“Have pity on me doctor! So many dreadful things have happened to me lately that I am on the verge of madness.”
“Has anyone besides me seen Madame de Saint-Méran?”
“No.”
“Has anything been sent for from a chemist’s that I have not examined?”
“Nothing.”
“Had Madame de Saint-Méran any enemies?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Would her death affect anyone’s interest?”
“It could not indeed, my daughter is her only heiress—Valentine alone. Oh, if such a thought could present itself, I would stab myself to punish my heart for having for one instant harbored it.”
“Indeed, my dear friend,” said M. d’Avrigny, “I would not accuse anyone; I speak only of an accident, you understand—of a mistake—but whether accident or mistake, the fact is there; it is on my conscience and compels me to speak aloud to you. Make inquiry.”
“Of whom?—how?—of what?”
“May not Barrois, the old servant, have made a mistake, and have given Madame de Saint-Méran a dose prepared for his master?”
“For my father?”
“Yes.”
“But how could a dose prepared for M. Noirtier poison Madame de Saint-Méran?”