In order to explain the scream, it will be necessary to go back to the
morning of the day on which this conversation took place. St Malo was
looking its dingiest. A heavy rain had fallen during the night, and a
mist clung to the muddy streets and grey walls till nearly noon. The
little town, with its narrow thoroughfares and towering houses, was as
gloomy as a city of the dead; foul odours rose on all sides, and would
have been unbearable but for the cool breeze which swept in from the
Channel, driving the mists and fog before it.
In one of the highest and most substantial houses two young women sat at
the casement of an upper window. The house was a gloomy one, without
adornment of any kind except an arched porch, over which was chiselled
some motto, or emblem, that had become undecipherable from age. The room
where the two girls sat was plain in its appointments, and badly
lighted, though its sombreness was relieved by numerous feminine trifles
scattered about, betraying the character and tastes of its occupants.
The elder of the two was Marguerite de Roberval, niece of the nobleman
from Picardy to whom reference has already been made. She was about
twenty-four, dark, and very beautiful, with masses of black hair
crowning a well-set head, finely-cut features, and a figure which, even
as she sat on the low window-seat, showed tall and willowy. Her beauty
would have been flawless but for one defect--her chin was a shade too
prominent, giving her face an expression of determination, which, while
destroying its symmetry, told of a strong will, and a firmness amounting
almost to obstinacy. She had the lithe grace of a panther, and though
her repose was perfect, a close observer might have noticed a nervous
tension in her attitude and bearing that told of a hidden force and
energy resolutely controlled.
At her feet, on a wide-spreading rug, sat her friend and companion,
Marie de Vignan--in many ways her exact opposite. Not so dark as
Marguerite, nor quite so tall, with a face inclined to be more round
than oval, bright, well-opened eyes, and a merry, laughing mouth, her
plump figure and vivacious expression bespoke a happy, contented nature,
on whom the world and life sat lightly. She had come from Picardy with
Marguerite, and was, indeed, the ward of De Roberval. Her father had
been killed by a bursting petronel a few years before, and had left his
only child to the charge of his friend and comrade-in-arms.
"Heigh-ho!" said Marie, with a half-suppressed yawn, "will this fog
never lift? Who would have thought, after the glorious moon of last
night that we should have such a day as this on the morrow?"
"Patience, _cherie_," replied her friend, looking up from the
embroidery on which she was engaged. "We have had many such mornings
since we came here, but they only make the day seem brighter when the
sun does shine out. See, there is the blue sky beyond the housetops! The
full sun will doubtless be out ere noon. I often think a wise Providence
must send all this mist and rain. If some such means were not taken to
cleanse these streets, we should soon not be able to breathe the air of
St Malo. I cannot understand what has taken possession of my uncle to
leave our broad acres in Picardy for these wretched streets and bare,
gloomy walls."
"It is delightful, Marguerite, to hear you complaining. I have been
wondering how much longer we were to be kept cooped up here like
moulting falcons. I am not much given to grumbling, but I do long for a
breath of fresh air, and room to stretch my limbs without falling into a
mud-hole, or being nearly knocked over by a clumsy sailor or fisher-lad.
When we left Picardy I thought we were going to Fontainebleau; I never
dreamed we were about to exchange the sunny slopes of the Somme for
this!"
"No doubt," said Marguerite, with a little sigh, "my uncle has good
reasons for remaining here so long. You know his cherished schemes about
the New World."
"Yes, and I shall never forgive M. de Pontbriand for suggesting to him
that he should leave France. Now that we at last have peace, I was
beginning to hope that my warrior guardian would find time to take us to
Court, and let us see a little more of life and the gay world there. I
was tired of staying at home, I must confess, but since my experience of
these dreary stone walls I ask for nothing better than our fine broad
halls in Picardy. However, as you say, there is no use complaining. But
have you forgotten--you promised to tell me the whole story of your last
night's adventure. I have been patient, and asked no questions; but I am
dying of curiosity to hear how it all happened."
"There is very little to tell," answered Marguerite, with some
reluctance. "We were coming home in the moonlight, as you know, my uncle
and I, and as we crossed the Sillon my uncle stopped to say a word to a
sailor who gave him good-night as we passed. I did not notice that he
was not at my side, and so was a few paces in front of him, and in full
light of the moon, while he was in shadow. Suddenly a swaggering ruffian
of a fellow came towards me with an insolent jest, and before I could
realise what he was about to do, I felt his lips touch my cheek. I cried
out, and my uncle instantly rushed upon him with drawn sword. That is
the whole story."
"But what was the result? Your uncle did not kill the villain, did he?
And what could have happened to cause you--you, whose courage has never
been known to flinch at the sight of blood--to be borne home in a swoon?
I assure you, Bastienne and I had trouble enough with you last night.
You have not told me everything, Marguerite. I am sure of that."
Mdlle. de Roberval's dark cheek flushed a little.
"It is a painful story," she said, with some hesitation. "I never
thought to stand by and see a De Roberval disarmed. Yet, such was this
scoundrel's skill, that after a few passes he succeeded in wrenching my
uncle's sword from his hand, and we were at his mercy."
"And what then?" cried the younger girl, breathlessly, as Marguerite
came to a pause again. "I would I had been in your place to see such
sword-play. I thought your uncle was invincible."
"So did I, until last night. I have often seen him in sword contests
before, and none were ever able to withstand him; but he was as a child
in the hands of this man."
"Why was I not there to behold this prodigy? But for your friend De
Pontbriand and that eagle-eyed seaman who comes to visit your uncle, I
have not seen a _man_ since I left Picardy."
"I trust you may never chance to see this cowardly scoundrel. But if you
compel me to finish my story--when my uncle's sword flew clanging
against the parapet, I could stand by in silence no longer. I had looked
to see the fellow punished as he deserved, and now a De Roberval stood
unarmed before him. Everything swam before my eyes, I thought only of
saving my uncle's life, and, drawing the little dagger I always carry, I
would have plunged it into the villain's breast, had not my uncle caught
my hand. I remember no more till I found myself at home here."
"Bravo, _m'amie_!" cried the enthusiastic Marie, clapping her hands. "I
knew your courage would not fail you. But what a terrible experience for
you to have to go through! Thank Heaven it ended no worse. But tell me,
what did this gallant, who proved himself so mighty a swordsman, look
like? Describe him for me."
"I cannot, you foolish child! Do you suppose I noticed his features? He
was tall and powerful; but beyond that I saw nothing, except his
laughing eyes as they met mine when my dagger touched his breast."
"It is not every day one meets a man who can laugh with a dagger at his
breast," exclaimed Marie, half-jestingly, half-serious. "I must indeed
see him. I shall know no peace until I do."
"Then your desire is granted," said Marguerite, "for, if I am not
mistaken, there is the man himself across the street at this moment.
Yes, I am sure it is he; see, he throws a kiss to that fisher-maiden
opposite. That will show you the true character of your hero."
Despite Marguerite's sarcasm, the man whom the two girls now beheld was
a noble specimen of humanity. Full six feet four in height, with broad,
athletic shoulders, straight, clean limbs, and a face as bright as a
schoolboy's, though his age could not have been under thirty, he was a
man who could not fail to attract attention wherever he might be seen.
He was clad in the height of the fashion, and his gay apparel, with its
lace trimmings and jewelled ornaments, bespoke him no commonplace
adventurer. But the most striking feature in his appearance was his
hair, which fell in sunny locks upon his shoulders from under his velvet
hat with its spreading plume. In truth he looked more like a Norse
Viking of old than a cavalier of the sixteenth century.
"What a noble fellow!" was Marie's involuntary exclamation, as she
gazed upon him.
"Noble!" said Marguerite, scornfully. "You surely forget what you are
saying. Would you call his conduct of last night noble?"
"Oh, as to his conduct and character that is another matter. But what a
magnificent carriage he has; and what shoulders! I should like to meet
such a man as that. See, he has turned his eyes this way. Whoever he is,
I should certainly fall in love with him if I knew him. It seems to me
he is like what Charlemagne must have been; or--yes--like Charles de la
Pommeraye!"
Marguerite started at the name.
"What do you know of La Pommeraye?" she exclaimed.
"Have you forgotten, or were you not present the other day when M. de
Pontbriand was lamenting the death of his friend in Paris? You have
surely heard him speak of him. I wept when I heard of his untimely end,
for I have ever had fond recollections of Charles de la Pommeraye."
"You, Marie? What can you mean? You never mentioned his name to me. Now
that I hear it again, I remember that that was the name my assailant had
the audacity to give my uncle last night. It had vanished from my memory
when I swooned. But what do you know of De la Pommeraye? Where did you
ever meet him?"
"That man's name La Pommeraye?" cried Marie, disregarding these
enquiries, and gazing eagerly after the retreating figure of the
fair-haired unknown. "Can there be two of the same name? Could it be
possible that he was not dead, or that Claude's friend was another! Yes,
that is he; I am sure of it now! How was I so stupid as not to recognise
him? I remember him," she explained, "some sixteen years ago, when I was
a very little girl. He was a great lad, not more than fifteen, who took
me in his arms, and tossed me high above his head. He had just come from
Pavia, where, in the disastrous battle, he had twice saved my father's
life. Since then I have never seen him; but I have heard of him
occasionally as flitting about by sea and land, seeking adventure; a
restless soul, who never seems happy unless he is in danger of being
killed."
"I am sorry to hear that you know him," said Marguerite, a little
coldly, "for I fear he is in danger of being killed in earnest this
time. As I came to myself in my uncle's arms at the door last night, I
heard him say, 'To-morrow night, remember! The Sillon: and come without
witnesses.' The words can have only one meaning. They must be about to
meet again to-night; and in a calmer mood, and with a better weapon, my
uncle cannot fail to administer to him the chastisement his insolence
deserves."
"Pray Heaven the Sieur de Roberval may not meet his death instead,"
exclaimed Marie fervently. "If this man and Claude de Pontbriand's
friend be one and the same, there is no more famous duellist in France.
He has never been defeated; and he has the advantage of youth and
strength on his side. Your uncle will require the aid of an angel from
Heaven if he is to avenge himself on La Pommeraye."
Marguerite had risen, and was pacing the room with an agitated air.
"I have been greatly troubled about it," she said. "I did not know what
you tell me now, of course; and I hope and pray that you may be wrong.
But my uncle is not so young as he once was, and he will be quite alone,
and at the mercy of this villain. I have been trying to think out some
plan by which it might be prevented, but I do not know what we can do."
"There would be no use speaking to your uncle, of course; anything we
could say would only make him the more determined. But I will tell you
what we can do; we can go ourselves, and see fair play."
"Go ourselves, you crazy girl! What are you thinking of?"
"I mean that if we were present, in hiding of course, and unknown to any
one, we could intervene in time to prevent bloodshed, and if your uncle
should chance to be getting the worst of it, we should certainly be able
to save his life. La Pommeraye could hardly kill him in our presence. We
should, besides, have the rare opportunity of seeing a contest between
the two best swordsmen in France," and the impetuous girl's eyes
sparkled with some of the warlike fire of her warrior ancestors. "Would
it not be a glorious chance, Marguerite? But how we should manage to
conceal ourselves in an open space like the Sillon, I do not know."
"Oh, as to that," said Marguerite, "that would be easily managed. Within
ten yards of the spot where they fought last night there is a step
leading down to the water's edge, and closed on either side. It is
called the 'Lovers' Descent'--Claude showed it to me one day--and there
we could stand without fear of detection. But I must consider your mad
scheme. Could we possibly manage to prevent a catastrophe? And even if
we succeeded in doing so, would it not be only a postponement of the
issue? They are determined to meet, and we should only make them so much
the more determined--to say nothing of my uncle's wrath when he
discovers our presence. But then, if what you say of La Pommeraye be
true--and my uncle is alone, and no one knows of the meeting--yes,
Bastienne, I am here. What is it?"
She interrupted herself at the entrance of a short, thick-set woman,
considerably past middle-age--evidently a privileged old servant. There
was no mistaking her origin. She was a peasant of Picardy, faithful,
honest, good-natured, and strong as an ox. She had been in the service
of De Roberval's family all her life; and once, by her courage and
devotion, had actually saved his castle when it was besieged by the
Spaniards. They had forced their way to the very gates, and had built a
huge fire against the door of the tower, whence the defenders had fled
in terror, when Bastienne seized a keg of powder, and dropped it fairly
into the midst of the fire, round which the soldiers stood waiting till
the great oaken doors should be burned away. The castle shook to its
foundations, and the courtyard was strewn with the dead and the dying.
The advance was checked; De Roberval's men rallied, rushed from the
castle, and won a glorious victory against overwhelming numbers.
Bastienne herself was badly shaken by the explosion, and terrified half
to death at her own daring. To the end of her days she fancied herself
haunted by the spirits of the unhappy Spaniards whom she had sent to
such a fearful end.
She stood in the doorway, panting from the exertion of coming up the
stairs in unusual haste.
"Ma'amselle," she exclaimed, in what she meant to be a muffled tone, as
she came towards the girls with a mysterious air of having some thing of
importance to communicate, "I fear there is trouble in store. As I
passed the Sieur de Roberval's room just now I saw him making fierce
passes with the sword that hangs above the boar's head. If he is not
possessed of the Devil"--and she crossed herself hurriedly--"he must be
getting ready for a duel, and at his age, too! Heaven have mercy on us
all if anything should happen to him! What is to be done?"
"If he is practising with that famous blade," said Marguerite, turning
to Marie with a confident smile, "your friend will have need of all his
skill to disarm him. It is a magnificent Toledo, and has never known
defeat. But as you say," and her face clouded again, "we must do what we
can to prevent a fatal ending to the duel. Bastienne, be ready to
accompany me at nine o'clock to-night. And say nothing to any one of
what you have seen. Your master has probably good reasons for whatever
he may do, and he would be very indignant if he thought that any one had
been observing his actions."
The old woman, rebuked, left the room, murmuring to herself as she
went, and the two girls proceeded to lay their plans.
A little before the appointed hour that evening, having taken old
Bastienne into their confidence, they secretly left the house, and made
their way to the place of rendezvous, which, as has been said, was but a
short distance away. All three were soon established in the cramped and
narrow little stairway which Marguerite had described, and waited with
no small trepidation the arrival of the contestants.
It was difficult to keep Bastienne quiet. A bright moon was shining in a
clear sky, and a gentle breeze crept in from the Channel, cold and
piercing. The younger women scarcely felt it; but Bastienne's old bones
ached, according to her, as they had never ached before. However, by
dint of threats and entreaties, they succeeded in silencing her; and
none too soon, for a brisk step was heard approaching, and the next
moment a gay voice soliloquised close beside them:
"By the light of the moon I should say I had arrived a little early.
Time for reflection, however. It is always well to give a thought to
one's chances in the next world just before a fight."
As he spoke he took his stand within a few feet of where the girls were
concealed, and began his reflections on the world at whose portals he
was standing, by trolling a gay drinking song. When it was finished he
recklessly dashed into a Spanish ditty, commemorating the defeat of King
Francis at Pavia. In this he was interrupted by an angry voice at his
elbow:
"A pleasing pastime for a son of France--to sing the glory of her
foes!"
"So ho!" replied La Pommeraye cheerfully, "Monsieur's anger has not yet
cooled. I had never a thought of the words--it was the air that carried
me away, and, perhaps, the fine description the song gives of King
Francis' stand on that fatal day. No one joys in and yet regrets that
fight more than I do. I won my spurs in it, and I am here to defend them
to-night. But how does the fair one on whose account we meet? 'Tis a
pity she should not be here to witness her lover's doughty deeds a
second time."
"Villain!" came the indignant answer, "before you utter any further
insults, know that you speak of Mdlle. de Roberval, my niece, whose name
your vile lips are not worthy so much as to pronounce. Draw, and defend
your life!"
"I trust the Sieur de Roberval will pardon my error," said La Pommeraye,
drawing back with a bow, while his whole air changed to one of
respectful deference. "Had I known the circumstances, I should not have
been so ready to offer you the second contest. In the light of the moon
I mistook your years. Your skill with the sword is, I am aware, justly
renowned, but my youth and strength give me the advantage. Accept my
humble apologies, Sieur, and let us end this quarrel without blows. I
will leave St Malo at once, and you shall not be reminded by my presence
of this most unfortunate affair."
The nobleman's voice was fairly choked with rage.
"Draw, coward!" he hissed. "It is not enough that you must insult, in
the person of an unprotected girl, the oldest name in France, but you
dare to taunt with age and unskilfulness a man whose sword is
dishonoured by being crossed with yours. Were my age thrice what it is,
my arm would still have strength to defend the honour of my house. Stand
on your guard!" As he spoke, he made a fierce and sudden lunge, which
would have taken a less wary opponent by surprise, and ended the duel on
the spot.
It was met and parried, and a cool, steady counter-thrust severed the
cord of the cloak about De Roberval's shoulders.
"You fight at a disadvantage with that cloak about you, Sieur. I have
removed it," said La Pommeraye, with no scorn in his voice, but with a
calm self-possession which told De Roberval that he was indeed in the
hands of an opponent for whom he was no match.