"You said it was not La Mole?"
"No, it is not he."
"Nor Henry either, surely—great God! could it be"—
"Who?"
"My brother—D'Alençon?" murmured Marguerite.
"Perhaps."
"Or—or"—Marguerite lowered her voice as if frightened at what she was going to say, "or—our mother?"
Charles was silent.
Marguerite looked at him, and read all that she asked in his eyes. Then still on her knees she half fell over against a chair.
"Oh! my God! my God!" she whispered, "that is impossible."