that poison, you have endeavored to
neutralize the effect of a similar poison?" Noirtier's joy continued.
"And you have succeeded," exclaimed d'Avrigny. "Without that precaution
Valentine would have died before assistance could have been procured.
The dose has been excessive, but she has only been shaken by it; and
this time, at any rate, Valentine will not die." A superhuman joy
expanded the old man's eyes, which were raised towards heaven with an
expression of infinite gratitude. At this moment Villefort returned.
"Here, doctor," said he, "is what you sent me for."

"Was this prepared in your presence?"

"Yes," replied the procureur.

"Have you not let it go out of your hands?"

"No." D'Avrigny took the bottle, poured some drops of the mixture it
contained in the hollow of his hand, and swallowed them. "Well," said
he, "let us go to Valentine; I will give instructions to every one, and
you, M. de Villefort, will yourself see that no one deviates from them."

At the moment when d'Avrigny was returning to Valentine's room,
accompanied by Villefort, an Italian priest, of serious demeanor and
calm and firm tone, hired for his use the house adjoining the hotel of
M. de Villefort. No one knew how the three former tenants of that house
left it. About two hours afterwards its foundation was reported to be
unsafe; but the report did not prevent the new occupant establishing
himself there with his modest furniture the same day at five o'clock.
The lease was drawn up for three, six, or nine years by the new tenant,
who, according to the rule of the proprietor, paid six months in
advance. This new tenant, who, as we have said, was an Italian, was
called Il Signor Giacomo Busoni. Workmen were immediately called in,
and that same night the passengers at the end of the faubourg saw with
surprise that carpenters and masons were occupied in repairing the lower
part of the tottering house.

Chapter 95. Father and Daughter.

We saw in a preceding chapter how Madame Danglars went formally to
announce to Madame de Villefort the approaching marriage of Eugenie
Danglars and M. Andrea Cavalcanti. This announcement, which implied or
appeared to imply, the approval of all the persons concerned in this
momentous affair, had been preceded by a scene to which our readers must
be admitted. We beg them to take one step backward, and to transport
themselves, the morning of that day of great catastrophes, into the
showy, gilded salon we