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

  CHAPTER II

  In order to explain the scream, it will be necessary to go back to themorning of the day on which this conversation took place. St Malo waslooking its dingiest. A heavy rain had fallen during the night, and amist clung to the muddy streets and grey walls till nearly noon. Thelittle town, with its narrow thoroughfares and towering houses, was asgloomy as a city of the dead; foul odours rose on all sides, and wouldhave been unbearable but for the cool breeze which swept in from theChannel, driving the mists and fog before it.

  In one of the highest and most substantial houses two young women sat atthe casement of an upper window. The house was a gloomy one, withoutadornment of any kind except an arched porch, over which was chiselledsome motto, or emblem, that had become undecipherable from age. The roomwhere the two girls sat was plain in its appointments, and badlylighted, though its sombreness was relieved by numerous feminine triflesscattered about, betraying the character and tastes of its occupants.

  The elder of the two was Marguerite de Roberval, niece of the noblemanfrom Picardy to whom reference has already been made. She was abouttwenty-four, dark, and very beautiful, with masses of black haircrowning a well-set head, finely-cut features, and a figure which, evenas she sat on the low window-seat, showed tall and willowy. Her beautywould have been flawless but for one defect--her chin was a shade tooprominent, giving her face an expression of determination, which, whiledestroying its symmetry, told of a strong will, and a firmness amountingalmost to obstinacy. She had the lithe grace of a panther, and thoughher repose was perfect, a close observer might have noticed a nervoustension in her attitude and bearing that told of a hidden force andenergy 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 asMarguerite, nor quite so tall, with a face inclined to be more roundthan oval, bright, well-opened eyes, and a merry, laughing mouth, herplump figure and vivacious expression bespoke a happy, contented nature,on whom the world and life sat lightly. She had come from Picardy withMarguerite, and was, indeed, the ward of De Roberval. Her father hadbeen killed by a bursting petronel a few years before, and had left hisonly child to the charge of his friend and comrade-in-arms.

  "Heigh-ho!" said Marie, with a half-suppressed yawn, "will this fognever lift? Who would have thought, after the glorious moon of lastnight that we should have such a day as this on the morrow?"

  "Patience, _cherie_," replied her friend, looking up from theembroidery on which she was engaged. "We have had many such morningssince we came here, but they only make the day seem brighter when thesun does shine out. See, there is the blue sky beyond the housetops! Thefull sun will doubtless be out ere noon. I often think a wise Providencemust send all this mist and rain. If some such means were not taken tocleanse these streets, we should soon not be able to breathe the air ofSt Malo. I cannot understand what has taken possession of my uncle toleave our broad acres in Picardy for these wretched streets and bare,gloomy walls."

  "It is delightful, Marguerite, to hear you complaining. I have beenwondering how much longer we were to be kept cooped up here likemoulting falcons. I am not much given to grumbling, but I do long for abreath of fresh air, and room to stretch my limbs without falling into amud-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 neverdreamed we were about to exchange the sunny slopes of the Somme forthis!"

  "No doubt," said Marguerite, with a little sigh, "my uncle has goodreasons for remaining here so long. You know his cherished schemes aboutthe New World."

  "Yes, and I shall never forgive M. de Pontbriand for suggesting to himthat he should leave France. Now that we at last have peace, I wasbeginning to hope that my warrior guardian would find time to take us toCourt, and let us see a little more of life and the gay world there. Iwas tired of staying at home, I must confess, but since my experience ofthese dreary stone walls I ask for nothing better than our fine broadhalls in Picardy. However, as you say, there is no use complaining. Buthave you forgotten--you promised to tell me the whole story of your lastnight's adventure. I have been patient, and asked no questions; but I amdying of curiosity to hear how it all happened."

  "There is very little to tell," answered Marguerite, with somereluctance. "We were coming home in the moonlight, as you know, my uncleand I, and as we crossed the Sillon my uncle stopped to say a word to asailor who gave him good-night as we passed. I did not notice that hewas not at my side, and so was a few paces in front of him, and in fulllight of the moon, while he was in shadow. Suddenly a swaggering ruffianof a fellow came towards me with an insolent jest, and before I couldrealise what he was about to do, I felt his lips touch my cheek. I criedout, and my uncle instantly rushed upon him with drawn sword. That isthe 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 neverbeen 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 neverthought to stand by and see a De Roberval disarmed. Yet, such was thisscoundrel's skill, that after a few passes he succeeded in wrenching myuncle's sword from his hand, and we were at his mercy."

  "And what then?" cried the younger girl, breathlessly, as Margueritecame to a pause again. "I would I had been in your place to see suchsword-play. I thought your uncle was invincible."

  "So did I, until last night. I have often seen him in sword contestsbefore, and none were ever able to withstand him; but he was as a childin the hands of this man."

  "Why was I not there to behold this prodigy? But for your friend DePontbriand and that eagle-eyed seaman who comes to visit your uncle, Ihave not seen a _man_ since I left Picardy."

  "I trust you may never chance to see this cowardly scoundrel. But if youcompel me to finish my story--when my uncle's sword flew clangingagainst the parapet, I could stand by in silence no longer. I had lookedto see the fellow punished as he deserved, and now a De Roberval stoodunarmed before him. Everything swam before my eyes, I thought only ofsaving my uncle's life, and, drawing the little dagger I always carry, Iwould have plunged it into the villain's breast, had not my uncle caughtmy hand. I remember no more till I found myself at home here."

  "Bravo, _m'amie_!" cried the enthusiastic Marie, clapping her hands. "Iknew your courage would not fail you. But what a terrible experience foryou 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, looklike? Describe him for me."

  "I cannot, you foolish child! Do you suppose I noticed his features? Hewas tall and powerful; but beyond that I saw nothing, except hislaughing 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 hisbreast," exclaimed Marie, half-jestingly, half-serious. "I must indeedsee him. I shall know no peace until I do."

  "Then your desire is granted," said Marguerite, "for, if I am notmistaken, 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-maidenopposite. That will show you the true character of your hero."

  Despite Marguerite's sarcasm, the man whom the two girls now beheld wasa noble specimen of humanity. Full six feet four in height, with broad,athletic shoulders, straight, clean limbs, and a face as bright as aschoolboy's, though his age could not have been under thirty, he was aman 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 itslace trimmings and jewelled ornaments, bespoke him no commonplaceadventurer. But the most striking feature in his appearance was hishair, which fell in sunny locks upon his shoulde
rs from under his velvethat with its spreading plume. In truth he looked more like a NorseViking of old than a cavalier of the sixteenth century.

  "What a noble fellow!" was Marie's involuntary exclamation, as shegazed upon him.

  "Noble!" said Marguerite, scornfully. "You surely forget what you aresaying. Would you call his conduct of last night noble?"

  "Oh, as to his conduct and character that is another matter. But what amagnificent carriage he has; and what shoulders! I should like to meetsuch 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 mehe is like what Charlemagne must have been; or--yes--like Charles de laPommeraye!"

  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. dePontbriand was lamenting the death of his friend in Paris? You havesurely 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. Nowthat I hear it again, I remember that that was the name my assailant hadthe audacity to give my uncle last night. It had vanished from my memorywhen I swooned. But what do you know of De la Pommeraye? Where did youever meet him?"

  "That man's name La Pommeraye?" cried Marie, disregarding theseenquiries, and gazing eagerly after the retreating figure of thefair-haired unknown. "Can there be two of the same name? Could it bepossible 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 recognisehim? I remember him," she explained, "some sixteen years ago, when I wasa very little girl. He was a great lad, not more than fifteen, who tookme in his arms, and tossed me high above his head. He had just come fromPavia, where, in the disastrous battle, he had twice saved my father'slife. Since then I have never seen him; but I have heard of himoccasionally as flitting about by sea and land, seeking adventure; arestless soul, who never seems happy unless he is in danger of beingkilled."

  "I am sorry to hear that you know him," said Marguerite, a littlecoldly, "for I fear he is in danger of being killed in earnest thistime. As I came to myself in my uncle's arms at the door last night, Iheard him say, 'To-morrow night, remember! The Sillon: and come withoutwitnesses.' The words can have only one meaning. They must be about tomeet again to-night; and in a calmer mood, and with a better weapon, myuncle cannot fail to administer to him the chastisement his insolencedeserves."

  "Pray Heaven the Sieur de Roberval may not meet his death instead,"exclaimed Marie fervently. "If this man and Claude de Pontbriand'sfriend 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 andstrength on his side. Your uncle will require the aid of an angel fromHeaven 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 whatyou 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 someplan 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 wecould say would only make him the more determined. But I will tell youwhat 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 anyone, we could intervene in time to prevent bloodshed, and if your uncleshould chance to be getting the worst of it, we should certainly be ableto save his life. La Pommeraye could hardly kill him in our presence. Weshould, besides, have the rare opportunity of seeing a contest betweenthe two best swordsmen in France," and the impetuous girl's eyessparkled with some of the warlike fire of her warrior ancestors. "Wouldit not be a glorious chance, Marguerite? But how we should manage toconceal ourselves in an open space like the Sillon, I do not know."

  "Oh, as to that," said Marguerite, "that would be easily managed. Withinten yards of the spot where they fought last night there is a stepleading down to the water's edge, and closed on either side. It iscalled the 'Lovers' Descent'--Claude showed it to me one day--and therewe could stand without fear of detection. But I must consider your madscheme. Could we possibly manage to prevent a catastrophe? And even ifwe succeeded in doing so, would it not be only a postponement of theissue? They are determined to meet, and we should only make them so muchthe more determined--to say nothing of my uncle's wrath when hediscovers our presence. But then, if what you say of La Pommeraye betrue--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. Therewas no mistaking her origin. She was a peasant of Picardy, faithful,honest, good-natured, and strong as an ox. She had been in the serviceof De Roberval's family all her life; and once, by her courage anddevotion, had actually saved his castle when it was besieged by theSpaniards. They had forced their way to the very gates, and had built ahuge fire against the door of the tower, whence the defenders had fledin terror, when Bastienne seized a keg of powder, and dropped it fairlyinto the midst of the fire, round which the soldiers stood waiting tillthe great oaken doors should be burned away. The castle shook to itsfoundations, and the courtyard was strewn with the dead and the dying.The advance was checked; De Roberval's men rallied, rushed from thecastle, and won a glorious victory against overwhelming numbers.Bastienne herself was badly shaken by the explosion, and terrified halfto death at her own daring. To the end of her days she fancied herselfhaunted by the spirits of the unhappy Spaniards whom she had sent tosuch a fearful end.

  She stood in the doorway, panting from the exertion of coming up thestairs in unusual haste.

  "Ma'amselle," she exclaimed, in what she meant to be a muffled tone, asshe came towards the girls with a mysterious air of having some thing ofimportance to communicate, "I fear there is trouble in store. As Ipassed the Sieur de Roberval's room just now I saw him making fiercepasses with the sword that hangs above the boar's head. If he is notpossessed of the Devil"--and she crossed herself hurriedly--"he must begetting ready for a duel, and at his age, too! Heaven have mercy on usall if anything should happen to him! What is to be done?"

  "If he is practising with that famous blade," said Marguerite, turningto Marie with a confident smile, "your friend will have need of all hisskill to disarm him. It is a magnificent Toledo, and has never knowndefeat. But as you say," and her face clouded again, "we must do what wecan to prevent a fatal ending to the duel. Bastienne, be ready toaccompany me at nine o'clock to-night. And say nothing to any one ofwhat you have seen. Your master has probably good reasons for whateverhe may do, and he would be very indignant if he thought that any one hadbeen observing his actions."

  The old woman, rebuked, left the room, murmuring to herself as shewent, and the two girls proceeded to lay their plans.

  A little before the appointed hour that evening, having taken oldBastienne into their confidence, they secretly left the house, and madetheir way to the place of rendezvous, which, as has been said, was but ashort distance away. All three were soon established in the cramped andnarrow little stairway which Marguerite had described, and waited withno small trepidation the arrival of the contestants.

  It was difficult to keep Bastienne quiet. A bright moon was shining in aclear sky, and a gentle breeze crept in from the Channel, cold andpiercing. The younger women scarcely felt it; but Bastienne's old bonesached, according to her, as they had never ached before. However, bydint of threats and entreaties, they succeeded in silencing her; andnone too soon, for a brisk step was heard approaching, and the nextmoment a gay voice soliloqu
ised 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 toone'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 wereconcealed, and began his reflections on the world at whose portals hewas standing, by trolling a gay drinking song. When it was finished herecklessly dashed into a Spanish ditty, commemorating the defeat of KingFrancis at Pavia. In this he was interrupted by an angry voice at hiselbow:

  "A pleasing pastime for a son of France--to sing the glory of herfoes!"

  "So ho!" replied La Pommeraye cheerfully, "Monsieur's anger has not yetcooled. I had never a thought of the words--it was the air that carriedme away, and, perhaps, the fine description the song gives of KingFrancis' stand on that fatal day. No one joys in and yet regrets thatfight more than I do. I won my spurs in it, and I am here to defend themto-night. But how does the fair one on whose account we meet? 'Tis apity she should not be here to witness her lover's doughty deeds asecond time."

  "Villain!" came the indignant answer, "before you utter any furtherinsults, know that you speak of Mdlle. de Roberval, my niece, whose nameyour vile lips are not worthy so much as to pronounce. Draw, and defendyour 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 ofrespectful deference. "Had I known the circumstances, I should not havebeen so ready to offer you the second contest. In the light of the moonI mistook your years. Your skill with the sword is, I am aware, justlyrenowned, but my youth and strength give me the advantage. Accept myhumble apologies, Sieur, and let us end this quarrel without blows. Iwill leave St Malo at once, and you shall not be reminded by my presenceof 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, inthe person of an unprotected girl, the oldest name in France, but youdare to taunt with age and unskilfulness a man whose sword isdishonoured 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. Standon your guard!" As he spoke, he made a fierce and sudden lunge, whichwould have taken a less wary opponent by surprise, and ended the duel onthe spot.

  It was met and parried, and a cool, steady counter-thrust severed thecord of the cloak about De Roberval's shoulders.

  "You fight at a disadvantage with that cloak about you, Sieur. I haveremoved it," said La Pommeraye, with no scorn in his voice, but with acalm self-possession which told De Roberval that he was indeed in thehands of an opponent for whom he was no match.