THE COUNT OF MONTE-CRISTO.
303
"Ah, my mother!" murmured Valentine, pressing her lips on the burning brow of her grandmother, "do you wish to kill me? Oh, how feverish you are! we must not send for a notary, but for a doctor?"
"A doctor!" said she, shrugging her shoulders, "I am not ill; I am thirsty—that is all"
Madame De Saint-Méran Dying.
"What are you drinking, dear mamma?"
"The same as usual, my dear; my glass is there on the table—give it me, Valentine." Valentine poured the orangeade into a glass, and gave it to her grandmother with a certain degree of dread, for it was the same glass, she fancied, that had been touched by the specter.
