e which had
preceded the death of Barrois. At the same time Monte Cristo's voice
seemed to resound in his ear with the words he had heard only two hours
before, "Whatever you want, Morrel, come to me; I have great power."
More rapidly than thought, he darted down the Rue Matignon, and thence
to the Avenue des Champs Elysees.

Meanwhile M. de Villefort arrived in a hired cabriolet at M. d'Avrigny's
door. He rang so violently that the porter was alarmed. Villefort ran
up-stairs without saying a word. The porter knew him, and let him pass,
only calling to him, "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!"

"Your daughter?" cried d'Avrigny with grief and surprise.

"You see you were deceived," murmured the magistrate; "come and see her,
and on her bed of agony entreat her pardon for having suspected her."

"Each time you have applied to me," said the doctor, "it has been too
late; still I will go. But let us make haste, sir; with the enemies you
have to do with there is no time to be lost."

"Oh, this time, doctor, you shall not have to reproach me with weakness.
This time I will know the assassin, and will pursue him."

"Let us try first to save the victim before we think of revenging her,"
said d'Avrigny. "Come." The same cabriolet which had brought Villefort
took them back at full speed, and at this moment Morrel rapped at Monte
Cristo's door. The count was in his study and was reading with an angry
look something which Bertuccio had brought in haste. Hearing the name
of Morrel, who had left him only two hours before, the count raised his
head, arose, and sprang to meet him. "What is the matter, Maximilian?"
asked he; "you are pale, and the perspiration rolls from your forehead."
Morrel fell