Madame de Villefort was slowly ascending the steps which led to her room.
“Is this the decanter you spoke of?” asked d’Avrigny.
“Yes, doctor.”
“Is this the same lemonade of which you partook?”
“I believe so.”
“What did it taste like?”
“It had a bitter taste.”
The doctor poured some drops of the lemonade into the palm of his hand, put his lips to it, and after having rinsed his mouth as a man does when he is tasting wine, he spat the liquor into the fireplace.
“It is no doubt the same,” said he. “Did you drink some too, M. Noirtier?”
“Yes.”
“And did you also discover a bitter taste?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, doctor,” cried Barrois, “the fit is coming on again. Oh, do something for me.” The doctor flew to his patient.
“That emetic, Villefort—see if it is coming.”
Villefort sprang into the passage, exclaiming, “The emetic! the emetic!—is it come yet?” No one answered. The most profound terror reigned throughout the house.