Half an hour passed, and the carriage suddenly stopped; the Count had pulled the silken cord that was attached to Ali’s finger. The Nubian alighted and opened the door. It was a lovely starlit night. They were on top of the Ville juif hill, when Paris appeared like a dark sea, and her millions of lights like phosphorescent waves; waves which were more clamorous, more passionate, more greedy than those of the tempestuous ocean; waves which are ever raging, foaming, and ever ready to devour what comes in their way.

— Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo, 1846