“Mademoiselle, just one word more, a single word. Do you doubt now that Michael tried to poison your father?”
“Ah, I wish to believe it. I wish to. I wish to believe it for your sake, my poor boy.”
Rouletabille desired something besides “I wish to believe it for your sake, my poor boy.” He was far from being satisfied. She saw him turn pale. She tried to reassure him while her trembling hands raised the lid of the wine-chest.
“What makes me think you are right is that I have decided myself that only one and the same person, as you said, climbed to the window of the little balcony. Yes, no one can doubt that, and you have reasoned well.”
But he persisted still.
“And yet, in spite of that, you are not entirely sure, since you say, ‘I wish to believe it, my poor boy.’”
“Monsieur Rouletabille, someone might have tried to poison my father, and not have come by way of the window.”
“No, that is impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible to them.”
And she turned her head away again.