LXXIX. La limonade.

LXXIX

The Lemonade.

Indeed, Morrel was very happy.

M. Noirtier had just sent for him, and he was in such haste to know for what reason, that he had not taken a cabriolet, trusting far more to his own two legs than to the legs of a hackney horse; he had therefore set out at a run from the rue Meslay and was making his way to the faubourg Saint-Honoré.

Morrel walked at a gymnastic pace, and poor Barrois followed him as best he could. Morrel was thirty-one years old, Barrois was sixty; Morrel was drunk with love, Barrois was parched by the great heat. These two men, thus divided in interests and in age, resembled the two lines that form a triangle: separated at the base, they meet at the apex.

The apex was Noirtier, who had sent for Morrel with a recommendation to make haste, a recommendation that Morrel followed to the letter, to the great despair of Barrois.

On arriving, Morrel was not even out of breath: love gives wings, but Barrois, who had long since ceased to be in love, Barrois was in a sweat.

The old servant let Morrel in by the private door, closed the door of the study, and soon a rustling of a gown upon the parquet announced Valentine's visit.

Valentine was ravishingly beautiful in her mourning clothes.

The dream became so sweet that Morrel could almost have dispensed with conversing with Noirtier; but the old man's armchair soon rolled upon the parquet, and he entered.

Noirtier greeted with a benevolent look the thanks that Morrel lavished upon him for this marvelous intervention which had saved him and Valentine from despair. Then Morrel's glance went to provoke, regarding the new favor that was granted him, the young girl, who, timid and seated far from Morrel, waited to be forced to speak.

Noirtier looked at her in his turn.

"Then I must say what you charged me with?" she asked.

"Yes," said Noirtier.

"M. Morrel," said Valentine to the young man who was devouring her with his eyes, "my good papa Noirtier had a thousand things to tell you, which for three days he has been telling me. Today he sends for you so that I may repeat them to you; I shall repeat them, then, since he has chosen me for his interpreter, without altering a word of his intentions."

"Oh! I listen with great impatience," replied the young man; "speak, mademoiselle, speak."

Valentine lowered her eyes: a presage that seemed sweet to Morrel. Valentine was weak only in happiness.

"My father wishes to leave this house," she said. "Barrois is busy finding him a suitable apartment."

"But you, mademoiselle," said Morrel, "you who are so dear and so necessary to M. Noirtier?"

"I," resumed the young girl, "shall not leave my grandfather, that is settled between him and me. My apartment will be near his. Either I shall have M. de Villefort's consent to go and live with good papa Noirtier, or it will be refused me: in the first case, I leave at once; in the second, I wait for my majority, which arrives in eighteen months. Then I shall be free, I shall have an independent fortune, and..."

"And?..." asked Morrel.

"And, with good papa's permission, I shall keep the promise I made you."

Valentine pronounced these last words so low, that Morrel could not have heard them without the interest he had in devouring them.

"Is it not your thought that I have expressed there, good papa?" added Valentine, addressing Noirtier.

"Yes," said the old man.

"Once at my grandfather's," added Valentine, "M. Morrel may come to see me in the presence of this good and worthy protector. If this bond that our hearts, perhaps ignorant or capricious, had begun to form appears fitting and offers guarantees of future happiness to our experience (alas! they say, hearts inflamed by obstacles grow cold in security!) then M. Morrel may ask me myself, I shall await him."

"Oh!" cried Morrel, tempted to kneel before the old man as before God, before Valentine as before an angel; "oh! what good have I done in my life to deserve so much happiness?"

"Until then," continued the young girl in her pure and severe voice, "we respect proprieties, the very will of our parents, provided that this will does not tend to separate us forever; in a word, and I repeat this word because it says all, we shall wait."

"And the sacrifices that this word imposes, monsieur," said Morrel, "I swear to you to accomplish them, not with resignation, but with happiness."

"Thus," continued Valentine with a look very sweet to Maximilien's heart, "no more imprudences, my friend; do not compromise her who, from this day forth, regards herself as destined to bear your name purely and worthily."

Morrel pressed his hand to his heart.

Meanwhile Noirtier looked upon them both with tenderness. Barrois, who had remained in the back like a man from whom nothing need be hidden, smiled as he wiped the great drops of water falling from his bald forehead.

"Oh! my God, how hot this good Barrois is," said Valentine.

"Ah!" said Barrois, "it is that I ran hard, you know, mademoiselle; but M. Morrel, I must do him this justice, ran even faster than I."

Noirtier indicated with his eye a tray on which were served a carafe of lemonade and a glass. What was lacking in the carafe had been drunk half an hour before by Noirtier.

"Here, good Barrois," said the young girl, "take it, for I see you are coveting that started carafe."

"The fact is," said Barrois, "that I am dying of thirst, and that I should drink a glass of lemonade very willingly to your health."

"Drink, then," said Valentine, "and come back in a moment."

Barrois carried off the tray, and scarcely was he in the corridor, than through the door he had forgotten to close, one could see him bend his head backward to empty the glass that Valentine had filled.

Valentine and Morrel were exchanging their farewells in Noirtier's presence, when the bell was heard ringing on Villefort's staircase.

It was the signal of a visit.

Valentine looked at the clock.

"It is noon," she said; "today is Saturday, good papa, it is no doubt the doctor."

Noirtier signified that indeed it must be he.

"He is coming here, M. Morrel must go, must he not, good papa?"

"Yes," replied the old man. "Barrois!" called Valentine; "Barrois, come!"

The voice of the old servant was heard answering:

"I am coming, mademoiselle."

"Barrois will show you to the door," said Valentine to Morrel; "and now, remember one thing, monsieur the officer, which is that my good papa recommends you to risk no step capable of compromising our happiness."

"I have promised to wait," said Morrel, "and I shall wait."

At this moment Barrois entered.

"Who rang?" asked Valentine.

"M. le docteur d'Avrigny," said Barrois, staggering on his legs.

"Why, what is the matter with you, Barrois?" asked Valentine.

The old man did not answer; he looked at his master with terrified eyes, while with his clenched hand he sought support to remain standing.

"But he is going to fall!" cried Morrel.

Indeed, the trembling that had seized Barrois increased by degrees; the features of his face, altered by the convulsive movements of the facial muscles, announced a nervous attack of the most intense kind.

Noirtier, seeing Barrois thus troubled, multiplied his glances in which were painted, intelligible and palpitating, all the emotions that agitate the heart of man.

Barrois took a few steps toward his master.

"Ah! my God! my God! Lord," he said, "but what is the matter with me?... I suffer... I can no longer see. A thousand points of fire pierce my skull. Oh! do not touch me, do not touch me!"

Indeed, his eyes became protruding and wild, and his head fell backward, while the rest of his body grew rigid.

Valentine, terrified, uttered a cry; Morrel took her in his arms as if to defend her against some unknown danger.

"M. d'Avrigny! M. d'Avrigny!" cried Valentine in a stifled voice; "come! help!"

Barrois turned upon himself, took three steps backward, stumbled and fell at Noirtier's feet, on whose knee he leaned his hand, crying:

"My master! my good master!"

At this moment M. de Villefort, attracted by the cries, appeared on the threshold of the room.

Morrel let go of Valentine, half fainting, and throwing himself backward, shrank into the corner of the room and almost disappeared behind a curtain.

Pale as if he had seen a serpent rise before him, he fixed a frozen gaze upon the unhappy dying man.

Noirtier boiled with impatience and terror; his soul flew to the aid of the poor old man, his friend rather than his servant. One could see the terrible combat of life and death translate itself upon his brow by the swelling of the veins and the contraction of the few muscles still alive around his eyes.

Barrois, his face agitated, his eyes bloodshot, his neck thrown back, lay beating the parquet with his hands, while on the contrary his stiff legs seemed as if they would break rather than bend.

A slight foam rose to his lips, and he gasped painfully.

Villefort, stupefied, remained for an instant with his eyes fixed upon this scene, which, from his entrance into the room, had attracted his gaze.

He had not seen Morrel.

After an instant of mute contemplation during which one could see his face grow pale and his hair stand up on his head:

"Doctor! doctor!" he cried, springing toward the door; "come! come!"

"Madame! madame!" cried Valentine, calling her stepmother as she struck against the walls of the staircase; "come! come quickly and bring your smelling salts!"

"What is it?" asked the metallic and restrained voice of Mme de Villefort.

"Oh! come! come!"

"But where is the doctor!" cried Villefort; "where is he?"

Mme de Villefort descended slowly; one could hear the boards creak under her feet. In one hand she held the handkerchief with which she wiped her face, in the other a bottle of English smelling salts.

Her first glance, on arriving at the door, was for Noirtier, whose face, save the emotion very natural in such a circumstance, announced an equal health; her second glance met the dying man.

She grew pale, and her eye rebounded, so to speak, from the servant to the master.

"But in the name of Heaven, madame, where is the doctor? He came in to you. It is an apoplexy, you see plainly, with a bleeding we shall save him."

"Has he eaten recently?" asked Mme de Villefort, evading the question.

"Madame," said Valentine, "he has not breakfasted, but he ran hard this morning to do an errand with which good papa had charged him. Only on his return did he take a glass of lemonade."

"Ah!" said Mme de Villefort, "why not wine? Lemonade is very bad."

"The lemonade was there within his reach, in good papa's carafe; poor Barrois was thirsty, he drank what he found."

Mme de Villefort trembled. Noirtier enveloped her with his deep gaze.

"His neck is so short!" said she.

"Madame," said Villefort, "I ask you where M. d'Avrigny is; in the name of Heaven, answer!"

"He is in Édouard's room, who is a little unwell," said Mme de Villefort, who could evade no longer.

Villefort sprang up the stairs to go fetch him himself.

"Here," said the young woman, giving her vial to Valentine; "they will bleed him no doubt. I am going back up to my room, for I cannot bear the sight of blood."

And she followed her husband.

Morrel came out of the dark corner where he had withdrawn, and where no one had seen him, so great was the preoccupation.

"Leave quickly, Maximilien," said Valentine to him; "and wait until I call you. Go."

Morrel consulted Noirtier by a gesture. Noirtier, who had kept all his coolness, signed to him that yes.

He pressed Valentine's hand to his heart and went out by the hidden corridor.

At the same time Villefort and the doctor re-entered by the opposite door.

Barrois was beginning to come to himself: the crisis had passed, his speech returned moaning, and he raised himself on one knee.

D'Avrigny and Villefort carried Barrois to a lounge.

"What do you order, doctor?" asked Villefort.

"That some water and ether be brought to me. You have some in the house?"

"Yes."

"Let someone run to fetch me some oil of turpentine and some emetic."

"Go!" said Villefort.

"And now let everyone withdraw."

"I too?" asked Valentine timidly.

"Yes, mademoiselle, you above all," said the doctor roughly.

Valentine looked at M. d'Avrigny with astonishment, kissed M. Noirtier on the forehead and went out.

Behind her the doctor closed the door with a gloomy air.

"See, see, doctor, there he is coming back; it was only a trifling attack."

M. d'Avrigny smiled with a gloomy air.

"How do you feel, Barrois?" asked the doctor.

"A little better, sir."

"Can you drink this glass of ethereal water?"

"I shall try, but do not touch me."

"Why?"

"Because it seems to me that if you touched me, were it but with the tip of your finger, the fit would return."

"Drink."

Barrois took the glass, brought it to his violet lips and emptied about half of it.

"Where do you suffer?" asked the doctor.

"Everywhere; I feel as if I had frightful cramps."

"Do you have dizziness?"

"Yes."

"Ringing in the ears?"

"Dreadful."

"When did this seize you?"

"Just now."

"Rapidly?"

"Like lightning."

"Nothing yesterday? nothing the day before?"

"Nothing."

"No drowsiness? no heaviness?"

"No."

"What did you eat today?"

"I ate nothing; I only drank a glass of monsieur's lemonade, that is all."

And Barrois made a sign with his head to indicate Noirtier, who, immobile in his armchair, contemplated this terrible scene without losing a movement of it, without letting escape a word.

"Where is this lemonade?" asked the doctor quickly.

"In the carafe, below."

"Where, below!"

"In the kitchen."

"Shall I go fetch it, doctor?" asked Villefort.

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

"But this lemonade..."

"I shall go myself."

D'Avrigny made a bound, opened the door, sprang down the service stairs and nearly overturned Mme de Villefort, who, she too, was descending to the kitchen.

She uttered a cry.

D'Avrigny paid no heed even to that; carried away by the power of a single idea, he leapt the three or four last steps, precipitated himself into the kitchen, and perceived the carafe three-quarters empty upon a tray.

He fell upon it like an eagle upon its prey.

Panting, he remounted to the ground floor and re-entered the room. Mme de Villefort was slowly remounting the stairs that led to her apartment.

"Is this indeed the carafe that was here?" asked d'Avrigny.

"Yes, monsieur le docteur."

"This lemonade is the same that you drank?"

"I believe so."

"What taste did you find in it?"

"A bitter taste."

The doctor poured a few drops of lemonade into the hollow of his hand, drew them up with his lips, and, after rinsing his mouth as one does with wine one wishes to taste, spat the liquid into the fireplace.

"It is indeed the same," said he. "And you also drank of it, M. Noirtier?"

"Yes," said the old man.

"And you found it that same bitter taste?"

"Yes."

"Ah! monsieur le docteur!" cried Barrois; "see, it is seizing me again! My God, Lord, have pity on me!"

The doctor ran to the patient.

"This emetic, Villefort, see if it comes."

Villefort sprang forward crying:

"The emetic! the emetic! has it been brought?"

No one answered. The most profound terror reigned in the house.

"If I had a means of insufflating air into his lungs," said d'Avrigny, looking around him, "perhaps there would be a possibility of preventing asphyxia. But no, nothing, nothing!"

"Oh! sir," cried Barrois, "will you leave me to die thus without help? Oh! I am dying, my God! I am dying!"

"A feather! a feather!" demanded the doctor.

He caught sight of one upon the table.

He tried to introduce the feather into the patient's mouth, who, amid his convulsions, made useless efforts to vomit; but the jaws were so tightly clenched that the feather could not pass.

Barrois was seized with a nervous attack even more intense than the first. He had slipped from the lounge to the floor, and was stiffening upon the parquet.

The doctor left him to this fit, to which he could bring no relief, and went to Noirtier.

"How do you find yourself?" said he hastily and in a low voice; "well?"

"Yes."

"Light of stomach or heavy? light?"

"Yes."

"As when you took the pill I have given every Sunday?"

"Yes."

"Was it Barrois who made your lemonade?"

"Yes."

"Did you urge him to drink of it?"

"No."

"Was it M. de Villefort?"

"No."

"Madame?"

"No."

"Then it was Valentine, then?"

"Yes."

A sigh from Barrois, a yawn that cracked the bones of his jaw, called d'Avrigny's attention: he left M. Noirtier and ran to the patient.

"Barrois," said the doctor, "can you speak?"

Barrois stammered a few unintelligible words.

"Make an effort, my friend."

Barrois reopened his bloodshot eyes.

"Who made the lemonade?"

"I."

"Did you bring it to your master immediately after making it?"

"No."

"You left it somewhere, then?"

"In the office, I was called."

"Who brought it here?"

"Mlle Valentine."

D'Avrigny struck his forehead.

"O my God! my God!" he murmured.

"Doctor! doctor!" cried Barrois, who felt a third attack arriving.

"But will they not bring this emetic!" cried the doctor.

"Here is a glass all prepared," said Villefort, re-entering.

"By whom?"

"By the apothecary's boy who came with me."

"Drink."

"Impossible, doctor, it is too late; my throat is closing, I am suffocating! Oh! my heart! Oh! my head... Oh! what a hell!... Am I to suffer like this long?"

"No, no, my friend," said the doctor; "soon you shall suffer no more."

"Ah, I understand you!" cried the unhappy man; "my God, take pity on me!"

And, uttering a cry, he fell backward as if struck by lightning. D'Avrigny placed a hand upon his heart, brought a mirror to his lips.

"Well?" asked Villefort.

"Go tell the kitchen to bring me quickly some syrup of violets."

Villefort descended at once.

"Do not alarm yourself, M. Noirtier," said d'Avrigny; "I am carrying the patient into another room to bleed him; truly, these sorts of attacks are a frightful spectacle to behold."

And taking Barrois under the arms, he dragged him into a neighboring room; but almost immediately he re-entered Noirtier's room to take the rest of the lemonade.

Noirtier closed his right eye.

"Valentine, is it not? you want Valentine? I shall say to send her to you."

Villefort was coming up; d'Avrigny met him in the corridor.

"Well?" asked he.

"Come," said d'Avrigny.

And he took him into the room.

"Still fainting?" asked the king's attorney.

"He is dead."

Villefort recoiled three steps, joined his hands above his head, and with an unequivocal commiseration:

"Dead so quickly!" said he, looking at the corpse.

"Yes, very quickly, is it not?" said d'Avrigny; "but that should not astonish you: M. and Mme de Saint-Méran died just as quickly. Oh! one dies fast in your house, M. de Villefort."

"What!" cried the magistrate with an accent of horror and consternation; "you return to that terrible idea!"

"Always, monsieur, always!" said d'Avrigny with solemnity; "for it has not left me an instant, and so that you may be well convinced that I am not mistaken this time, listen well, M. de Villefort."

Villefort trembled convulsively.

"There is a poison that kills almost without leaving a trace. This poison, I know it well: I have studied it in all the accidents it brings on, in all the phenomena it produces. This poison, I recognized it just now in poor Barrois, as I had recognized it in Mme de Saint-Méran. This poison, there is a way of recognizing its presence: it restores the blue color of litmus paper reddened by an acid, and it turns syrup of violets green. We have no litmus paper; but, see, here is the syrup of violets I asked for being brought."

Indeed, steps were heard in the corridor; the doctor half-opened the door, took from the hands of the chambermaid a vessel at the bottom of which there were two or three spoonfuls of syrup, and closed the door again.

"Look," he said to the king's attorney, whose heart beat so hard one might have heard it; "here in this cup is syrup of violets, and in this carafe the rest of the lemonade of which M. Noirtier and Barrois drank a part. If the lemonade is pure and innocuous, the syrup will keep its color; if the lemonade is poisoned, the syrup will turn green. Look!"

The doctor slowly poured a few drops of lemonade from the carafe into the cup, and one saw at once a cloud form at the bottom of the cup; this cloud first took a bluish shade; then from sapphire it passed to opal and from opal to emerald.

Arrived at this last color, it fixed there, so to speak; the experiment left no doubt.

"The unhappy Barrois was poisoned with false angostura and St. Ignatius' bean," said d'Avrigny; "now I would answer for it before men and before God."

Villefort said nothing, he, but raised his arms to heaven, opened wild eyes, and fell thunderstruck upon an armchair.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”