“How? M. Noirtier?”
“Yes; think you it was the poor servant’s life was coveted? No, no; like Shakespeare’s Polonius, he died for another. It was Noirtier the lemonade was intended for—it is Noirtier, logically speaking, who drank it. The other drank it only by accident, and, although Barrois is dead, it was Noirtier whose death was wished for.”
“But why did it not kill my father?”
“I told you one evening in the garden after Madame de Saint-Méran’s death—because his system is accustomed to that very poison, and the dose was trifling to him, which would be fatal to another; because no one knows, not even the assassin, that, for the last twelve months, I have given M. Noirtier brucine for his paralytic affection, while the assassin is not ignorant, for he has proved that brucine is a violent poison.”
“Oh, have pity—have pity!” murmured Villefort, wringing his hands.
“Follow the culprit’s steps; he first kills M. de Saint-Méran—”
“Oh, doctor!”
“I would swear to it; what I heard of his symptoms agrees too well with what I have seen in the other cases.” Villefort ceased to contend; he only groaned. “He first kills M. de Saint-Méran,” repeated the doctor, “then Madame de Saint-Méran—a double fortune to inherit.” Villefort wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “Listen attentively.”
“Alas,” stammered Villefort, “I do not lose a single word.”
“ M. Noirtier,” resumed M. d’Avrigny in the same pitiless tone—“ M. Noirtier had once made a will against you—against your family—in