all that."

"Well! what have you to say to it?"

"This: that the figure with a royal cloak and a crown on its head is
that of a woman, and not that of a man."

"Bah!" said Charles, "and the needle in its heart?"

"Was a charm to make himself beloved by this woman, and not a charm to
kill a man."

"But the letter 'M'?"

"It does not mean _mort_, as the queen mother said."

"What does it mean, then?" asked Charles.

"It means--it means the name of the woman whom Monsieur de la Mole
loves."

"And what is the name of this woman?"

"_Marguerite_, brother!" cried the Queen of Navarre, falling on her
knees before the King's bed, taking his hand between both of hers, and
pressing her face to it, bathed in tears.

"Hush, sister!" said Charles, casting a sharp glance about him beneath
his frowning brow. "For just as you overheard a moment ago, we may now
be overheard again."

"What does it matter?" exclaimed Marguerite, raising her head, "if the
whole world were present to hear me, I would declare before it that it
is infamous to abuse the love of a gentleman by staining his reputation
with a suspicion of murder."

"Margot, suppose I were to tell you that I know as well as you do who it
is and who it is not?"

"Brother!"

"Suppose I were to tell you that Monsieur de la Mole is innocent?"

"You know this?"

"If I were to tell you that I know the real author of the crime?"

"The real author!" cried Marguerite; "has there been a crime committed,
then?"

"Yes; intentionally or unintentionally there has been a crime
committed."

"On you?"

"Yes."

"Impossible!"

"Impossible? Look at me, Margot."

The young woman looked at her brother and trembled, seeing him so pale.

"Margot, I have not three months to live!" said Charles.

"You, brother! you, Charles!" she cried.

"Margot, I am poisoned."

Marguerite screamed.

"Hush," said Charles. "It must be thought that I am dying by magic."

"Do you know who is guilty?"

"Yes."

"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'Alencon?" 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,