With convulsed features, bloodshot eyes, and head thrown back, Barrois lay beating the floor with his hands, whilst his legs had become so stiff that they looked more ready to break than to bend. He was foaming at the mouth and his breathing was laboured. Stupefied, Villefort stood still for an instant, gazing on the spectacle which had met his eyes directly he entered the room. He had not seen Morrel. After a second’s dumb contemplation of the scene, during which his face had turned deathly pale and his hair appeared to stand on end, he rushed to the door crying out: “Doctor! Doctor! Come! come!”
“Madame de Villefort, come! Oh, come quickly, and bring your smelling-salts!” Valentine called, running up the stairs.
“What is the matter?” Mme de Villefort asked in a metallic and constrained voice.
“Oh, come quickly.”
“But where is the doctor?” cried Villefort. “Where can he have gone?”
The stairs were heard to creak as Mme de Villefort slowly came down them, holding in one hand a handkerchief, with which she was wiping her face, and in the other a bottle of smelling-salts. When she entered the room, her first glance was for Noirtier, who save for the emotion he naturally felt in the circumstances, appeared to be in his usual state of health; then her eyes fell on the dying man. She turned pale as she saw him, and her eyes, as it were, leaped from the servant to his master.
“For pity’s sake, where is the doctor, madame?” exclaimed Valentine. “He went into your room. Barrois has an attack of apoplexy, as you see, and he may be saved if he is bled.”
“Has he eaten anything lately?” asked Mme de Villefort, evading the question.
“He has not yet had his breakfast,” replied Valentine, “but he was running very fast this morning on an errand for my grandfather, and when he came back he drank a glass of lemonade.”
“Why did he not have some wine? Lemonade is very bad.”
“The lemonade was near at hand in Grandpapa’s decanter. Poor Barrois was thirsty, and he drank what he could get.”
Mme de Villefort started; M. Noirtier watched her with the closest scrutiny.
“He has such a short neck!” said she.
“I ask you once more, madame, where is the doctor?” said Villefort. “For heaven’s sake, answer!”
“He is with Edward, who is poorly,” replied Mme de Villefort, seeing she could no longer evade the question.
Villefort rushed up the stairs to fetch him.
“Here,” said the young woman, giving the smelling salts to Valentine.
“The doctor will doubtless bleed him, so I will return to my room. I cannot bear the sight of blood.”
With which she followed her husband.
Morrel emerged from his dark corner where he had remained unseen throughout the general consternation.
“Go quickly, Maximilian, and wait till I call you,” said Valentine to him.
Morrel cast a questioning glance at Noirtier, and the old man, who had not lost his composure, made a sign of approval. The young man pressed Valentine’s hand to his heart, and left by the deserted landing just as Villefort and the doctor came in together by the opposite door.
Barrois was returning to consciousness; the attack had passed. He began to groan and raised himself on one knee. D’Avrigny and Villefort carried him on to a sofa.
“What do you prescribe, Doctor?” asked Villefort.
“Get me some water and ether, and send for some oil of turpentine and tartaric acid. And now let every one retire.”
“Must I go too?” Valentine asked timidly.
“Yes, mademoiselle, you particularly,” said the doctor abruptly.
Valentine looked at d’Avrigny in astonishment, but, after kissing her grandfather, left the room. The doctor shut the door behind her with a look of grim determination.
“See, Doctor, he is coming round. It was only a slight attack after all.”
M. d’Avrigny smiled grimly.
“How do you feel?” he asked Barrois.
“A little better, Doctor.”
“Can you drink this glass of ether and water?”
“I will try, but do not touch me.”
“Why not?”
“I feel that if you touch me, if only with the tip of your fingers, the attack will return.”
Barrois took the glass, put it to his lips, and drank about half of its contents.
“Where have you pain?” the doctor asked.
“Everywhere. It is as though I had frightful cramp everywhere.”
“What have you eaten to-day?”
“Nothing at all. All I have taken is a glass of my master’s lemonade,” Barrois replied, making a sign with his head toward Noirtier, who was sitting motionless in his chair, contemplating this dreadful scene without letting a movement or a word escape him.
“Where is the lemonade?” asked the doctor eagerly.
“In the decanter in the kitchen.”
“Shall I fetch it, Doctor?” Villefort asked.
“No, stay here and try to make the patient drink the rest of this ether and water.”
“But the lemonade . . .”
“I will fetch it myself.”
D’Avrigny bounded toward the door, and, rushing down the servants’ staircase, nearly knocked over Mme de Villefort, who was also going into the kitchen. She screamed, but the doctor did not even take any notice of her. Obsessed with the one idea, he jumped down the last three or four stairs and flew into the kitchen. Seeing the decanter three parts empty, he pounced upon it like an eagle upon its prey, and with it returned to the sick-room out of breath. Mme de Villefort was slowly going up the stairs leading to her room.
“Is this the decanter?” Monsieur d’Avrigny asked Barrois.
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Is this some of the same lemonade you drank?”
“I believe so.”
“What did it taste like?”
“It had a bitter taste.”
The doctor poured several drops of the lemonade into the palm of his hand, sucked it up with his lips, and, after rinsing his mouth with it as one does when tasting wine, he spat it out into the fireplace.
“It is the same right enough,” he said. “Did you drink some too, Noirtier?”
“Yes,” looked the old man.
“Did you notice the bitter taste?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Doctor, the fit is coming on again! Oh, God, have pity on me!”
The doctor ran to his patient.
“The tartar emetic, Villefort, see if it has come!”
Villefort rushed out shouting: “The emetic! Has it not been brought yet?”
“If I had some means of injecting air into his lungs,” said d’Avrigny, looking around him, “I might possibly be able to prevent asphyxiation. But there is nothing, nothing!”
“Are you going to let me die without help, Doctor? Oh, I am dying! Have pity on me, I am dying!”
Barrois was seized with a nervous attack which was more acute than the first one. He had slipped from the sofa on to the floor and lay stretched stiff and rolling in pain. The doctor left him, for he could do nothing to help him. Going over to Noirtier, he asked him in a low voice:
“How do you feel? Well?”
“Yes.”
“Does your stomach feel light or heavy? Light?”
“Yes.”
“The same as when you have taken the pills I ordered you to take every Sunday?”
“Yes.”
“Did Barrois make the lemonade?”
“Yes.”
“Did you invite him to drink it?”
“No.”
“Monsieur de Villefort?”
“No.”
“Madame de Villefort?”
“No.”
“It was Valentine, then?”
“Yes.”
A sigh from Barrois, and a yawn which made his jaw-bones crack, attracted the attention of d’Avrigny, who hastened to his side.
“Can you speak, Barrois?”<
br />
Barrois uttered a few inaudible words.
“Make an effort, my friend.”
Barrois opened his bloodshot eyes.
“Who made the lemonade?”
“I did.”
“Did you take it to your master as soon as it was made?”
“No.”
“Did you leave it somewhere, then?”
“In the pantry, because I was called away.”
“Who brought it into this room?”
“Mademoiselle Valentine.”
“Oh, again!” exclaimed d’Avrigny, striking his forehead.
“Doctor! Doctor!” cried Barrois, who felt a third attack approaching.
“Are they never going to bring the emetic?” cried the doctor.
“Here is a glass with one already prepared by the chemist himself, who has come back with me,” said Villefort.
“Drink!” said the doctor to Barrois.
“Impossible, Doctor. It is too late. My throat is closing up. I am suffocating. Oh, my heart! My head! Oh, what agony! Am I going to suffer like this for long?”
“No, no, my friend,” said the doctor. “You will soon be suffering no more.”
“Oh, I understand,” said the poor wretch. “My God, have pity on me.” With a cry he fell back as though struck by lightning. D’Avrigny placed his hand to his heart and put a mirror to his mouth.
“Well?” said Villefort.
“Go to the kitchen quickly and ask for some syrup of violets.” Villefort went immediately.
“Do not be alarmed, Monsieur Noirtier,” said the doctor. “I am taking my patient into another room to bleed him; such an attack is truly ghastly to behold.”
Taking Barrois under the arms, he dragged him into an adjoining room, but returned at once for the remainder of the lemonade.
Noirtier closed his right eye.
“You want Valentine? I will have her sent to you.”
Villefort came back with the syrup of violets and met d’Avrigny on the landing.
“Come with me,” said the doctor, taking him into the room where the dead man lay.
“Is he still unconscious?” asked Villefort.
“He is dead.”
Villefort started back, clasped his hands to his head, and looking at the dead man, exclaimed in tones of infinite pity, “Dead so soon!”
“Yes, it was very quick, was it not?” said d’Avrigny, “but that should not astonish you. Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Méran died just as suddenly. Death makes a very sudden appearance in your house, Monsieur de Villefort.”
“What!” cried the magistrate in a tone of horror and consternation, “are you still harping on that terrible idea?”
“I am, monsieur, and the thought has not left me for one instant,” said d’Avrigny solemnly. “Furthermore, that you may be convinced that I have made no mistake this time, listen to what I have to say.”
Villefort trembled convulsively.
“There is a poison which destroys life without leaving any traces after it. I know the poison well. I have made a deep study of it. I recognize the presence of this poison in poor Barrois just as I did in Madame de Saint-Méran. There is one means of detecting its presence. It restores the blue colour of litmus paper which has been dyed red by an acid, and it turns syrup of violets green. We have no litmus paper, but we have syrup of violets. If the lemonade is pure and inoffensive, the syrup will retain its colour; on the other hand, if it contains poison, the syrup will turn green. Watch closely!”
The doctor slowly poured a few drops of lemonade into the cup, and a cloudy sediment was immediately formed at the bottom. First of all this sediment took on a blue hue, then it changed from sapphire to the colour of opal, and again to emerald—to change no more. The experiment left no room for doubt.
“The unfortunate Barrois has been poisoned,” said d’Avrigny, “and I am ready to answer for this statement before God and man.”
Villefort made no reply; he raised his arms heavenward, opened wide his haggard eyes and sank back into a chair horror-stricken.
Chapter LIII
THE ACCUSATION
M. d’Avrigny soon brought the magistrate round, though he still looked like another corpse in this chamber of death. “Death is in my house!” he exclaimed.
“Say rather crime,” replied the doctor, “for the time has now come when we must act. We must put an end to these incessant deaths. So far as I am concerned, I feel I can no longer conscientiously hold such secrets unless I have the hope of soon seeing the victims, and through them society, avenged.”
Villefort cast a melancholy look around him. “Do you, then, suspect anyone?”
“I do not suspect anyone. Death knocks at your door—it enters and goes not blindly, but with circumspection, from room to room. Ah, well! I follow its track, I know its passage and adopt the wisdom of the ancients; I grope about in the dark, for my respect for you and my friendship for your family are like two bandages before my eyes.”
“Speak, Doctor, speak. I have courage.”
“Well, then, you have in your house, perhaps in the midst of your family, one of those terrible phenomena every century produces.”
Villefort wrung his hands and cast a pleading look on the doctor, but the latter continued pitilessly:
“An axiom of jurisprudence says: ‘Seek whom the crime would profit!’”
“Alas! Doctor, how many times has not justice been deceived by those fatal words!” exclaimed Villefort. “I know why, but I think this crime . . .”
“Ah, you admit at last that it is a crime?”
“Yes, I acknowledge it. What else can I do? But let me continue. It seems to me this crime is directed against me alone and not against the victims. I sense some calamity for myself at the root of all these strange disasters.”
“Oh, Man,” muttered d’Avrigny. “The most selfish of all creatures, who believes that the earth turns, the sun shines, and the scythe of death reaps for him alone. And have those who have lost their lives lost nothing? Monsieur de Saint-Méran, Madame de Saint-Méran, Monsieur Noirtier . . .”
“Monsieur Noirtier?”
“Certainly. Do you think it was the unfortunate servant’s life they wanted? No, no, like Shakespeare’s Polonius, he died for another. Noirtier was intended to drink the lemonade; the other one only drank it by accident.”
“How was it my father did not succumb?”
“As I told you one evening in the garden after the death of Madame de Saint-Méran, his system has become accustomed to this very poison; no one, not even the murderer himself, knows that for the past year I have been treating Monsieur Noirtier with brucine for his paralysis, whereas the murderer knows, and has proved by experience that brucine is a virulent poison.”
“Stop! For heaven’s sake, have pity on me!” cried Villefort, wringing his hands.
“Let us follow the criminal’s course. He kills Monsieur de Saint-Méran, then Madame de Saint-Méran; a double inheritance to look forward to.”
Villefort wiped away the perspiration that was streaming down his forehead.
“Listen! Monsieur Noirtier willed his fortune away from you and your family,” continued M. d’Avrigny pitilessly, “so he is spared. But he has no sooner destroyed his first will and made a second one than he becomes the victim, no doubt lest he should make a third will. This will was made the day before yesterday, I believe. You see there was no time lost.”
“Have mercy, Doctor!”
“No mercy, monsieur! A doctor has a sacred mission on earth, and to fulfil it he has to start at the source of life and descend to the mysterious darkness of the tomb. When a crime has been committed, and God, doubtless horrified, turns away His head, it is for the doctor to say: ‘Here is the culprit!’”
“Have mercy on my daughter!” murmured Villefort.
“You see it is you yourself who have named her, you, her father!”
“Have mercy on Valentine. I say, it is impossible! I would sooner accuse myself. V
alentine, who is pure as a lily and whose heart is of gold!”
“No mercy! It is a flagrant crime. Mademoiselle de Villefort herself packed the medicines that were sent to Monsieur de Saint-Méran, and he is dead. She prepared the cooling draughts for Madame de Saint-Méran, and she is dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort took from Barrois, who was sent out, the decanter with the lemonade her grandfather generally drinks in the morning, and he escapes but by a miracle. Mademoiselle de Villefort is the guilty one! She is the poisoner, and I denounce her as such. Now, do your duty, Monsieur le Procureur du Roi!”
“Doctor, I can hold out no longer. I no longer defend myself. I believe you. But for pity’s sake, spare my life, my honour!”
“Monsieur de Villefort, there are times when I overstep the limits of foolish human circumspection,” said the doctor with increasing vehemence, “if your daughter had only committed one crime and I saw her meditating a second one, I should say to you: ‘Warn her, punish her. Send her to some convent to pass the rest of her days in weeping and praying.’ If she had committed two, I should say: ‘Monsieur de Villefort, this is a poison for which there is no known antidote; its action is as quick as thought, as rapid as lightning, and as deadly as a thunderbolt. Recommend her soul to God and give her this poison; thus only will you save your honour and your life, for you are her target. I see her coming towards your pillow with her hypocritical smiles and her sweet exhortations! Woe to you if you do not strike first!’ This is what I should have said had she killed two persons, but she has witnessed three death agonies, she has watched three people die, she has knelt by three corpses! To the scaffold with the prisoner! To the scaffold!”
Villefort fell on his knees.
“Listen to me!” he cried. “Pity me, help me! No, my daughter is not guilty. You may drag us before a tribunal, but I shall still say: ‘My daughter is not guilty. There is no crime in this house,’ . . . Do you understand, I will have no crime in this house, for, like death, crime comes not alone. What does it signify to you if I am murdered? Are you my friend? Are you a man? No, you are a physician . . . Well, then, I say to you: ‘I will not drag my daughter into the hands of the executioner.’ Ah, the very thought of it would drive me mad! I should tear my heart out with my fingernails. And if you were mistaken, doctor? If it were another than my daughter? If I came to you one day like a ghost and said to you: ‘Murderer! you have killed my daughter!’ If that were to happen, Monsieur d’Avrigny, Christian though I am, I should take my life!”
Count of Monte Cristo (abridged) (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 46