“Grief has consumed her,” said Villefort—“yes, grief, doctor! After living forty years with the marquis——”
“It is not grief, my dear Villefort,” said the doctor; “grief may kill, although it rarely does, and never in a day, never in an hour, never in ten minutes.” Villefort answered nothing, he simply raised his head, which had been cast down before, and looked at the doctor with amazement.
“Were you present during the last struggle?” asked M. d’Avrigny.
“I was,” replied the procureur; “you begged me not to leave.”
“Did you notice the symptoms of the disease to which Madame de Saint-Méran has fallen a victim?”
“I did. Madame de Saint-Méran had three successive attacks, at intervals of some minutes, each one more serious than the former. When you arrived, Madame de Saint-Méran had already been panting for breath some minutes; she then had a fit, which I took to be simply a nervous attack, and it was only when I saw her raise herself in the bed, and her limbs and neck appear stiffened, that I became really alarmed. Then I understood from your countenance there was more to fear than I had thought. This crisis past, I endeavored to catch your eye, but could not. You held her hand—you were feeling her pulse—and the second fit came on before you had turned towards me. This was more terrible than the first; the same nervous movements were repeated, and the mouth contracted and turned purple.”
“And at the third she expired.”
“At the end of the first attack I discovered symptoms of tetanus; you confirmed my opinion.”
“Yes, before others,” replied the doctor; “but now we are alone——”
“What are you going to say? Oh, spare me!”