Граф Монте-Крісто

The Lemonade.

           

           "No,stayhereandtrytomakeBarroisdrinktherestofthisglassofetherandwater.Iwillgomyselfandfetchthelemonade."D’Avrignyboundedtowardsthedoor,flewdownthebackstaircase,andalmostknockeddownMadamedeVillefort,inhishaste,whowasherselfgoingdowntothekitchen.Shecriedout,butd’Avrignypaidnoattentiontoher;possessedwithbutoneidea,heclearedthelastfourstepswithabound,andrushedintothekitchen,wherehesawthedecanteraboutthreepartsemptystillstandingonthewaiter,whereithadbeenleft.Hedarteduponitasaneaglewouldseizeuponitsprey.Pantingwithlossofbreath,hereturnedtotheroomhehadjustleft.MadamedeVillefortwasslowlyascendingthestepswhichledtoherroom."Isthisthedecanteryouspokeof?"askedd’Avrigny.

           "Yes,doctor."

           "Isthisthesamelemonadeofwhichyoupartook?"

           "Ibelieveso."

           "Whatdidittastelike?"

           "Ithadabittertaste."

           Thedoctorpouredsomedropsofthelemonadeintothepalmofhishand,puthislipstoit,andafterhavingrinsedhismouthasamandoeswhenheistastingwine,hespattheliquorintothefireplace.

           "Itisnodoubtthesame,"saidhe."Didyoudrinksometoo,M.Noirtier?"

           "Yes."

           "Anddidyoualsodiscoverabittertaste?"

           "Yes."

           "Oh,doctor,"criedBarrois,"thefitiscomingonagain.

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