“No.”
“Madame?”
“No.”
“It was your granddaughter, then, was it not?”
“Yes.”
A groan from Barrois, accompanied by a yawn which seemed to crack the very jawbones, attracted the attention of M. d’Avrigny; he left M. Noirtier, and returned to the sick man.
“Barrois,” said the doctor, “can you speak?” Barrois muttered a few unintelligible words. “Try and make an effort to do so, my good man.” said d’Avrigny. Barrois reopened his bloodshot eyes.
“Who made the lemonade?”
“I did.”
“Did you bring it to your master directly it was made?”
“No.”
“You left it somewhere, then, in the meantime?”
“Yes; I left it in the pantry, because I was called away.”
“Who brought it into this room, then?”
“Mademoiselle Valentine.” D’Avrigny struck his forehead with his hand.
“Gracious heaven,” exclaimed he.
“Doctor, doctor!” cried Barrois, who felt another fit coming.
“Will they never bring that emetic?” asked the doctor.
“Here is a glass with one already prepared,” said Villefort, entering the room.
“Who prepared it?”
“The chemist who came here with me.”
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“Drink it,” said the doctor to Barrois.
“Impossible, doctor; it is too late; my throat is closing up. I am choking! Oh, my heart! Ah, my head!—Oh, what agony!—Shall I suffer like this long?”
“No, no, friend,” replied the doctor, “you will soon cease to suffer.”
“Ah, I understand you,” said the unhappy man. “My God, have mercy upon me!” and, uttering a fearful cry, Barrois fell back as if he had been struck by lightning. D’Avrigny put his hand to his heart, and placed a glass before his lips.
“Well?” said Villefort.
“Go to the kitchen and get me some syrup of violets.”
Villefort went immediately.
“Do not be alarmed, M. Noirtier,” said d’Avrigny; “I am going to take my patient into the next room to bleed him; this sort of attack is very frightful to witness.”
And taking Barrois under the arms, he dragged him into an adjoining room; but almost immediately he returned to fetch the lemonade. Noirtier closed his right eye.
“You want Valentine, do you not? I will tell them to send her to you.”
Villefort returned, and d’Avrigny met him in the passage.
“Well, how is he now?” asked he.
“Come in here,” said d’Avrigny, and he took him into the chamber where the sick man lay.
“Is he still in a fit?” said the procureur.
“He is dead.”
Villefort drew back a few steps, and, clasping his hands, exclaimed, with real amazement and sympathy, “Dead?—and so soon too!”
“Yes, it is very soon,” said the doctor, looking at the corpse before him; “but that ought not to astonish you; Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Méran died as soon. People die very suddenly in your house, M. de Villefort.”
“What?” cried the magistrate, with an accent of horror and consternation, “are you still harping on that terrible idea?”
