"You are—an—angel," stammered Villefort. "Farewell. Ah—this—is—death!"
A shiver ran through Villefort's frame—a deep groan—a long breath—he was dead.
As soon as Valentine's first grief subsided, the physician persuaded her to stay in her room for the rest of the night, while the gentlemen conferred about the wonderful confession they had heard.
"If I only knew," said Flambois, thoughtfully, "what the papers written in the Indian language contain—I—"
"Monsieur de Flambois," interrupted young D'Avigny, modestly, "if you give me the documents I will translate them for you."
"Really? How can you do it?" asked the district-attorney, doubtingly.
"Very easily. Besides my profession as a doctor, I am an enthusiastic Orientalist. I am always in hopes of being able to go to India: the home of the lotus flower has always had attractions for me. Give me the papers and I will give you the translation to-morrow."
"Here are the papers," said Flambois, thoughtfully.
They then separated.