“Mademoiselle Valentine.” D’Avrigny struck his forehead with his hand.
“Gracious heaven,” exclaimed he.
“Doctor, doctor!” cried Barrois, who felt another fit coming.
“Will they never bring that emetic?” asked the doctor.
“Here is a glass with one already prepared,” said Villefort, entering the room.
“Who prepared it?”
“The chemist who came here with me.”
“Drink it,” said the doctor to Barrois.
“Impossible, doctor; it is too late; my throat is closing up. I am choking! Oh, my heart! Ah, my head!—Oh, what agony!—Shall I suffer like this long?”