“Did you feel nothing of it yesterday or the day before?”
“Nothing.”
“No drowsiness?”
“None.”
“What have you eaten today?”
“I have eaten nothing; I only drank a glass of my master’s lemonade—that’s all.” And Barrois turned towards Noirtier, who, immovably fixed in his armchair, was contemplating this terrible scene without allowing a word or a movement to escape him.
“Where is this lemonade?” asked the doctor eagerly.
“Downstairs in the decanter.”
“Whereabouts downstairs?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Shall I go and fetch it, doctor?” inquired Villefort.
“No, stay here and try to make Barrois drink the rest of this glass of ether and water. I will go myself and fetch the lemonade.”
D’Avrigny bounded towards the door, flew down the back staircase, and almost knocked down Madame de Villefort, in his haste, who was herself going down to the kitchen. She cried out, but d’Avrigny paid no attention to her; possessed with but one idea, he cleared the last four steps with a bound, and rushed into the kitchen, where he saw the decanter about three parts empty still standing on the waiter, where it had been left. He darted upon it as an eagle would seize upon its prey. Panting with loss of breath, he returned to the room he had just left.