Doctor D’Avrigny quickly revived the magistrate, who had collapsed and looked like a second corpse in that chamber of death.
"Oh, death is in my house!" Villefort cried out.
"Say, rather, cri!" the doctor replied sharply.
"Doctor D’Avrigny," Villefort’s voice shook, "I cannot describe what I’m feeling right now. Terror, grief, madness..."
"Yes," D’Avrigny said with imposing calmness, "but I think it’s ti to act. It’s ti to stop this torrent of death. I can no longer keep these secrets to myself without seeing the victims avenged, without seeing society protected."
Villefort cast a haunted look around the room. "In my house," he murmured. "In my own house!"
"Co now, magistrate," D’Avrigny said firmly. "Show yourself to be a man. As soone who interprets the law, honor your profession by sacrificing your selfish interests to justice."
"You make shudder, doctor. Are you talking about sacrifice?"
"I am."
"Do you suspect soone?"
"I don’t just suspect. Death knocks at your door, it enters, it moves not blindly but carefully from room to room. Well, I’ve been following its course, tracking its passage. I’ve been feeling my way like the ancients did, because my friendship for your family and my respect for you have been like a double blindfold over my eyes. But..."
"Oh, speak, speak, doctor! I’ll have the courage to hear it."
"Well, sir, you have in your household, or in your family perhaps, one of those frightful monsters that each century produces only once. Locusta and Agrippina living at the sa ti were an exception, proof of fate’s determination to destroy the Roman Empire entirely, an empire already stained by so many cris. These historical poisoners were beautiful won. The sa flower of innocence had blood on their faces that I see on the face of the criminal in your house."
Villefort let out a strangled cry, clasping his hands together and looking at the doctor with pleading eyes. But D’Avrigny continued without rcy.
"There’s an old legal saying: ’Seek whom the cri will profit.’"
"Doctor," Villefort cried, "how often has justice been deceived by those fatal words! I don’t know why, but I feel that this cri..."
"So you acknowledge that the cri exists?"
"Yes, I see too clearly that it does. But it seems aid at personally. I fear I’ll be attacked next, after all these disasters."
"Oh, mankind," D’Avrigny murmured, "the most selfish of all creatures, who believes the earth turns, the sun shines, and death strikes for him alone! Like an ant cursing God from atop a blade of grass. And what about those who’ve already lost their lives? Monsieur de Saint-ran, Mada de Saint-ran, Monsieur Noirtier..."
"What? Monsieur Noirtier?"
"Yes. Do you think it was the poor servant’s life that was targeted? No, no. Like a character caught in crossfire, he died for another. It was Noirtier the lemonade was intended for. Logically speaking, Noirtier drank it. Barrois only drank it by accident, and although Barrois is dead, it was Noirtier whose death was desired."
"But why didn’t it kill my father?"
"I told you one evening in the garden after Mada de Saint-ran’s death. Because his system has beco accustod to that very poison over ti. The dose was trivial to him but would be fatal to anyone else. No one knows, not even the assassin, that for the last twelve months I’ve been giving Monsieur Noirtier brucine for his paralysis. anwhile, the assassin clearly knows that brucine is a violent poison."
"Oh, have pity! Have pity!" Villefort murmured, wringing his hands.
"Follow the killer’s steps. First, they killed Monsieur de Saint-ran..."
"Oh, doctor!"
"I would swear to it. What I heard of his symptoms matches too perfectly with what I’ve seen in the other cases."
Villefort stopped resisting. He could only groan in anguish.
"First Monsieur de Saint-ran was killed," the doctor repeated coldly, "then Mada de Saint-ran. A double fortune to inherit."
Villefort wiped the cold sweat from his forehead.
"Listen carefully," D’Avrigny commanded.
"I’m not missing a single word," Villefort stamred.
"Monsieur Noirtier," D’Avrigny continued in the sa rciless tone, "had once made a will against you, against your family, in favor of charity actually. Monsieur Noirtier was spared because nothing was expected from him. But as soon as he destroyed his first will and made a second one, he was struck down. Perhaps to prevent him from making a third will. The new will was made the day before yesterday, I believe. You see, no ti was wasted."
"Oh, rcy, Doctor D’Avrigny!"
"No rcy, sir! A physician has a sacred mission on earth. To fulfill it, he begins at the source of life and goes down to the mysterious darkness of the tomb. When cri has been committed and God turns away his face in anger, it falls to the physician to bring the culprit to justice."
"Have rcy on my child, sir," Villefort pleaded in a broken whisper.
"You see, you’re the one who nad her first. You, her own father."
"Have pity on Valentine! Listen, it’s impossible! I would sooner accuse myself! Valentine, whose heart is as pure as a diamond or a lily."
"No pity, prosecutor. The cri is undeniable. The young lady herself packed all the dicines that were sent to Monsieur de Saint-ran, and he died. She prepared all the cooling drinks that Mada de Saint-ran took, and she died. She took the lemonade from Barrois’s hands when he was sent away, the lemonade that Monsieur Noirtier drank every morning, and he escaped only by miracle. Mademoiselle de Villefort is the culprit. She is the poisoner! As the king’s attorney, I formally accuse Mademoiselle de Villefort. Do your duty."
"Doctor, I won’t resist anymore. I can’t defend myself. I believe you. But for pity’s sake, spare my life, my honor!"
"Monsieur de Villefort," the doctor replied with increased intensity, "there are tis when I dispense with all foolish human considerations. If your daughter had committed only one cri and I saw her planning another, I would say warn her, punish her, let her spend the rest of her life in a convent weeping and praying. If she had committed two cris, I would say this: here is a poison the prisoner doesn’t know about, one with no antidote, quick as thought, rapid as lightning, mortal as a thunderbolt. Give her that poison, recomnd her soul to God, and save your honor and your life, because it’s your life she’s targeting. I can picture her approaching your bedside with false smiles and sweet words. Woe to you if you don’t strike first! But she hasn’t killed just two people. She has witnessed three deaths, contemplated three murders, knelt beside three corpses! The poisoner belongs on the scaffold! Do you talk of honor? Do what I tell you, and immortality awaits you!"
Villefort fell to his knees. "Listen," he said desperately, "I don’t have the strength of mind you have. Or rather, the strength you wouldn’t have if instead of my daughter Valentine, it was your daughter Madeleine we were discussing."
The doctor’s face went pale.
"Doctor, every person born is ant to suffer and die. I’m content to suffer and wait for death."
"Beware," D’Avrigny warned. "Death may co slowly. You’ll watch it approach after it strikes your father, your wife, perhaps your son."
Villefort grabbed the doctor’s arm, nearly choking. "Listen!" he cried. "Pity , help ! No, my daughter is not guilty. If you drag us both before a court, I will still say my daughter is not guilty. There is no cri in my house. I will not acknowledge a cri in my house, because when cri enters a ho, it’s like death. It doesn’t co alone. Listen! What does it matter to you if I’m murdered? Are you my friend? Are you even human? Do you have a heart? No, you’re just a physician! Well, I’m telling you, I won’t drag my daughter before a tribunal and hand her over to the executioner! The very thought would kill , would drive mad enough to tear out my own heart with my fingernails! And if you were mistaken, doctor, if it weren’t my daughter, if I ca to you one day, pale as a ghost, and said ’Murderer, you killed my child!’ If that happened, even though I’m a Christian, Monsieur d’Avrigny, I would kill myself."
"Very well," the doctor said after a long mont of silence. "I will wait."
Villefort stared at him as if doubting his words.
"But," D’Avrigny continued slowly and solemnly, "if anyone else falls ill in your house, if you feel yourself under attack, don’t send for . I won’t co anymore. I’ll consent to share this dreadful secret with you, but I won’t allow sha and remorse to grow in my conscience while cri and misery continue in your house."
"So you’re abandoning , doctor?"
"Yes, because I can’t follow you any further. I can only stop at the foot of the scaffold. So new discovery will be made that will bring this dreadful tragedy to its conclusion. Farewell."
"I’m begging you, doctor!"
"All the horrors disturbing my thoughts make your house hateful and cursed to . Farewell, sir."
"One word! Just one more word, doctor! You’re leaving drowning in horror, after increasing it with what you’ve revealed. But what will be said about the sudden death of the poor old servant?"
"True," D’Avrigny said. "We should go back."
The doctor went out first, followed by Villefort. The terrified servants crowded the stairs and hallway where the doctor had to pass.
"Sir," D’Avrigny said to Villefort loudly enough for everyone to hear, "poor Barrois led too sedentary a life lately. He was used to riding on horseback or in carriages all across Europe. The monotonous routine of walking around that armchair killed him. His blood thickened. He was heavyset with a short, thick neck. He was struck by a stroke, and I was called too late." Then in a lower voice, he added, "By the way, make sure to throw away that cup of violet syrup in the fireplace."
Without shaking hands with Villefort, without adding another word to what he’d said, the doctor left amid the tears and cries of the entire household.
That sa evening, all of Villefort’s servants gathered in the kitchen for a long discussion. Afterward, they ca to tell Mada de Villefort that they wanted to leave. No pleading, no offer of higher wages could make them stay. To every argunt they replied, "We must go, because death is in this house."
They all left despite prayers and pleas. They expressed regret at leaving such good employers, and especially Mademoiselle Valentine, who was so good, kind, and gentle.
As they said this, Villefort looked at Valentine. She was in tears. Strange as it was, despite the emotions he felt seeing those tears, he also looked at Mada de Villefort. It seed to him that a slight, dark smile had passed over her thin lips, like an ominous flash of lightning between storm clouds.
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