“Ah, grandmamma,” murmured Valentine, pressing her lips on the burning brow, “do you wish to kill me? Oh, how feverish you are; we must not send for a notary, but for a doctor!”
“A doctor?” said she, shrugging her shoulders, “I am not ill; I am thirsty—that is all.”
“What are you drinking, dear grandmamma?”
“The same as usual, my dear, my glass is there on the table—give it to me, Valentine.” Valentine poured the orangeade into a glass and gave it to her grandmother with a certain degree of dread, for it was the same glass she fancied that had been touched by the spectre.
The marchioness drained the glass at a single draught, and then turned on her pillow, repeating,
“The notary, the notary!”
M. de Villefort left the room, and Valentine seated herself at the bedside of her grandmother. The poor child appeared herself to require the