“No one must disturb us,” he said; “I must speak freely to her, accuse myself, and say”—he approached the door, touched the crystal handle, which yielded to his hand. “Not locked,” he cried; “that is well.”
And he entered the little room in which Edward slept; for though the child went to school during the day, his mother could not allow him to be separated from her at night. With a single glance Villefort’s eye ran through the room.
“Not here,” he said; “doubtless she is in her bedroom.” He rushed towards the door, found it bolted, and stopped, shuddering.
“Héloïse!” he cried. He fancied he heard the sound of a piece of furniture being removed.
“Héloïse!” he repeated.
“Who is there?” answered the voice of her he sought. He thought that voice more feeble than usual.
“Open the door!” cried Villefort. “Open; it is I.”
But notwithstanding this request, notwithstanding the tone of anguish in which it was uttered, the door remained closed. Villefort burst it open with a violent blow. At the entrance of the room which led to her boudoir, Madame de Villefort was standing erect, pale, her features contracted, and her eyes glaring horribly.
“Héloïse, Héloïse!” he said, “what is the matter? Speak!” The young woman extended her stiff white hands towards him.
“It is done, monsieur,” she said with a rattling noise which seemed to tear her throat. “What more do you want?” and she fell full length on the floor.