He leaped to the ground, threw the reins to his servant, and followed Madame de Tekle into the interior of the cabin.
The two children with the golden hair were lying side by side on a little bed, immovable, rigid, their eyes open and the pupils strangely dilated—their faces red, and agitated by slight convulsions. They seemed to be in the agony of death. The old doctor, Du Rocher, was leaning over them, looking at them with a fixed, anxious, and despairing eye. The mother was on her knees, her head clasped in her hands, and weeping bitterly. At the foot of the bed stood the father, with his savage mien—his arms crossed, and his eyes dry. He shuddered at intervals, and murmured, in a hoarse, hollow voice: “Both of them! Both of them!” Then he relapsed into his mournful attitude. M. Durocher, approached Camors quickly. “Monsieur,” said he, “what can this be? I believe it to be poisoning, but can detect no definite symptoms: otherwise, the parents should know—but they know nothing! A sunstroke, perhaps; but as both were struck at the same time—and then at this season—ah! our profession is quite useless sometimes.”
Camors made rapid inquiries. They had sought M. Durocher, who was dining with Madame de Tecle an hour before. He had hastened, and found the children already speechless, in a state of fearful congestion. It appeared they had fallen into this state when first attacked, and had become delirious.
Camors conceived an idea. He asked to see the clothes the children had worn during the day. The mother gave them to him. He examined them with care, and pointed out to the doctor several red stains on the poor rags. The doctor touched his forehead, and turned over with a feverish hand the small linen—the rough waistcoat—searched the pockets, and found dozens of a small fruit-like cherries, half crushed. “Belladonna!” he exclaimed. “That idea struck me several times, but how could I be sure? You can not find it within twenty miles of this place, except in this cursed wood—of that I am sure.”
“Do you think there is yet time?” asked the young Count, in a low voice. “The children seem to me to be very ill.”
“Lost, I fear; but everything depends on the time that has passed, the quantity they have taken, and the remedies I can procure.”
The old man consulted quickly with Madame de Tecle, who found she had not in her country pharmacy the necessary remedies, or counter-irritants, which the urgency of the case demanded. The doctor was obliged to content himself with the essence of coffee, which the servant was ordered to prepare in haste, and to send to the village for the other things needed.
“To the village!” cried Madame de Tecle. “Good heavens! it is four leagues—it is night, and we shall have to wait probably three or four hours!”
Camors heard this: “Doctor, write your prescription,” he said: “Trilby is at the door, and with him I can do the four leagues in an hour—in one hour I promise to return here.”
“Oh! thank you, Monsieur!” said Madame de Tecle.