“Oh,” said Valentine, “we have been waiting for you with such impatience, dear M. d’Avrigny. But, first of all, how are Madeleine and Antoinette?”
Madeleine was the daughter of M. d’Avrigny, and Antoinette his niece. M. d’Avrigny smiled sadly.
“Antoinette is very well,” he said, “and Madeleine tolerably so. But you sent for me, my dear child. It is not your father or Madame de Villefort who is ill. As for you, although we doctors cannot divest our patients of nerves, I fancy you have no further need of me than to recommend you not to allow your imagination to take too wide a field.”
Valentine colored. M. d’Avrigny carried the science of divination almost to a miraculous extent, for he was one of the physicians who always work upon the body through the mind.
“No,” she replied, “it is for my poor grandmother. You know the calamity that has happened to us, do you not?”
“I know nothing.” said M. d’Avrigny.
“Alas,” said Valentine, restraining her tears, “my grandfather is dead.”
“M. de Saint-Méran?”
“Yes.”
“Suddenly?”
“From an apoplectic stroke.”
“An apoplectic stroke?” repeated the doctor.
“Yes, and my poor grandmother fancies that her husband, whom she never left, has called her, and that she must go and join him. Oh, M. d’Avrigny, I beseech you, do something for her!”
“Where is she?”
“In her room with the notary.”
“And M. Noirtier?”
“Just as he was, his mind perfectly clear, but the same incapability of moving or speaking.”
“And the same love for you—eh, my dear child?”