“Héloïse, Héloïse!” he said, “what is the matter? Speak!” The young woman extended her stiff white hands towards him.
“It is done, monsieur,” she said with a rattling noise which seemed to tear her throat. “What more do you want?” and she fell full length on the floor.
Villefort ran to her and seized her hand, which convulsively clasped a crystal bottle with a golden stopper. Madame de Villefort was dead. Villefort, maddened with horror, stepped back to the threshold of the door, fixing his eyes on the corpse.
“My son!” he exclaimed suddenly, “where is my son?—Edward, Edward!” and he rushed out of the room, still crying, “Edward, Edward!” The name was pronounced in such a tone of anguish that the servants ran up.
“Where is my son?” asked Villefort; “let him be removed from the house, that he may not see—”
“Master Edward is not downstairs, sir,” replied the valet.
“Then he must be playing in the garden; go and see.”
“No, sir; Madame de Villefort sent for him half an hour ago; he went into her room, and has not been downstairs since.”
A cold perspiration burst out on Villefort’s brow; his legs trembled, and his thoughts flew about madly in his brain like the wheels of a disordered watch.
“In Madame de Villefort’s room?” he murmured and slowly returned, with one hand wiping his forehead, and with the other supporting