“In his study, Monsieur Procureur⁠—in his study!” Villefort pushed, or rather forced, the door open.

“Ah,” said the doctor, “is it you?”

“Yes,” said Villefort, closing the door after him, “it is I, who am come in my turn to ask you if we are quite alone. Doctor, my house is accursed!”

“What?” said the latter with apparent coolness, but with deep emotion, “have you another invalid?”

“Yes, doctor,” cried Villefort, clutching his hair, “yes!”

D’Avrigny’s look implied, “I told you it would be so.” Then he slowly uttered these words, “Who is now dying in your house? What new victim is going to accuse you of weakness before God?”

A mournful sob burst from Villefort’s heart; he approached the doctor, and seizing his arm⁠—“Valentine,” said he, “it is Valentine’s turn!”