"Oh, no, madame!" cried La Mole, "the Duc d'Alençon even still less than the King of Navarre."
"Why so?" asked Marguerite, so stirred that her voice trembled as she spoke.
"Because, although I am already too bad a Huguenot to be a faithful servant of the King of Navarre, I am not a sufficiently good Catholic to be friends with the Duc d'Alençon and Monsieur de Guise."
This time Marguerite cast down her eyes, for she felt the very depths of her heart stirred by what he said, and yet she could not have told whether his reply was meant to give her joy or pain.
At this moment Gillonne came back. Marguerite asked her a question with a glance; Gillonne's answer, also conveyed by her eyes, was in the affirmative. She had succeeded in getting the key to the King of Navarre.
Marguerite turned her eyes toward La Mole, who stood before her, his head drooping on his breast, pale, like one suffering alike in mind and in body.
"Monsieur de la Mole is proud," said she, "and I hesitate to make him a proposition he will doubtless reject."
La Mole rose, took one step toward Marguerite, and was about to bow low before her to signify that he was at her service; but an intense, keen, burning pang forced the tears from his eyes, and conscious that he was in danger of falling, he clutched a piece of tapestry and clung to it.
"Don't you see, sir," cried Marguerite, springing to him and supporting him in her arms, "don't you see that you still need me?"
A scarcely perceptible movement passed over La Mole's lips.