CHAPTER XVIII
As the vessel sailed away from the Isle of Demons, La Pommeraye had butone thought--to get back to France at once and confront De Roberval. Butbefore he had sailed many miles he remembered that he had a duty toperform to the merchants of St Malo who had fitted out his little ship.The course was changed, the vessel's bow turned westward, and after afew days' sail he cast anchor in the black waters at the mouth of thegreat gorge of the Saguenay. He was welcomed by the Indians, whose hutsclustered about the high cliffs and along the sandy stretches of thatrugged spot. Runners were sent out to the surrounding Indian villages,and in a few days his vessel was almost sunk to the decks with a richcargo of furs.
All this time Marguerite kept out of sight, only coming on deck in theevenings when it was dark, and she could be alone. She shunnedcompanionship, and scarcely spoke, even to La Pommeraye. A deep andsettled melancholy brooded over her soul. When her little island sankfrom sight on the horizon, it seemed to her that all she loved on earthwas lost to her for ever. Night and day she saw before her eyes thatlonely grave on the hillside where her heart lay buried; and at timesthe longing to return to it grew too strong for her, and she was temptedto beg La Pommeraye to take her back. But the kindly French faces abouther, the French voices which sounded like music in her ears, thegenerous, thoughtful consideration of Claude's old comrade, restored herto her right mind. Quiet, good food, comparative comfort, and sleepwrought a marvellous change in her, and by the time they were on theirway towards France, she was able to talk a little, and to give Charlesan outline of her story.
Six weeks after this the merchants of St Malo saw a deeply-laden craftsweeping into the harbour under a cloud of canvas. She was no fisherman;and many who had money invested in sea ventures flocked to the walls.Among the rest stood the keen-sighted Cartier, who never heard of theapproach of a vessel from foreign shores but he thought of La Pommeraye.Scarcely had he caught sight of the ship when he exclaimed:
"It is the _Marie_, and loaded to the decks!" And to himself he added:"Back so soon? His work must be finished; and now, God have mercy on DeRoberval!"
When the ship cast anchor, Cartier was one of the first to reach her,and, hurrying on board, he warmly embraced his friend. Then he placedhim at arm's length, and, with his hand upon his shoulder, eagerlyscanned his countenance, as if to learn from it what tidings he hadbrought. La Pommeraye did not speak, but his face told Cartier that allwas not well.
"You have been at the Isle of Demons?" he asked at last.
"I have."
"And found there?--De Pontbriand--is he still alive?"
Charles controlled himself with an effort to answer:
"Think you, if Claude de Pontbriand were on board, he would stay belowwhile Jacques Cartier boarded his vessel?"
"He is dead?"
"Dead!"
"And Mdlle. de Roberval?"
"She alone, of all the party, is left alive. She lived on in that bleakspot in the midst of the Atlantic, while her nurse and her companionperished, and at last, with her own hands, she buried Claude. One otherdeath must follow to complete the tragedy."
Cartier wrung his friend's hand in silence. He was no longer young; butsomething of the fierce rage which burned in La Pommeraye's breast burstinto flame in his own, as he looked at the worn and saddened face of theonce buoyant young adventurer. "God help De Roberval!" he once morethought, "and God speed the arm that strikes the blow!"
"But come below," said Charles, after a few moments' oppressive silence,"and see Mdlle. de Roberval for yourself. I wish no one but you to knowfor the present that she has returned to France. I will leave you withher, and attend to these Malouins, who have, no doubt, come to see whatreturn I can give them for the sous they invested in the _Marie_."
Cartier could not restrain a start of dismay when he was ushered intothe little cabin, where Marguerite sat awaiting him. He had last seenher, little more than four years before, a beautiful girl, in the full,radiant charm of budding womanhood. She stood before him now, worn andaged, with white hair and the face of a woman of fifty instead of a girlof twenty-six. But her figure was as upright as ever, and her carriageas queenly; her dark eyes had lost none of their fire--though theirdepths held the secret of her life's tragedy--and her voice, when shespoke, had gained in fulness and richness what it had lost in girlishbrightness and gaiety.
Cartier controlled himself, and allowed no sign of pity or sympathy toappear in his face or voice.
"Mademoiselle," he said simply, "I welcome you back to France. If youwill deign to accept my hospitality, my house and all that I have are atyour service for as long as you will make use of them."
Marguerite thanked him with her old, quiet dignity. She never lost herself-control through all the trying scenes of her return to the land shehad left under such different auspices--so little dreaming what herhome-coming would be. When Charles had succeeded in getting rid of themerchants who crowded his decks, he conducted her on shore. Cartier,moved with fatherly compassion towards the young girl whose sufferingsseemed more like legend than reality, insisted that she should stay withhim and his family till a meeting with De Roberval could be arranged.
A messenger was despatched to Picardy, but returned with the informationthat De Roberval had long been absent from his castle. He was busy inthe wars; but as Paris would doubtless be his head-quarters, Charles andMarguerite determined to seek him there.
All this time no word of love had crossed La Pommeraye's lips. Heyearned with unutterable longing to claim as his own the right tocherish and protect Marguerite for the rest of her life, but daily herealised how deep was the gulf which separated them. Her heart, he knew,could only be won across Claude's grave, and each time that he tried tospeak, the vision of the desolate cemetery on the island rose beforehim, and the words froze on his lips. Marguerite could not help seeinghis devotion; but she so carefully avoided giving him any sign ofencouragement that the weeks at the manor-house of Limoilou, and thesubsequent journey to Paris, were both passed without La Pommeraye'sbeing able to get any nearer to her. Ungrateful she could not be. Shefelt for the fair giant a tender, sisterly affection, and learned tounderstand how Claude and Marie had both had for him such an unboundedadmiration.
At Paris Charles established her in a secluded quarter--for although shehad friends in the city, both deemed it wise that for the present,absolutely no one should know of her return. All deemed her dead; andfor a time she must still be dead to the world. La Pommeraye was carefulto avoid his old haunts and friends, but in no way relaxed his quest ofinformation about De Roberval's movements. He learned that the noblemanwas not then in the city, but that within a week he would return.
With this news he hastened to Marguerite. She was deeply moved onlearning that she was so soon to be confronted with her uncle. Howshould she meet him? What would he have to say to her, whom he doubtlessbelieved long dead?
Her life had become a strange chaos. She hardly knew why she had allowedherself to be brought to Paris. It would be impossible ever to resumethe old relations with her uncle; but to live much longer dependent uponstrangers was out of the question. Some arrangements for her future mustbe made without delay, but in any case De Roberval must be informed ofher presence. Feeling of any kind seemed almost dead within her, butremembering the circumstances of their parting, she could not lookforward to meeting her uncle again without a tremor of anticipation.
She noted the fire in La Pommeraye's eye, as he walked up and down herapartment, after giving her the information; and a day or two afterwardswhen he came to consult her about some business matters, she asked himwhat his plans were.
"I shall seek out Sieur de Roberval," said Charles, "as soon as hearrives, and arrange a meeting between you in whatever way you maydirect me. And then----"
He checked himself abruptly; but Marguerite saw the flash of his eye,and the resolute expression his mouth assumed as he kept back the wordswhich had been on his lips. She laid her hand gently on his arm.
&nb
sp; "M. de la Pommeraye," she said, "you have proved yourself a true anddevoted friend to me. I know that I can never hope to repay yourunselfish sacrifices; nor can I ever express even a small part of mygratitude for all that you have so nobly done. Nay, listen to me----" asCharles was about to interrupt her. "I feel more deeply than I can tellyou; you must let me speak this once. I am not ungrateful, believe me."Her voice trembled a little, though she controlled it instantly. "But Iam about to ask one more kindness at your hands. There has been enoughblood shed--too much. Unhappy woman that I am, how shall I render anaccount of all the deaths of which I have been the cause?" She turnedaway for a moment; and the rare sobs shook her slight figure. Charleswas awed into silence before a sorrow too deep for any words. At lastshe turned to him, and with an imploring gesture said: "I beg of you tospare my uncle's life."
La Pommeraye began his habitual stride up and down the room. His browwas dark, and he gnawed his underlip savagely. That she should plead forthe life of the man who had brought all this upon her was to himinexplicable. Was he then to be baulked of his revenge?
Marguerite stood awaiting his answer.
"Monsieur," she said at last, "will you add one more to my sorrows?"
The unutterable sadness of the tone went to La Pommeraye's heart.Impulsively he knelt before her.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "if an angel from heaven had appeared to me andasked me to have mercy on that villain, I should have perilled my ownsoul rather than let him go unpunished. But now----"
His voice failed him. He took her hand and gazed into her face. All hissoul was in his eyes; and in that yearning look Marguerite read hissecret. He was about to speak, but she stopped him.
"Rise," she said gently, "you are too noble to kneel to me. You are mybest friend--the only friend I have in the world. Remember, I amentirely alone. I trust you, Monsieur; I place myself absolutely in yourhands. Will you grant my request?"
She had chosen her words well. Charles saw that she had understood him,and had wished to prevent his speaking of his love. The gentle reminderof her helpless dependence on him called forth all his manhood andchivalry, and silenced the passionate avowal he had been about to make.He pressed her hand, and raised it to his lips.
"Your wish is my law, Mademoiselle," he said, and, controlling himselfwith an effort, he bade her adieu and hastened from the house.
Out in the streets of the city he walked, he cared not whither.Passers-by turned to look at him; but he heeded no one. He strode on,absorbed in his own inward struggle, till he drew near the Church of theInnocents, in the heart of the city. A party of nobles were approaching,and as they passed him, a burst of laughter from among them attractedhis attention. He raised his eyes; saw De Roberval, and his sword leapedfrom its scabbard. Half-a-dozen other weapons instantly flashed in thesunlight; but La Pommeraye, recollecting that he had no quarrel with anysave one of their number, sheathed his blade, and unheeding the shoutsof welcome from some of the party who recognised him, beckoned DeRoberval aside from the group.
"My presence here alarms you," he said, for the nobleman's sudden pallorhad not escaped his notice. "And with good reason. I have but justreturned from the Isle of Demons."
"Indeed; and what concern of mine is that?" returned De Roberval, withan assumption of carelessness, though he could not altogether steady hisvoice.
Charles looked him straight in the face.
"Coward and murderer!" he said between his teeth.
"They are dead then?" said De Roberval, still striving to speak calmly.
"Dead!"
De Roberval had taken a quick resolve. Mastering himself with a greateffort, he said hurriedly: "We cannot speak of it now. Meet me to-nightat this spot, and the darkest tale you have to tell I will listen to. Ifyou desire my life, I am weary of it, and would gladly lay it down."
The man had aged greatly since Charles last saw him. His shoulders werebent; his hair was almost white; and his face was thin and worn.Something in his voice made Charles believe that he was sincere, and fora moment a feeling almost akin to pity stirred in his heart.
"It is well," said he. "To-night, at eight o'clock, I will be here," andwithout so much as a word to the nobleman's companions, he strode away.He returned to Marguerite, and told her of the encounter with her uncle,and the meeting which had been arranged for the evening. The newsevidently agitated her greatly.
"Have you told him of my presence here?" she asked. "Does he expect meto meet him?"
"He knows naught of your return," answered La Pommeraye. "I had noopportunity to tell him. He thinks you perished on the island."
"But you will tell him to-night?"
"I have been thinking of a plan," said Charles. "Would it not be wellfor you to wait within the Church of the Innocents, where I am to meethim, while I warn him of your return, and prepare him to meet you?"
Marguerite grasped at the idea. She dreaded, above all things, anotherquarrel between La Pommeraye and her uncle; and her presence would be asafeguard against bloodshed. As she prepared to accompany Charles, herthoughts went back to that other evening--nearly five years before--whenshe had been present at an encounter between these same two men. Theobject she now had in view was the same--to save her uncle's life; butthe circumstances--how different! Could the veil have been lifted fromthe future on that first meeting, would she not have been tempted toleave him to the mercy of his enemy's sword? And now she wasaccompanying that enemy--who had proved himself her friend when she hadno other in all the world--to keep him from avenging her wrongs upon theman who should have been her natural protector. Her brain swam as thesethoughts crowded upon her; and she was glad to take refuge in thedimly-lighted church, and to quiet her distracted spirit in silentprayer before the altar.
La Pommeraye, outside, paced up and down, awaiting De Roberval'sarrival. His hand was on his sword-hilt, and his watchful eye kept asharp look-out on all sides; for in spite of the nobleman's partingwords to him in the afternoon, he had already had but too good reason tosuspect him of treachery.
And in fact, De Roberval had resolved within himself to add yet one morebrutal deed to the long list which had ruined his life, and changed himfrom a gentleman and a man of honour to a bully, a coward, and anassassin. La Pommeraye had returned to France. He had but to open hislips, and De Roberval's life was at his mercy. Nor could the noblemanrecover from the stinging indignity and humiliation which Charles hadput upon him at their last meeting. From first to last, he had owed hima bitter grudge--all the more bitter, because, in a moment of cowardice,he had taken advantage of the noble fellow's generosity to shieldhimself from defeat and dishonour. No, there was no alternative; LaPommeraye must die; and with that death all evidence of his crimes wouldbe removed. He had no fear from the men who had accompanied Charles toAmerica; he had made inquiries, and learned that they were none butfishermen and sailors; and any version of the story they might havebrought back would be too garbled and exaggerated to be believed.
But he feared La Pommeraye's sword, and under his doublet he put on ashirt of mail. Seeking the quarters of a reckless cut-throat, who wouldhave assassinated his own father for a few sous, he gave him a purse ofgold, and letting him know the nature of the work before him, bade himstrike sure and sharp, as soon as La Pommeraye was engaged inconversation; and instead of a purse, he would fill his cap with gold.
At the appointed hour he went to the rendezvous, where La Pommeraye wasimpatiently awaiting him.
The nobleman's demeanour had entirely changed since he left Charles inthe afternoon. He now assumed the dignity of a man who has been unjustlysuspected, and is prepared to avenge an insult.
"So, Monsieur," he said, as Charles approached him, "you are stilldetermined to harrow up the past, and to compel me to acknowledge oncemore the dishonour which has befallen my name."
"I am here," said Charles, his hot blood all aflame in an instant at theimplied slur on Marguerite, "to call you to account for the death ofClaude de Pontbriand, and for the foul wrong you did yo
ur innocentniece."
As he spoke he rested his hand on his sword. De Roberval saw the action,thought he meant to draw it, and his own weapon flashed from its sheath.At this moment Marguerite appeared at the door of the church. She sawher uncle draw his sword, and thinking they were about to fight, rusheddown the steps just as De Roberval made a pass at La Pommeraye, who,adroitly stepping aside, escaped being wounded, and drawing his ownsword, stood on the defensive. As he did so, he heard a step behind him.A sudden instinct warned him; leaping back, he barely escaped atreacherous thrust from behind. At the same instant, De Roberval caughtsight of his niece's pale face in the uncertain light; and, strikingwildly at La Pommeraye, fell forward at the latter's feet.
Charles heeded him not. His blood was roused, and turning on thewould-be assassin, who was about to flee in terror, he ran him throughthe heart.
Then seeing that De Roberval made no attempt to rise, he stooped andturned him on his side, and saw that his hand clung in a death-grip tohis sword-hilt, while the point of the weapon had pierced his brain. Itwas Bayard's sword; the sword the king had given him in the hour of hisambition. In his terror at the sudden apparition of what he believed tobe his niece's spirit, his foot had slipped, and the stroke he hadintended for La Pommeraye had ended his own life.