“My dear M. de Villefort,” replied the doctor, with a tone which redoubled the terror of the young man, “I have not led you here to console you; on the contrary——”
“What can you mean?” asked the procureur, alarmed.
“I mean that behind the misfortune which has just happened to you, there is another, perhaps, still greater.”
“Can it be possible?” murmured Villefort, clasping his hands. “What are you going to tell me?”
“Are we quite alone, my friend?”
“Yes, quite; but why all these precautions?”
“Because I have a terrible secret to communicate to you,” said the doctor. “Let us sit down.”
Villefort fell, rather than seated himself. The doctor stood before him, with one hand placed on his shoulder. Morrel, horrified, supported his head with one hand, and with the other pressed his heart, lest its beatings should be heard. “Dead, dead!” repeated he within himself; and he felt as if he were also dying.
“Speak, doctor—I am listening,” said Villefort; “strike—I am prepared for everything!”
“Madame de Saint-Méran was, doubtless, advancing in years, but she enjoyed excellent health.” Morrel began again to breathe freely, which he had not done during the last ten minutes.