“Of course you sent for a doctor?”
“Immediately; but, as I have told you, it was too late.”
“Yes; but then he could tell of what complaint the poor marquis had died.”
“Oh, yes, sir, he told me; it appears to have been an apoplectic stroke.”
“And what did you do then?”
“M. de Saint-Méran had always expressed a desire, in case his death happened during his absence from Paris, that his body might be brought to the family vault. I had him put into a leaden coffin, and I am preceding him by a few days.”
“Oh! my poor mother!” said Villefort, “to have such duties to perform at your age after such a blow!”
“God has supported me through all; and then, my dear marquis, he would certainly have done everything for me that I performed for him. It is true that since I left him, I seem to have lost my senses. I cannot cry; at my age they say that we have no more tears,—still I think that when one is in trouble one should have the power of weeping. Where is Valentine, sir? It is on her account I am here; I wish to see Valentine.”
Villefort thought it would be terrible to reply that Valentine was at a ball; so he only said that she had gone out with her step-mother, and that she should be fetched. “This instant, sir—this instant, I beseech you!” said the old lady. Villefort placed the arm of Madame de Saint-Méran within his own, and conducted her to his apartment.