Several weeks passed, during which Bertollon only called on me, telling me often that he could not live without me, and yet that he was fettered by his affairs to the unlucky town.
He made several attempts to induce me to return to Montpellier; but in vain. I continued in my salutary retreat, and felt myself happier.
One morning early, I was awakened by my servant, who told me that M. Larette, a friend of Bertollon’s, had called, and desired to speak to me immediately. At the same moment, Larette himself entered, pale and confused.
“Get up,” he cried, “and come directly to Montpellier.”
“What is the matter?” I asked, terrified.
“Get up and dress yourself; you must not lose a moment; Bertollon is poisoned, and is on the point of death.”
“Poisoned?” I faltered, and sank back senseless on my bed.
“Only be quick, he wishes to see you once more; I hastened here by his order.”
Trembling, I flung on my clothes, and followed him mechanically to the door, where a carriage awaited us. We stepped in, and, with the utmost speed, went to Montpellier.
“Poisoned?” I asked again on the way.