Marguerite De Roberval: A Romance of the Days of Jacques Cartier

by Thomas Guthrie Marquis

  CHAPTER XIX

  Next day all Paris knew the details of De Roberval's death. He had beenset upon by an assassin, had struck his would-be murderer down, andslipping in the blood of his victim, had fallen on his own sword, thusending the brightest career in France. So ran the report; and there wasno one to contradict it.

  La Pommeraye, when he had ascertained that Roberval was indeed dead, hadhad but one thought--to get Marguerite away from the spot before thecrowd which, attracted by the scuffle, had already begun to gather,should become aware of her presence. He hastily drew her back into thechurch; hurried her by a side exit into another street; and so conveyedher, half-fainting, to her home. When she was able to listen she learnedthe truth from his own lips. Her mind went back over the terrible scenethrough which she had passed; she saw her uncle lying side by side indeath with a paid cut-throat; and suddenly there flashed across herbrain the words which Claude had uttered as he stood on the deck of_L'Heureux_, the noose about his neck: "May you perish miserably by yourown murderous hand."

  Paris went into mourning. The court, the Church, the city, all laidaside their usual occupations to do honour to the remains of him who hadupheld in two worlds the glory of France, who had been a devout son ofthe Church, and who had ever kept the name of his monarch as a talismanagainst his foes. His body, after lying in state for three days, wasburied with all the pomp and ceremonial due to his rank and fame; andthe real truth concerning his death remained a secret in the hearts ofthe two he had so cruelly wronged.

  Marguerite's return to France could not be for ever kept unknown; and,indeed, since her uncle's death, there was no further need forconcealment. Her story--or as much of it as she chose to makepublic--soon began to spread abroad. Many and garbled were the versionsof it which were circulated at the court and in the city. But to most ofthose who looked upon that noble and beautiful face, with its traces ofbitter suffering, suspicion of evil was impossible. The friends who hadknown and loved her before her departure would gladly have welcomed herback; but she shunned all society. Never again could she mingle in theworld of Paris. She accepted the invitation of an old and dearly-lovedcompanion, and went to stay at a villa on the banks of the Seine.

  Here, after a time, La Pommeraye ventured to visit her. As the weekswent by, the beautiful air of her native land, the constantcompanionship of friends, the return of health and strength, had begunto restore to her something of her lost youth; though the old vivacitywas for ever gone. She welcomed La Pommeraye with more cheerfulness andfreedom than he had dared to expect; and gradually he began to thinkthat distance from the scene of her sorrows, and the removal of heruncle--the cause of all her suffering--were making her feel the pastless keenly. In spite of his conviction that she would never love him,he almost began to hope. The old yearning pain which had never diedstirred at his heart more uncontrollably than ever. He struggledmanfully to show no signs of it, fearing lest he should lose even thejoy of seeing her, but daily he threw himself in Marguerite's way, anddaily he could not but feel that he was growing more necessary to her.

  And, indeed, to the lonely and saddened woman, his companionship was anunspeakable comfort. The steadfast, broad-shouldered, handsome giant hadsaved her from untold horrors, he had proved his devotion to her at acost which might well have appalled the bravest. She knew that whatevermight happen to her, his strong arm was ready to shield her from evilfor the rest of her life. Alone in the world as she was, she clung tohim as her best and truest friend; she loved him indeed, with all thestrength that was left her, though not in the way for which he longed.Her woman's eye saw through the restraint he put upon himself; she knewthat his heart was unalterably hers, and that, sooner or later, some dayhe would speak. She dreaded the inevitable parting, and sought to deferit by every means in her power.

  It came sooner than she expected. A period of comparative peace hadgiven La Pommeraye's sword an unwonted rest, but hostilities were oncemore commenced, and he could not remain idle. His post was on the field,but he was unable to go till he had learned from Marguerite's own lipswhether life still held a chance of happiness for him.

  He was in Paris when the news came. After a few hurried preparations heleft the city and hastened to her side. His heart beat wildly as hepaced with her in the moonlight up and down the terrace overlooking theriver. It was early spring--just a year since her rescue from theisland. Thronging memories surged in her heart, and kept her fromnoticing the silence of her companion, till at last he spoke.

  "Marguerite," he said, for he now called her by her name, at her ownrequest, "I have to leave Paris to-morrow. There is hot work awaiting mysword in the south, and I must delay no longer."

  She turned to him in sudden alarm; the news was quite unexpected.

  "My friend--my brother," she said impulsively, "do not leave me! Notyet, not yet!"

  The moment had come. The love pent up in La Pommeraye's heart would berestrained no longer, and burst from him in a torrent of passionatewords. She could not stop him now; it was too late. She stood pale andsilent as he poured forth all the love and longing of those weary years.Her heart was moved with a great compassion for him; but when,encouraged by her silence, he touched her hand, she drew it suddenlyfrom him. Before her rose the dead face of him who had been as truly herhusband as if a priest had blessed their marriage; she felt once morethe touch of her child's lips at her breast; she saw again that doublegrave on the lonely hillside so many thousand miles away. She had lovedonce, and her heart was dead and buried in that far-off grave. Life heldno second love for her, henceforth there was nothing left her but thememory of that which once had been. But her friend, her only support andcomfort, must she lose him too? Heaven was cruel indeed to her. Shecovered her face with her hands.

  "God help me!" she said shudderingly. "It cannot be."

  He thought she was relenting. In an instant he had taken her hands inhis, while he pleaded passionately for time, for hope; no promise, onlypermission to spend his life in her service, only a word to carry withhim on his journey. But she had regained her self-control, and spoke nowwith a quiet, sad decision that was as a death-knell to his heart.

  "My friend," she said, "I would have saved you this if I could. I havetried to spare you, and"--her voice trembled--"to spare myself. Hush,"as he was about to interrupt, "it is because I do love you--though notin the way you wish--that I would have spared us both this parting. Youare all I have left in the world--if I lose you, I am indeed alone."

  She stopped a moment. There were no tears in the wide, dark eyes as shelooked straight before her, over the gleaming river, but her face waswhite as death in the moonlight, and the lines about her mouth told ofthe hidden depths of feeling beneath that quiet exterior. Charles hadsprung to his feet, an impetuous outburst on his lips, but she silencedhim with uplifted hand.

  "Come," she said, "let us continue our walk, and I will tell you what Ihave thought I should tell to no living being on earth."

  And there, with tearless eyes and in a voice that never faltered, shetold him the whole story of those three years on the island, omittingnothing, giving the outlines clearly and briefly, but with a vividnesswhich burned the details on Charles' throbbing brain as if they had beenbranded with a hot iron.

  "And now," she said, as she finished and turned to him, lifting her calmeyes to his pale and hopeless face, "now you will see why it isimpossible that I should give you what you ask. My life was Claude's; Igave myself utterly to him. He suffered with me, he died for me; I havenothing left but his memory, but to that I shall be true till I die. Myfriend, do you understand _now_?"

  He was on his knees before her. She gave him her hands unresistingly,and he laid his hot forehead against them for an instant. Then he lookedup at her, and she saw that indeed he understood.

  Her face, as she met his look, was full of an infinite tenderness andpity. Laying her hand gently on his head, she stooped and kissed himonce upon the brow. The whole manner of the action was so austere, sofull of the sadness and rem
oteness of one whom a vast, impassable gulfseparates for ever from all human and familiar intercourse, that it toldCharles more plainly than any words could have done, the hopelessness ofhis love. He bowed his head in silence a moment, then pressing his lipspassionately to her hand, he rose and left her.

  She never saw him again. When she realised that he was indeed gone, thatthe last link which bound her to her past was broken, she began to feelbitterly the utter loneliness of her lot. Alone in the world, withoutkith or kin; alone, without the possibility of ever unburdening herheart to any human being, the old madness which had stared her in theface on the Isle of Demons seemed about to return.

  But she was to have a noble salvation. Her uncle's estates were nowhers. The wars had left them poor, untilled, in a wretched condition.The peasants were starving, the ramparts of the castle were tumblingdown, and robber bands were plundering what remained to her. A life ofaction was what she needed: her resolve was soon taken, and in less thana month she was on her way northward, taking with her a companion of herown rank who had consented to share her solitude.

  The journey was a weary one. Repeatedly she would have turned back, buther determined will urged her on. She was the last De Roberval; thenoble name was a sacred trust to her, and she would keep it noble to theend. When she reached her castle, the peasants who remembered her, andhad thought her dead, flocked about her, weeping and laughing, kissingher horse and her garments, until, touched to the heart, she broke downand mingled her tears with theirs.

  And now her true life began. At first it was hard. The old memories camecrowding back upon her. Her uncle's face seemed to stare at her from thedeserted halls; and when she entered the room where she and Marie hadnursed and tended Claude through his illness, such an agony ofremembrance rushed over her that it seemed as if at last her mind mustbe unhinged. She sought refuge in occupation; late and early she workedas no De Roberval had ever worked before, and her retainers called downblessings on her head. But when the toil of the day was over, and shesought her lonely pillow, she heard all night the booming of the waveson the rock-bound shore, and saw the faces of her dead staring at herout of the darkness.

  Thus the days of her desolate widowhood dragged themselves by. Her youthwas gone, and the grey hairs which had startled Cartier had now manycompanions. But they seemed only to add beauty and character to hersweet, sad face. She gave herself up to unselfish devotion to others andher duty; and as if the storms of her life had buffeted themselves intoexhaustion in her youth, the rest of her days seemed destined to pass inpeace and tranquillity--if not in happiness.

  She heard at intervals from La Pommeraye. Means of communication weredifficult and uncertain in those days, but he contrived to send heroccasional messages, and to assure her of his undying devotion andreadiness to serve her in any way she might need. Often her heart achedwithin her when tales were brought of a famous soldier who was ever inthe brunt of the battle, who courted death, but whom death seemed toshun.

  At last she learned of a desperate fight, in which the forces of Francehad almost come to wreck. A gallant hero had led his division tovictory. During a short respite he had removed his helmet, and waswatching the life-and-death struggle in the valley below him. Suddenlyhe saw the French line waver. Bidding his men follow him, and with hislion-like hair streaming in the wind, he galloped into the thick of thefray. Right and left he struck; left and right the enemy fell beforehim. The battle was won for France; but on a heap of corpses he wasfound with a bullet in his brain: "Dead on the field of honour"; dead inthe prime of his strength; with an unblemished record, and a name dearto every soldier in the kingdom.

  THE END

  PRINTED AT THE EDINBURGH PRESS, 9 AND 11 YOUNG STREET.