. A man like the Count couldn't afford to wallow in melancholy, that kind of darkness might linger in ordinary minds, but it would destroy someone like him.
Have I made a mistake? he wondered. Have I miscalculated somewhere along the way?
"No," he muttered to himself. "I can't have been wrong. I must be looking at the past through the wrong lens."
