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Morrel was indeed very contented. M. Noirtier had just sent for him, and he was in such a hurry to know why that he had not taken a cab, trusting his own two legs more than those of a hired horse. He had set out at a fair pace from the Rue Meslay and was on his way to the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. He was proceeding at a jog, while poor Barrois followed on as best he could. Morrel was thirty-one, Barrois sixty; Morrel was drunk with love, Barrois faint with heat. The two men, so different in age and interests, were like two sides of a triangle: separated at the base, meeting at the apex; the apex was Noirtier. He had told Morrel to make haste, and Morrel, much to the despair of Barrois, was following this instruction precisely. When they arrived, Morrel was not even out of breath -- love gives wings -- but Barrois, who had not been in love for a long time, was pouring with sweat.

The old servant showed Morrel in by the side entrance and closed the study door. Soon the sound of a dress brushing against the floor announced the arrival of Valentine. She was ravishingly beautiful in her mourning clothes. The dream was becoming so sweet that Morrel would almost have done without talking to Noirtier; but the old man's wheelchair could soon be heard outside, and he came in.

"Yes," Noirtier indicated.

"Must I say what you told me to, then?" she asked.

With a benevolent smile Noirtier accepted the thanks which Morrel heaped upon him for the miraculous intervention that had saved Valentine and himself from despair. Then Morrel's look turned towards the young woman, enquiring of her the reason why he was newly in favour. She, shyly sitting at some distance from Morrel, was waiting to speak until she was obliged to. Noirtier looked at her in turn.

Valentine lowered her eyes. This was a sign that seemed to Morrel to augur well: Valentine was weak only when she was happy.

"I am impatient to hear," the young man replied. "Please speak, Mademoiselle, speak."

"Monsieur Morrel," Valentine said, addressing the young man who was devouring her with his eyes. "My grandpapa Noirtier had a thousand things to tell you, and he has told them to me in the past three days. Today, he has sent for you so that I can repeat them. I shall do so, since he has chosen me as his interpreter, without changing a word of his meaning."

"What about you, Mademoiselle," said Morrel, "you, who are so dear and so essential to Monsieur Noirtier?"

"My grandfather wants to leave this house," she said. "Barrois is trying to find him suitable lodgings."

"And, with my grandfather's permission, I shall keep the promise that I made to you." Valentine spoke these last words so softly that Morrel would have been unable to hear them, had they not meant as much to him as they did.

"Yes," said the old man.

"Once I am settled in at my grandfather's," Valentine added, "Monsieur Morrel will be able to come and visit me in the presence of this good and worthy protector. Our hearts may be ignorant or capricious; but if the bond that they have started to form seems respectable and gives some guarantees of future happiness to our endeavour -- though, alas, they do say that hearts which are fired to overcome obstacles go cold when these are removed -- then Monsieur Morrel can ask me for my hand; I shall wait for him."

"I shall not abandon my grandfather," the young woman said. "This has been agreed between us. My apartment will be near his. Either I shall have Monsieur de Villefort's consent to go and live with grandpapa Noirtier, or it will be refused. In the first case, I shall leave at once; in the second, I shall await my majority, which falls in eighteen months. Then I shall be free, I shall have independent means and…"

"And?" said Morrel.

"Isn't that your opinion, grandpa?" she added, turning to Noirtier.

"Until then," the young woman continued, in her clear, strict voice, "we shall respect the conventions, and even the will of our parents, provided that will does not attempt to separate us for ever. In a word, and I repeat it, because it says everything, we shall wait."

"So," Valentine went on, with a look that was very dear to Maximilien's heart, "no more rash deeds, my friend. Do not compromise one who, from today onwards, considers herself destined to bear your name with purity and dignity."

"Oh!" cried Morrel, tempted to kneel in front of the old man as before God, and in front of Valentine as before an angel. "Oh! What have I done in my life to deserve such happiness?"

During this time, Noirtier was watching them both tenderly. Barrois, who had stayed at the back of the room, as someone from whom they had nothing to hide, was smiling and wiping the huge beads of sweat that coursed across his bald head.

"I swear to carry out the sacrifices that the word imposes, Monsieur," Morrel said, "not with resignation, but with joy."

Morrel put his hand to his heart.

"That's because I had a good run, Mademoiselle," Barrois said. "But I must grant him this, Monsieur Morrel ran even faster than I did."

"Heavens above, look how hot he is, poor Barrois," said Valentine.

Noirtier's eyes turned towards a tray on which were a carafe of lemonade and a glass. Half an hour earlier, Noirtier himself had drunk what was missing from the jug.

"The fact is," he replied, "I am dying of thirst and I should dearly like to drink a glass of lemonade to your health."

"Go on, my dear Barrois," the girl said. "Have it: I can see that you are casting envious looks at that half-empty jug."

Barrois took the tray and no sooner was he in the corridor than they saw him, through the door that he had forgotten to close, toss back his head to empty the glass that Valentine had filled.

Valentine and Morrel were exchanging farewells in Noirtier's presence when they heard the bell ring in Villefort's staircase. It was the signal that someone was coming to visit. Valentine looked at the clock.

"Go on, then," said Valentine. "Come back in a moment."

"Yes," the old man replied.

"Since he is going to come here, Monsieur Morrel must leave, mustn't he, grandpapa?"

"Barrois!" Valentine called. "Barrois, come here!"

The trembling in Barrois' limbs was increasing at an alarming rate and his expression was contorted by the contractions of the muscles, suggesting a violent nervous seizure.

They heard the voice of the old servant answer: "I'm coming, Mademoiselle."

Noirtier made a sign confirming that he agreed with her.

"He's going to fall!" Morrel cried.

At this moment, Barrois came in.

"Barrois will take you to the door," Valentine said to Morrel. "Now, Captain, remember one thing, which is that my grandfather advises you not to do anything which might threaten out future happiness."

"Who rang?" Valentine asked.

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

The old man did not reply. He was looking at his master with panic-stricken eyes, while his hand grasped for something to hold on to, to keep him upright.

"What's wrong, Barrois?" Valentine asked.

"Doctor d'Avrigny," Barrois said, staggering.

"It is midday," she said. "And as today is Saturday, grandpapa, this must be the doctor."

Barrois wheeled around, took three steps backwards, staggered and fell at Noirtier's feet, resting his hand on his knee and gasping: "My master! My good master!"

Valentine gave a cry of terror and Morrel took her in his arms, as though to defend her against some unknown danger. "Monsieur d'Avrigny! Monsieur d'Avrigny!" she cried in a strangled voice. "Come here! Help!"

Noirtier, seeing Barrois' distress, gave a succession of looks that clearly and plainly expressed all the emotions that he was feeling.

Barrois took a few steps towards his master. "Oh, my God! My God!" he exclaimed. "What is wrong with me? I am in such pain. I can no longer see. There are a thousand burning embers in my brain. Oh, don't touch me! Don't touch me!" His eyes began to bulge, distraught, and his head fell backwards, while the rest of his body stiffened.

At that moment, M. de Villefort appeared on the threshold of the room, attracted by the commotion.

Morrel let go of the half-unconscious Valentine and leapt back, hiding in a corner of the room where he was partly concealed by a curtain. Pale, as if he had seen a snake rearing up before him, he stared in horror at the dying man.

Barrois, with a tortured expression, bloodshot eyes and head thrown back, was lying on the floor, beating it with his hands, while his legs, on the contrary, were so stiff that they seemed liable to break rather than bend. Traces of foam had appeared around his lips and he was gasping painfully.

Villefort, astonished, remained for a moment staring at this scene, which is what had drawn his attention as soon as he entered. He had not seen Morrel. After an instant of mute contemplation, in which his face paled and his hair stood on end, he cried: "Doctor! Doctor! Come quickly!" as he rushed to the door.

Noirtier was burning with impatience and terror; his soul flew to the aid of the poor old man -- a friend rather than a servant. One could see the life-and-death struggle on his brow by the bulging of the veins and the contraction of the few muscles that were still living around his eyes.

"Madame! Madame!" Valentine cried, calling her stepmother and dashing herself against the walls of the stairway. "Come! Come quickly, and bring your smelling-salts!"

"But where is the doctor!" Villefort cried. "Where has he gone?"

"Oh, please come! Quickly!"

"What is the matter?" asked the self-possessed, metallic voice of Mme de Villefort.

"But in heaven's name, Madame, where is the doctor? He went into your apartments. It's an apoplexy, as you can see, and if he is bled we can save him."

Mme de Villefort came slowly down; they could hear the boards creaking under her feet. In one hand she held a handkerchief with which she was wiping her face, in the other a flask of English smelling-salts. Her first glance, as she reached the door, was for Noirtier, whose face showed his condition was unaltered, apart from the anxiety natural in such circumstances. Only then did she turn to look at the dying man. She went pale and her eyes flashed as it were from the servant to the master.

"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.

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.

Villefort dashed to the stairs himself to fetch the doctor.

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

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

"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.

"Why not?"

"Bring me water and ether -- do you have some in the house?"

"Can you drink this glass of etherized water?"

"Now, everyone must leave."

"Yes, Mademoiselle, especially you," the doctor said harshly.

"Go on!" Villefort commanded.

"A little better, Monsieur."

Valentine looked at him in astonishment, kissed M. Noirtier on the forehead and went out. The doctor emphatically closed the door behind her.

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

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.

"Including me?" Valentine asked timidly.

"There now, doctor. He's coming round. It was only some mild seizure."

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

"I can try, but don't touch me."

"We do."

"Go and fetch me some oil of terebinth and an emetic."

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

"Yes."

"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.

"What have you eaten today?"

"Nothing yesterday, or the day before?"

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

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

"Dreadful."

"No sleepiness? No lassitude?"

"No."

"But the lemonade…"

"In the kitchen."

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.

"When did it start?"

"Where is the pain?" asked the doctor.

"Like a thunderbolt."

"I'll go myself."

"Everywhere. It is like frightful cramps."

"Outside, in the jug."

"Drink it."

"Very suddenly?"

"Do you feel dizzy?"

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

"What do you mean by 'outside'?"

"Just a short while ago."

"Is there a ringing in your ears?"

"Nothing."

Villefort hurried out, shouting: "The emetic! Has anyone brought the emetic?"

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

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

"Yes," said the old man.

There was no answer. The whole house was gripped with a profound sense of terror.

"How did it taste?"

"And you noticed this same bitter taste?"

"Is this the jug?" d'Avrigny asked.

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?"

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

"I think so."

"And this lemonade is the same that you drank?"

"Yes, doctor."

"Bitter."

"Yes."

"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!"

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?"

"Madame?"

"Valentine, then?"

"Does your stomach feel heavy or light? Light?"

"Yes."

"And did you urge him to drink some of it?"

"Did Barrois make your lemonade?"

"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.

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

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

"No."

"Yes."

"Was it Monsieur de Villefort?"

"No."

"No."

"Yes."

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."

"Yes."

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

"So you left it somewhere, then?"

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

D'Avrigny beat his brow. "Oh, my God," he murmured. "My God!"

"No."

"By the pharmacist's apprentice who came with me."

"In the scullery. I was called away."

"By whom?"

"And who brought it here?"

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

"Drink."

Barrois muttered a few unintelligible words.

Barrois re-opened his bloodshot eyes.

"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.

"Try to speak, my friend."

"Will no one bring that emetic?" the doctor shouted.

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

"Mademoiselle Valentine."

"I did."

"Who made the lemonade?"

"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?"

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

"Is he still unconscious?" the crown prosecutor asked.

"Come with me," said d'Avrigny, leading the way into the bedroom.

Villefort was coming back up, and d'Avrigny met him in the corridor. "Well?" he asked.

Villefort left at once.

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

"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."

"Well?" asked Villefort.

"He is dead."

"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."

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

"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.

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

"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," 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.