As the vessel sailed away from the Isle of Demons, La Pommeraye had but
one thought--to get back to France at once and confront De Roberval. But
before he had sailed many miles he remembered that he had a duty to
perform 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 a
few days' sail he cast anchor in the black waters at the mouth of the
great gorge of the Saguenay. He was welcomed by the Indians, whose huts
clustered about the high cliffs and along the sandy stretches of that
rugged 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 rich
cargo of furs.
All this time Marguerite kept out of sight, only coming on deck in the
evenings when it was dark, and she could be alone. She shunned
companionship, and scarcely spoke, even to La Pommeraye. A deep and
settled melancholy brooded over her soul. When her little island sank
from sight on the horizon, it seemed to her that all she loved on earth
was lost to her for ever. Night and day she saw before her eyes that
lonely grave on the hillside where her heart lay buried; and at times
the longing to return to it grew too strong for her, and she was tempted
to beg La Pommeraye to take her back. But the kindly French faces about
her, the French voices which sounded like music in her ears, the
generous, thoughtful consideration of Claude's old comrade, restored her
to her right mind. Quiet, good food, comparative comfort, and sleep
wrought a marvellous change in her, and by the time they were on their
way towards France, she was able to talk a little, and to give Charles
an outline of her story.
Six weeks after this the merchants of St Malo saw a deeply-laden craft
sweeping 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 the
approach 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 De
Roberval!"
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 placed
him at arm's length, and, with his hand upon his shoulder, eagerly
scanned his countenance, as if to learn from it what tidings he had
brought. La Pommeraye did not speak, but his face told Cartier that all
was 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 below
while 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 bleak
spot in the midst of the Atlantic, while her nurse and her companion
perished, and at last, with her own hands, she buried Claude. One other
death must follow to complete the tragedy."
Cartier wrung his friend's hand in silence. He was no longer young; but
something of the fierce rage which burned in La Pommeraye's breast burst
into flame in his own, as he looked at the worn and saddened face of the
once buoyant young adventurer. "God help De Roberval!" he once more
thought, "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 know
for the present that she has returned to France. I will leave you with
her, and attend to these Malouins, who have, no doubt, come to see what
return I can give them for the sous they invested in the _Marie_."
Cartier could not restrain a start of dismay when he was ushered into
the little cabin, where Marguerite sat awaiting him. He had last seen
her, little more than four years before, a beautiful girl, in the full,
radiant charm of budding womanhood. She stood before him now, worn and
aged, with white hair and the face of a woman of fifty instead of a girl
of twenty-six. But her figure was as upright as ever, and her carriage
as queenly; her dark eyes had lost none of their fire--though their
depths held the secret of her life's tragedy--and her voice, when she
spoke, had gained in fulness and richness what it had lost in girlish
brightness and gaiety.
Cartier controlled himself, and allowed no sign of pity or sympathy to
appear in his face or voice.
"Mademoiselle," he said simply, "I welcome you back to France. If you
will deign to accept my hospitality, my house and all that I have are at
your service for as long as you will make use of them."
Marguerite thanked him with her old, quiet dignity. She never lost her
self-control through all the trying scenes of her return to the land she
had left under such different auspices--so little dreaming what her
home-coming would be. When Charles had succeeded in getting rid of the
merchants who crowded his decks, he conducted her on shore. Cartier,
moved with fatherly compassion towards the young girl whose sufferings
seemed more like legend than reality, insisted that she should stay with
him and his family till a meeting with De Roberval could be arranged.
A messenger was despatched to Picardy, but returned with the information
that De Roberval had long been absent from his castle. He was busy in
the wars; but as Paris would doubtless be his head-quarters, Charles and
Marguerite determined to seek him there.
All this time no word of love had crossed La Pommeraye's lips. He
yearned with unutterable longing to claim as his own the right to
cherish and protect Marguerite for the rest of her life, but daily he
realised 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 to
speak, the vision of the desolate cemetery on the island rose before
him, and the words froze on his lips. Marguerite could not help seeing
his devotion; but she so carefully avoided giving him any sign of
encouragement that the weeks at the manor-house of Limoilou, and the
subsequent journey to Paris, were both passed without La Pommeraye's
being able to get any nearer to her. Ungrateful she could not be. She
felt for the fair giant a tender, sisterly affection, and learned to
understand how Claude and Marie had both had for him such an unbounded
admiration.
At Paris Charles established her in a secluded quarter--for although she
had friends in the city, both deemed it wise that for the present,
absolutely no one should know of her return. All deemed her dead; and
for a time she must still be dead to the world. La Pommeraye was careful
to avoid his old haunts and friends, but in no way relaxed his quest of
information about De Roberval's movements. He learned that the nobleman
was not then in the city, but that within a week he would return.
With this news he hastened to Marguerite. She was deeply moved on
learning that she was so soon to be confronted with her uncle. How
should she meet him? What would he have to say to her, whom he doubtless
believed long dead?
Her life had become a strange chaos. She hardly knew why she had allowed
herself to be brought to Paris. It would be impossible ever to resume
the old relations with her uncle; but to live much longer dependent upon
strangers was out of the question. Some arrangements for her future must
be made without delay, but in any case De Roberval must be informed of
her presence. Feeling of any kind seemed almost dead within her, but
remembering the circumstances of their parting, she could not look
forward 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 her
apartment, after giving her the information; and a day or two afterwards
when he came to consult her about some business matters, she asked him
what his plans were.
"I shall seek out Sieur de Roberval," said Charles, "as soon as he
arrives, and arrange a meeting between you in whatever way you may
direct 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 words
which had been on his lips. She laid her hand gently on his arm.
"M. de la Pommeraye," she said, "you have proved yourself a true and
devoted friend to me. I know that I can never hope to repay your
unselfish sacrifices; nor can I ever express even a small part of my
gratitude for all that you have so nobly done. Nay, listen to me----" as
Charles was about to interrupt her. "I feel more deeply than I can tell
you; you must let me speak this once. I am not ungrateful, believe me."
Her voice trembled a little, though she controlled it instantly. "But I
am about to ask one more kindness at your hands. There has been enough
blood shed--too much. Unhappy woman that I am, how shall I render an
account of all the deaths of which I have been the cause?" She turned
away for a moment; and the rare sobs shook her slight figure. Charles
was awed into silence before a sorrow too deep for any words. At last
she turned to him, and with an imploring gesture said: "I beg of you to
spare my uncle's life."
La Pommeraye began his habitual stride up and down the room. His brow
was dark, and he gnawed his underlip savagely. That she should plead for
the life of the man who had brought all this upon her was to him
inexplicable. 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 and
asked me to have mercy on that villain, I should have perilled my own
soul rather than let him go unpunished. But now----"
His voice failed him. He took her hand and gazed into her face. All his
soul was in his eyes; and in that yearning look Marguerite read his
secret. He was about to speak, but she stopped him.
"Rise," she said gently, "you are too noble to kneel to me. You are my
best friend--the only friend I have in the world. Remember, I am
entirely alone. I trust you, Monsieur; I place myself absolutely in your
hands. 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 reminder
of her helpless dependence on him called forth all his manhood and
chivalry, 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 himself
with 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 the
Innocents, in the heart of the city. A party of nobles were approaching,
and as they passed him, a burst of laughter from among them attracted
his attention. He raised his eyes; saw De Roberval, and his sword leaped
from its scabbard. Half-a-dozen other weapons instantly flashed in the
sunlight; but La Pommeraye, recollecting that he had no quarrel with any
save one of their number, sheathed his blade, and unheeding the shouts
of welcome from some of the party who recognised him, beckoned De
Roberval aside from the group.
"My presence here alarms you," he said, for the nobleman's sudden pallor
had not escaped his notice. "And with good reason. I have but just
returned from the Isle of Demons."
"Indeed; and what concern of mine is that?" returned De Roberval, with
an assumption of carelessness, though he could not altogether steady his
voice.
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 great
effort, he said hurriedly: "We cannot speak of it now. Meet me to-night
at this spot, and the darkest tale you have to tell I will listen to. If
you 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 were
bent; his hair was almost white; and his face was thin and worn.
Something in his voice made Charles believe that he was sincere, and for
a 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," and
without 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 news
evidently agitated her greatly.
"Have you told him of my presence here?" she asked. "Does he expect me
to meet him?"
"He knows naught of your return," answered La Pommeraye. "I had no
opportunity 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 well
for you to wait within the Church of the Innocents, where I am to meet
him, while I warn him of your return, and prepare him to meet you?"
Marguerite grasped at the idea. She dreaded, above all things, another
quarrel between La Pommeraye and her uncle; and her presence would be a
safeguard against bloodshed. As she prepared to accompany Charles, her
thoughts went back to that other evening--nearly five years before--when
she had been present at an encounter between these same two men. The
object she now had in view was the same--to save her uncle's life; but
the circumstances--how different! Could the veil have been lifted from
the future on that first meeting, would she not have been tempted to
leave him to the mercy of his enemy's sword? And now she was
accompanying that enemy--who had proved himself her friend when she had
no other in all the world--to keep him from avenging her wrongs upon the
man who should have been her natural protector. Her brain swam as these
thoughts crowded upon her; and she was glad to take refuge in the
dimly-lighted church, and to quiet her distracted spirit in silent
prayer before the altar.
La Pommeraye, outside, paced up and down, awaiting De Roberval's
arrival. His hand was on his sword-hilt, and his watchful eye kept a
sharp look-out on all sides; for in spite of the nobleman's parting
words to him in the afternoon, he had already had but too good reason to
suspect him of treachery.
And in fact, De Roberval had resolved within himself to add yet one more
brutal deed to the long list which had ruined his life, and changed him
from a gentleman and a man of honour to a bully, a coward, and an
assassin. La Pommeraye had returned to France. He had but to open his
lips, and De Roberval's life was at his mercy. Nor could the nobleman
recover from the stinging indignity and humiliation which Charles had
put upon him at their last meeting. From first to last, he had owed him
a bitter grudge--all the more bitter, because, in a moment of cowardice,
he had taken advantage of the noble fellow's generosity to shield
himself from defeat and dishonour. No, there was no alternative; La
Pommeraye must die; and with that death all evidence of his crimes would
be removed. He had no fear from the men who had accompanied Charles to
America; he had made inquiries, and learned that they were none but
fishermen and sailors; and any version of the story they might have
brought back would be too garbled and exaggerated to be believed.
But he feared La Pommeraye's sword, and under his doublet he put on a
shirt of mail. Seeking the quarters of a reckless cut-throat, who would
have assassinated his own father for a few sous, he gave him a purse of
gold, and letting him know the nature of the work before him, bade him
strike sure and sharp, as soon as La Pommeraye was engaged in
conversation; and instead of a purse, he would fill his cap with gold.
At the appointed hour he went to the rendezvous, where La Pommeraye was
impatiently awaiting him.
The nobleman's demeanour had entirely changed since he left Charles in
the afternoon. He now assumed the dignity of a man who has been unjustly
suspected, and is prepared to avenge an insult.
"So, Monsieur," he said, as Charles approached him, "you are still
determined to harrow up the past, and to compel me to acknowledge once
more the dishonour which has befallen my name."
"I am here," said Charles, his hot blood all aflame in an instant at the
implied slur on Marguerite, "to call you to account for the death of
Claude de Pontbriand, and for the foul wrong you did your innocent
niece."
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 saw
her uncle draw his sword, and thinking they were about to fight, rushed
down the steps just as De Roberval made a pass at La Pommeraye, who,
adroitly stepping aside, escaped being wounded, and drawing his own
sword, stood on the defensive. As he did so, he heard a step behind him.
A sudden instinct warned him; leaping back, he barely escaped a
treacherous thrust from behind. At the same instant, De Roberval caught
sight of his niece's pale face in the uncertain light; and, striking
wildly at La Pommeraye, fell forward at the latter's feet.
Charles heeded him not. His blood was roused, and turning on the
would-be assassin, who was about to flee in terror, he ran him through
the heart.
Then seeing that De Roberval made no attempt to rise, he stooped and
turned him on his side, and saw that his hand clung in a death-grip to
his sword-hilt, while the point of the weapon had pierced his brain. It
was Bayard's sword; the sword the king had given him in the hour of his
ambition. In his terror at the sudden apparition of what he believed to
be his niece's spirit, his foot had slipped, and the stroke he had
intended for La Pommeraye had ended his own life.