CHAPTER XVIII

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 cl.u.s.tered 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 sh.o.r.es 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, G.o.d 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. "G.o.d help De Roberval!" he once more thought, "and G.o.d 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 sh.o.r.e. Cartier, moved with fatherly compa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.bleman 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 circ.u.mstances of their parting, she could not look forward to meeting her uncle again without a tremor of antic.i.p.ation.

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 a.s.sumed 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 grat.i.tude for all that you have so n.o.bly 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sionate 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.

Pa.s.sers-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 n.o.bles were approaching, and as they pa.s.sed 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 n.o.bleman'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 a.s.sumption 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.