The Count of Monte Cristo (Unabridged Penguin) (149 page)

‘Has he eaten anything recently?’ Mme de Villefort asked, evading the question.

‘He has had nothing to eat, Madame,’ said Valentine, ‘but he ran very hard this morning on an errand for grandpapa. The only thing he had, on his return, was a glass of lemonade.’

‘Oh?’ said Mme de Villefort. ‘Why not wine? Lemonade is very bad for you.’

‘The lemonade was right here, in grandpapa’s jug. Poor Barrois was thirsty, so he drank what he had to hand.’

Mme de Villefort shuddered. Noirtier fixed her with his penetrating eyes.

‘His neck is so short!’ she said.

‘Madame,’ said Villefort, ‘you must tell us where Monsieur d’Avrigny is. In heaven’s name, answer!’

‘He is with Edouard, who is slightly unwell, in his room,’ she said, unable to evade the question any longer.

Villefort dashed to the stairs himself to fetch the doctor.

‘Here,’ the young woman said, giving her flask to Valentine. ‘I
expect they will bleed him. I’ll go back to my room: I can’t stand the sight of blood.’ And she followed her husband.

Morrel emerged from the dark corner where he had concealed himself and remained unseen during the commotion.

‘Go quickly, Maximilien,’ Valentine said, ‘and wait until I call for you. Go.’

Morrel made a gesture to ask Noirtier’s opinion and the old man, who had kept himself under control, indicated that he should do as she said. He pressed Valentine’s hand to his heart and went out through the hidden passage. As he was doing so, Villefort and the doctor came in through the opposite door.

Barrois was starting to regain his senses: the crisis had passed, he could groan a few words and he raised himself on one knee. D’Avrigny and Villefort carried him to a chaise-longue.

‘What do you prescribe, doctor?’ asked Villefort.

‘Bring me water and ether – do you have some in the house?’

‘We do.’

‘Go and fetch me some oil of terebinth and an emetic.’

‘Go on!’ Villefort commanded.

‘Now, everyone must leave.’

‘Including me?’ Valentine asked timidly.

‘Yes, Mademoiselle, especially you,’ the doctor said harshly. Valentine looked at him in astonishment, kissed M. Noirtier on the forehead and went out. The doctor emphatically closed the door behind her.

‘There now, doctor. He’s coming round. It was only some mild seizure.’

M. d’Avrigny gave a grim smile. ‘How do you feel, Barrois?’ he asked.

‘A little better, Monsieur.’

‘Can you drink this glass of etherized water?’

‘I can try, but don’t touch me.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because I feel that, if you were to touch me, even with the tip of a finger, I should suffer another attack.’

‘Drink it.’

Barrois took the glass, lifted it to his purple lips and drank about half of what was in it.

‘Where is the pain?’ asked the doctor.

‘Everywhere. It is like frightful cramps.’

‘Do you feel dizzy?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is there a ringing in your ears?’

‘Dreadful.’

‘When did it start?’

‘Just a short while ago.’

‘Very suddenly?’

‘Like a thunderbolt.’

‘Nothing yesterday, or the day before?’

‘Nothing.’

‘No sleepiness? No lassitude?’

‘No.’

‘What have you eaten today?’

‘Nothing. I just took a glass of Monsieur’s lemonade, that’s all.’ And Barrois nodded towards Noirtier, sitting motionless in his chair and watching this dreadful scene without missing a movement or a word.

‘Where is this lemonade?’ the doctor asked urgently.

‘Outside, in the jug.’

‘What do you mean by “outside”?’

‘In the kitchen.’

‘Would you like me to fetch it, doctor?’ Villefort asked.

‘No, stay here and try to make the patient drink the rest of this glass of water.’

‘But the lemonade…’

‘I’ll go myself.’

D’Avrigny leapt up, opened the door and ran out on to the service stairs, where he almost knocked over Madame de Villefort. She, too, was going down to the kitchen.

She cried out. D’Avrigny took no notice; his mind fixed on one single idea, he jumped the last three or four stairs, hurried into the kitchen and, seeing the little jug standing there, three-quarters empty, pounced on it like an eagle on its prey. Panting for breath, he went back to the ground floor and into M. Noirtier’s room.

Mme de Villefort slowly went back up the stairs towards her apartment.

‘Is this the jug?’ d’Avrigny asked.

‘Yes, doctor.’

‘And this lemonade is the same that you drank?’

‘I think so.’

‘How did it taste?’

‘Bitter.’

The doctor poured a few drops of lemonade into the palm of his hand, sniffed it and, after washing it round his mouth as one does when tasting wine, spat the liquid into the fireplace.

‘It must be the same,’ he said. ‘Did you also drink it, Monsieur Noirtier?’

‘Yes,’ said the old man.

‘And you noticed this same bitter taste?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, doctor!’ Barrois cried. ‘It’s starting again! Oh, God! Oh, Lord, have pity on me!’

The doctor hurried across to the sick man. ‘Villefort,’ he said, ‘see if the emetic is coming.’

Villefort hurried out, shouting: ‘The emetic! Has anyone brought the emetic?’ There was no answer. The whole house was gripped with a profound sense of terror.

‘If I had some means of getting air into his lungs,’ d’Avrigny said, looking round about him, ‘there might perhaps be some hope of avoiding asphyxia. But there is nothing! Nothing!’

‘Oh, Monsieur,’ Barrois cried, ‘will you let me die without aid? Oh, I am dying! My God, I am dying!’

‘A quill! A quill!’ said the doctor, then he noticed a pen on the table. He tried to force it into the patient’s mouth; Barrois, in his convulsions, was vainly trying to vomit. His jaw was so rigid that the quill could not pass through it. He was now in the grip of a nervous attack even more powerful than before; he slid from the chaise-longue to the floor and lay there, rigid.

The doctor, powerless to relieve his agony, left him and went over to Noirtier.

‘How do you feel?’ he said to him in an urgent whisper. ‘Well?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does your stomach feel heavy or light? Light?’

‘Yes.’

‘As it does when you take the pill I make for you every Sunday?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did Barrois make your lemonade?’

‘Yes.’

‘And did you urge him to drink some of it?’

‘No.’

‘Was it Monsieur de Villefort?’

‘No.’

‘Madame?’

‘No.’

‘Valentine, then?’

‘Yes.’

D’Avrigny’s attention was drawn by a sigh from Barrois, a yawn that seemed to make his jawbone crack. He left Noirtier and hurried to the patient’s side. ‘Barrois,’ he said, ‘can you speak?’

Barrois muttered a few unintelligible words.

‘Try to speak, my friend.’

Barrois re-opened his bloodshot eyes.

‘Who made the lemonade?’

‘I did.’

‘Did you take it to your master as soon as it was made?’

‘No.’

‘So you left it somewhere, then?’

‘In the scullery. I was called away.’

‘And who brought it here?’

‘Mademoiselle Valentine.’

D’Avrigny beat his brow. ‘Oh, my God,’ he murmured. ‘My God!’

‘Doctor, doctor!’ Barrois cried, feeling the onset of another attack.

‘Will no one bring that emetic?’ the doctor shouted.

‘Here is a glass of it ready prepared,’ said Villefort, coming back into the room.

‘By whom?’

‘By the pharmacist’s apprentice who came with me.’

‘Drink.’

‘I can’t, doctor. It’s too late. My throat is so tight. I am suffocating! Oh, my heart! Oh, my head! Oh, what hell! Must I suffer this for much longer?’

‘No, no, my friend,’ the doctor said. ‘Soon you will suffer no longer.’

‘Ah, I understand,’ said the unfortunate man. ‘My God! Have pity on me.’ And, with a cry, he fell back as though struck by lightning.

D’Avrigny put a hand to his heart and held a mirror to his lips.

‘Well?’ asked Villefort.

‘Go to the kitchen and ask them to bring me some syrup of violets.’

Villefort left at once.

‘Don’t worry, Monsieur Noirtier,’ d’Avrigny said. ‘I am taking the patient into another room to bleed him. This kind of attack is truly awful to see.’ Taking Barrois under the arms, he dragged him into the next room, but returned almost immediately to where Noirtier was, to fetch the rest of the lemonade. Noirtier closed his right eye.

‘Valentine? You want Valentine? I’ll tell them to send her to you.’

Villefort was coming back up, and d’Avrigny met him in the corridor.

‘Well?’ he asked.

‘Come with me,’ said d’Avrigny, leading the way into the bedroom.

‘Is he still unconscious?’ the crown prosecutor asked.

‘He is dead.’

Villefort stepped back, put his hands to his head and, with unfeigned pity, looked at the corpse and said: ‘So suddenly!’

‘Yes, very sudden, wasn’t it?’ d’Avrigny said. ‘But you shouldn’t be surprised at that: Monsieur and Madame de Saint-Méran died just as suddenly. People die quickly in your family, Monsieur de Villefort.’

‘What!’ the magistrate exclaimed, in tones of horror and consternation. ‘Are you still pursuing that awful notion?’

‘Yes, Monsieur, I still am,’ d’Avrigny said solemnly. ‘I have not had it out of my mind for an instant. And so that you can be quite convinced this time that I am not mistaken, listen carefully, Monsieur de Villefort.’

Villefort gave a convulsive shudder.

‘There is a poison that kills almost without leaving any trace. I am well acquainted with this poison; I have studied all the effects that it produces and every symptom that results. I recognized this poison just now in poor Barrois, as I also recognized it in Madame de Saint-Méran. There is a way of detecting its presence: when litmus paper has been reddened by an acid, it will restore its blue colour; and it will give a green tint to syrup of violets. We do not have any litmus paper – but here they are with the syrup of violets that I asked for.’

There was a sound of footsteps in the corridor. The doctor
opened the door and took a cup from the chambermaid; in it were two or three spoonfuls of syrup.

As he closed the door, ‘Look,’ he said to the crown prosecutor, whose heart was beating so hard as to be almost audible. ‘Here in this cup I have some syrup of violets and in this jug the remains of the lemonade, part of which was drunk by Barrois and Monsieur Noirtier. If the lemonade is pure and harmless, the syrup will not change colour. If the lemonade is poisoned, the syrup will turn green. Watch!’

The doctor slowly poured a few drops of lemonade from the jug into the cup, where a cloudy liquid instantly formed at the bottom. At first this cloud had a bluish tinge, then it turned to sapphire and opal, and finally from opal to emerald. When it reached this last colour, it settled, so to speak. The experiment was incontrovertible.

‘Poor Barrois was poisoned with false angostura or Saint Ignatius’ nut,’
¹
d’Avrigny said. ‘I will swear to it before God and man.’

For his part, Villefort said nothing, but raised his hands to heaven, opened wide his distraught eyes and fell senseless on to a chair.

The magistrate seemed like a second corpse in this funerary chamber, but d’Avrigny soon brought him back to his senses.

‘Death is in my house!’ Villefort cried.

‘You should rather say: crime,’ said the doctor.

‘Monsieur d’Avrigny!’ Villefort exclaimed, ‘I cannot tell you all that is going on in my mind at this moment: there is terror, pain, madness…’

‘Yes,’ M. d’Avrigny said, with impressive calm, ‘but I think it is time to act; I think it is time we raised some barrier to stem this rising tide of mortality. For my part, I do not feel capable any longer of carrying the burden of such secrets, without any prospect of immediate vengeance for society and the victims.’

Villefort cast a grim look around him.

‘In my house,’ he muttered. ‘In my house!’

‘Come, judge,’ said d’Avrigny. ‘Be a man. As the interpreter of the law, your honour demands a total sacrifice.’

‘I am horrified at what you say, doctor: sacrifice!’

‘That’s what I said.’