The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas (best book club books .TXT) 📕

servant’s life was coveted? No, no; like Shakespeare’s Polonius, he died for another. It was Noirtier the lemonade was intended for⁠—it is Noirtier, logically speaking, who drank it. The other drank it only by accident, and, although Barrois is dead, it was Noirtier whose death was wished for.”

“But why did it not kill my father?”

“I told you one evening in the garden after Madame de Saint-Méran’s death⁠—because his system is accustomed to that very poison, and the dose was trifling to him, which would be fatal to another; because no one knows, not even the assassin, that, for the last twelve months, I have given M. Noirtier brucine for his paralytic affection, while the assassin is not ignorant, for he has proved that brucine is a violent poison.”

“Oh, have pity⁠—have pity!” murmured Villefort, wringing his hands.

“Follow the culprit’s steps; he first kills M. de Saint-Méran⁠—”

“Oh, doctor!”

“I would swear to it; what I heard of his symptoms agrees too well with what I have seen in the other cases.” Villefort ceased to contend; he only groaned. “He first kills M. de Saint-Méran,” repeated the doctor, “then Madame de Saint-Méran⁠—a double fortune to inherit.” Villefort wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Listen attentively.”

“Alas,” stammered Villefort, “I do not lose a single word.”

“M. Noirtier,” resumed M. d’Avrigny in the same pitiless tone⁠—“M. Noirtier had once made a will against you⁠—against your family⁠—in favor of the poor, in fact; M. Noirtier is spared, because nothing is expected from him. But he has no sooner destroyed his first will and made a second, than, for fear he should make a third, he is struck down. The will was made the day before yesterday, I believe; you see there has been no time lost.”

“Oh, mercy, M. d’Avrigny!”

“No mercy, sir! The physician has a sacred mission on earth; and to fulfil it he begins at the source of life, and goes down to the mysterious darkness of the tomb. When crime has been committed, and God, doubtless in anger, turns away his face, it is for the physician to bring the culprit to justice.”

“Have mercy on my child, sir,” murmured Villefort.

“You see it is yourself who have first named her⁠—you, her father.”

“Have pity on Valentine! Listen, it is impossible. I would as willingly accuse myself! Valentine, whose heart is pure as a diamond or a lily!”

“No pity, procureur; the crime is fragrant. Mademoiselle herself packed all the medicines which were sent to M. de Saint-Méran; and M. de Saint-Méran is dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort prepared all the cooling draughts which Madame de Saint-Méran took, and Madame de Saint-Méran is dead. Mademoiselle de Villefort took from the hands of Barrois, who was sent out, the lemonade which M. Noirtier had every morning, and he has escaped by a miracle. Mademoiselle de Villefort is the culprit⁠—she is the poisoner! To you, as the king’s attorney, I denounce Mademoiselle de Villefort, do your duty.”

“Doctor, I resist no longer⁠—I can no longer defend myself⁠—I believe you; but, for pity’s sake, spare my life, my honor!”

“M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, with increased vehemence, “there are occasions when I dispense with all foolish human circumspection. If your daughter had committed only one crime, and I saw her meditating another, I would say ‘Warn her, punish her, let her pass the remainder of her life in a convent, weeping and praying.’ If she had committed two crimes, I would say, ‘Here, M. de Villefort, is a poison that the prisoner is not acquainted with⁠—one that has no known antidote, quick as thought, rapid as lightning, mortal as the thunderbolt; give her that poison, recommending her soul to God, and save your honor and your life, for it is yours she aims at; and I can picture her approaching your pillow with her hypocritical smiles and her sweet exhortations. Woe to you, M. de Villefort, if you do not strike first!’ This is what I would say had she only killed two persons but she has seen three deaths⁠—has contemplated three murdered persons⁠—has knelt by three corpses! To the scaffold with the poisoner⁠—to the scaffold! Do you talk of your honor? Do what I tell you, and immortality awaits you!”

Villefort fell on his knees.

“Listen,” said he; “I have not the strength of mind you have, or rather that which you would not have, if instead of my daughter Valentine your daughter Madeleine were concerned.” The doctor turned pale. “Doctor, every son of woman is born to suffer and to die; I am content to suffer and to await death.”

“Beware,” said M. d’Avrigny, “it may come slowly; you will see it approach after having struck your father, your wife, perhaps your son.”

Villefort, suffocating, pressed the doctor’s arm.

“Listen,” cried he; “pity me⁠—help me! No, my daughter is not guilty. If you drag us both before a tribunal I will still say, ‘No, my daughter is not guilty;⁠—there is no crime in my house. I will not acknowledge a crime in my house; for when crime enters a dwelling, it is like death⁠—it does not come alone.’ Listen. What does it signify to you if I am murdered? Are you my friend? Are you a man? Have you a heart? No, you are a physician! Well, I tell you I will not drag my daughter before a tribunal, and give her up to the executioner! The bare idea would kill me⁠—would drive me like a madman to dig my heart out with my fingernails! And if you were mistaken, doctor⁠—if it were not my daughter⁠—if I should come one day, pale as a spectre, and say to you, ‘Assassin, you have killed my child!’⁠—hold⁠—if that should happen, although I am a Christian, M. d’Avrigny, I should kill myself.”

“Well,” said the doctor, after a moment’s silence, “I will wait.”

Villefort looked at him as if he had doubted his words.

“Only,” continued M. d’Avrigny, with a slow and solemn tone, “if anyone falls ill in your house, if you feel yourself attacked, do not send for me, for I will