The Count of Monte Cristo
concealed it, and Morrel saw Villefort come out upon the steps,
followed by a gentleman in black. They descended, and advanced towards
the clump of trees, and Morrel soon recognized the other gentleman as
Doctor d’Avrigny.
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The young man, seeing them approach, drew back mechanically, until he
found himself stopped by a sycamore-tree in the centre of the clump;
there he was compelled to remain. Soon the two gentlemen stopped also.
“Ah, my dear doctor,” said the procureur, “Heaven declares itself
against my house! What a dreadful death—what a blow! Seek not to
console me; alas, nothing can alleviate so great a sorrow—the wound is
too deep and too fresh! Dead, dead!”
The cold sweat sprang to the young man’s brow, and his teeth chattered.
Who could be dead in that house, which Villefort himself had called
accursed?
“My dear M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, with a tone which
redoubled the terror of the young man, “I have not led you here to
console you; on the contrary——”
“What can you mean?” asked the procureur, alarmed.
“I mean that behind the misfortune which has just happened to you,
there is another, perhaps, still greater.”
“Can it be possible?” murmured Villefort, clasping his hands. “What are
you going to tell me?”
“Are we quite alone, my friend?”
“Yes, quite; but why all these precautions?”
“Because I have a terrible secret to communicate to you,” said the
doctor. “Let us sit down.”
Villefort fell, rather than seated himself. The doctor stood before
him, with one hand placed on his shoulder. Morrel, horrified, supported
his head with one hand, and with the other pressed his heart, lest its
beatings should be heard. “Dead, dead!” repeated he within himself; and
he felt as if he were also dying.
“Speak, doctor—I am listening,” said Villefort; “strike—I am prepared
for everything!”
“Madame de Saint-Méran was, doubtless, advancing in years, but she
enjoyed excellent health.” Morrel began again to breathe freely, which
he had not done during the last ten minutes.
“Grief has consumed her,” said Villefort—“yes, grief, doctor! After
living forty years with the marquis——”
“It is not grief, my dear Villefort,” said the doctor; “grief may kill,
although it rarely does, and never in a day, never in an hour, never in
ten minutes.” Villefort answered nothing, he simply raised his head,
which had been cast down before, and looked at the doctor with
amazement.
“Were you present during the last struggle?” asked M. d’Avrigny.
“I was,” replied the procureur; “you begged me not to leave.”
“Did you notice the symptoms of the disease to which Madame de
Saint-Méran has fallen a victim?”
“I did. Madame de Saint-Méran had three successive attacks, at
intervals of some minutes, each one more serious than the former. When
you arrived, Madame de Saint-Méran had already been panting for breath
some minutes; she then had a fit, which I took to be simply a nervous
attack, and it was only when I saw her raise herself in the bed, and
her limbs and neck appear stiffened, that I became really alarmed. Then
I understood from your countenance there was more to fear than I had
thought. This crisis past, I endeavored to catch your eye, but could
not. You held her hand—you were feeling her pulse—and the second fit
came on before you had turned towards me. This was more terrible than
the first; the same nervous movements were repeated, and the mouth
contracted and turned purple.”
“And at the third she expired.”
“At the end of the first attack I discovered symptoms of tetanus; you
confirmed my opinion.”
“Yes, before others,” replied the doctor; “but now we are alone——”
“What are you going to say? Oh, spare me!”
“That the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable substances are
the same.”
M. de Villefort started from his seat, then in a moment fell down
again, silent and motionless. Morrel knew not if he were dreaming or
awake.
“Listen,” said the doctor; “I know the full importance of the statement
I have just made, and the disposition of the man to whom I have made
it.”
“Do you speak to me as a magistrate or as a friend?” asked Villefort.
“As a friend, and only as a friend, at this moment. The similarity in
the symptoms of tetanus and poisoning by vegetable substances is so
great, that were I obliged to affirm by oath what I have now stated, I
should hesitate; I therefore repeat to you, I speak not to a
magistrate, but to a friend. And to that friend I say, ‘During the
three-quarters of an hour that the struggle continued, I watched the
convulsions and the death of Madame de Saint-Méran, and am thoroughly
convinced that not only did her death proceed from poison, but I could
also specify the poison.’”
“Can it be possible?”
“The symptoms are marked, do you see?—sleep broken by nervous spasms,
excitation of the brain, torpor of the nerve centres. Madame de
Saint-Méran succumbed to a powerful dose of brucine or of strychnine,
which by some mistake, perhaps, has been given to her.”
Villefort seized the doctor’s hand.
“Oh, it is impossible,” said he, “I must be dreaming! It is frightful
to hear such things from such a man as you! Tell me, I entreat you, my
dear doctor, that you may be deceived.”
“Doubtless I may, but——”
“But?”
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“But I do not think so.”
“Have pity on me doctor! So many dreadful things have happened to me
lately that I am on the verge of madness.”
“Has anyone besides me seen Madame de Saint-Méran?”
“No.”
“Has anything been sent for from a chemist’s that I have not examined?”
“Nothing.”
“Had Madame de Saint-Méran any enemies?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Would her death affect anyone’s interest?”
“It could not indeed, my daughter is her only heiress—Valentine alone.
Oh, if such a thought could present itself, I would stab myself to
punish my heart for having for one instant harbored it.”
“Indeed, my dear friend,” said M. d’Avrigny, “I would not accuse
anyone; I speak only of an accident, you understand,—of a mistake,—but
whether accident or mistake, the fact is there; it is on my conscience
and compels me to speak aloud to you. Make inquiry.”
“Of whom?—how?—of what?”
“May not Barrois, the old servant, have made a mistake, and have given
Madame de Saint-Méran a dose prepared for his master?”
“For my father?”
“Yes.”
“But how could a dose prepared for M. Noirtier poison Madame de
Saint-Méran?”
“Nothing is more simple. You know poisons become remedies in certain
diseases, of which paralysis is one. For instance, having tried every
other remedy to restore movement and speech to M. Noirtier, I resolved
to try one last means, and for three months I have been giving him
brucine; so that in the last dose I ordered for him there were six
grains. This quantity, which is perfectly safe to administer to the
paralyzed frame of M. Noirtier, which has become gradually accustomed
to it, would be sufficient to kill another person.”
“My dear doctor, there is no communication between M. Noirtier’s
apartment and that of Madame de Saint-Méran, and Barrois never entered
my mother-in-law’s room. In short, doctor although I know you to be the
most conscientious man in the world, and although I place the utmost
reliance in you, I want, notwithstanding my conviction, to believe this
axiom, _errare humanum est_.”
“Is there one of my brethren in whom you have equal confidence with
myself?”
“Why do you ask me that?—what do you wish?”
“Send for him; I will tell him what I have seen, and we will consult
together, and examine the body.”
“And you will find traces of poison?”
“No, I did not say of poison, but we can prove what was the state of
the body; we shall discover the cause of her sudden death, and we shall
say, ‘Dear Villefort, if this thing has been caused by negligence,
watch over your servants; if from hatred, watch your enemies.’”
“What do you propose to me, d’Avrigny?” said Villefort in despair; “so
soon as another is admitted into our secret, an inquest will become
necessary; and an inquest in my house—impossible! Still,” continued the
procureur, looking at the doctor with uneasiness, “if you wish it—if
you demand it, why then it shall be done. But, doctor, you see me
already so grieved—how can I introduce into my house so much scandal,
after so much sorrow? My wife and my daughter would die of it! And I,
doctor—you know a man does not arrive at the post I occupy—one has not
been king’s attorney twenty-five years without having amassed a
tolerable number of enemies; mine are numerous. Let this affair be
talked of, it will be a triumph for them, which will make them rejoice,
and cover me with shame. Pardon me, doctor, these worldly ideas; were
you a priest I should not dare tell you that, but you are a man, and
you know mankind. Doctor, pray recall your words; you have said
nothing, have you?”
“My dear M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, “my first duty is to
humanity. I would have saved Madame de Saint-Méran, if science could
have done it; but she is dead and my duty regards the living. Let us
bury this terrible secret in the deepest recesses of our hearts; I am
willing, if anyone should suspect this, that my silence on the subject
should be imputed to my ignorance. Meanwhile, sir, watch always—watch
carefully, for perhaps the evil may not stop here. And when you have
found the culprit, if you find him, I will say to you, ‘You are a
magistrate, do as you will!’”
“I thank you, doctor,” said Villefort with indescribable joy; “I never
had a better friend than you.” And, as if he feared Doctor d’Avrigny
would recall his promise, he hurried him towards the house.
When they were gone, Morrel ventured out from under the trees, and the
moon shone upon his face, which was so pale it might have been taken
for that of a ghost.
“I am manifestly protected in a most wonderful, but most terrible
manner,” said he; “but Valentine, poor girl, how will she bear so much
sorrow?”
As he thought thus, he looked alternately at the window with red
curtains and the three windows with white curtains. The light had
almost disappeared from the former; doubtless Madame de Villefort had
just put out her lamp, and the nightlamp alone reflected its dull light
on the window. At the extremity of the building, on the contrary, he
saw one of the three windows open. A wax-light placed on the
mantle-piece threw some of its pale rays without, and a shadow was seen
for one moment on the balcony. Morrel shuddered; he thought he heard a
sob.
It cannot be wondered at that his mind, generally so courageous, but
now disturbed by the two strongest human passions, love and fear, was
weakened even to the indulgence of superstitious thoughts. Although it
was impossible that Valentine should see him, hidden as he was, he
thought he heard the shadow at the window call him; his disturbed mind
told him so. This double error became an irresistible reality, and by
one of the incomprehensible transports of youth, he bounded from his
hiding-place, and with two strides, at the risk of being seen, at the
risk of alarming Valentine, at the risk of being discovered by some
exclamation which might escape the young girl, he crossed the
flower-garden, which by the light of the moon resembled a large white
lake, and having passed the rows of orange-trees which extended in
front of the house, he reached the step, ran quickly up and pushed the
door, which opened without offering any resistance.
Valentine had not seen him. Her eyes, raised towards heaven, were
watching a silvery cloud gliding over the azure, its form that of a
shadow mounting towards heaven. Her poetic and excited mind pictured it
as the soul of her grandmother.
Meanwhile, Morrel had traversed the anteroom and found the staircase,