Marguerite De Roberval: A Romance of the Days of Jacques Cartier — Story, Setting & Ideas

There was a short silence after Cartier's remarks, before De Pontbriand replied:

"I thought you had had enough of the New World."

"Enough!" exclaimed Cartier. "That New World is mine. I first took possession of it. My cross still stands guarding my interests at Gaspe, and my memory is still dear to the red men from Stadacona to Hochelaga."

"I am not so certain of the friendship of the Indians," interrupted his companion. "If we had not carried off old Donnacona and his fellow-chiefs it might have been so, but now that they are dead you will have some difficulty in inventing a story that will regain you the confidence of their tribesmen. Ah! Cartier, I warned you then; and now I only regret that I did not oppose your action with my very sword. Poor devils! It was pitiful to see them droop and droop like caged birds, and finally die one by one. Poor old Donnacona! I expect we shall find his spirit back on the heights of Stadacona if we ever cross the ocean again."

"That was a mistake," replied Cartier, "but one never knows just what will be the results of an action. I did it for the best. I thought the Indians would enjoy a visit to Europe as much as did the two lads I brought over on my first voyage. They were too old, however, and seem to have been rooted to the soil. I am afraid we shall have to invent a way of explaining their absence should we return to Hochelaga. Would it not be well to marry them to noble ladies, and give them dukedoms in France to govern?"

"A good idea, with the one drawback that it is false; and there are enough false men already in France without an honest seaman swelling their numbers. But my impression of the savages is, that you will have a hard time to make them believe your story. They are a deep people, and, as we found them, a generous people; and once deceived, you will find that they will never again have perfect confidence in their betrayers."

"Perhaps so; I daresay you are right. But why borrow trouble that is years and leagues away from us? We are here in old France, and likely to stay here."

"I am not so sure of that."

"I am not so sure of that. I had a long _tete-a-tete_ with Jean Francois de la Roque to-day, and he is wavering. He has much influence in Picardy, and King Francis is greatly indebted to him. He declares that if he wants a ship, or indeed a fleet, he can have it. He professes to be anxious to win souls in the new land of darkness, as he calls it; but do not lay too much stress on the darkness when you meet him. The gold and the diamonds and the furs will touch his heart much quicker than anything else. He is a shrewd fellow, and if you can get him enthusiastic over your New World you will soon be at your beloved Stadacona, and have a chance to stay there too. His idea is to plant a colony there, develop the resources of the country, and, I have no doubt, save the souls of the inhabitants at his leisure. I wish we could get together some of our old friends. A few of the men who pulled safely through the scurvy would be a great help on another such expedition."

"Where is Charles de la Pommeraye?" interrupted Cartier.

"De la Pommeraye! Have you not heard the last news of him?"

"No; what fresh scrape has he been getting into? There is no braver fellow alive; and if he does get into a few more quarrels than the rest of us, it is merely because of his excessive gallantry. A petticoat will always bring him to his knees. Why man, at Hochelaga he doffed his plumed hat to every fair savage who attracted his eye. If I get a chance to go again I will find him, though I have to search every hole and corner in France."

"I am much afraid you will have some trouble in finding him. The last report I had of him was, that he was seen lying in the streets of Paris with several daggers gracing his breast. He was my friend, as you know, and, despite his foolhardiness and follies, the only man in whom I could ever have perfect confidence. I had always expected he would meet just such an end; but I have shed more tears for him than I ever thought to shed for any man."

"Charles de la Pommeraye dead!" exclaimed Cartier. "I cannot believe it!"

"Neither can I!" interrupted a sturdy voice that made both men leap back and lay their hands on their weapons. "Neither can I! And if any one doubts my word, here's my sword to prove it!"

"La Pommeraye!" cried Claude. "Where in Heaven's name did you spring from?" and the two men seized the hands of the young giant who, in the attire of a fashionable gallant of the day, with gay-coloured doublet and hose, richly plumed hat, and surtout trimmed with gold lace, stood laughing before them.

"Paris, where I was seen lying dead in the streets. How long is it, Claude, since you have had such a poor opinion of me? I have been put to strange straits in my day, but I have never yet slept in the streets. Be thankful I did not leave the two of you to be carried out of this square in the morning. I came here spoiling for a fight, and had my sword all ready to begin carving you when Cartier's voice struck me like a whiff of bracing, salt-sea air. But what great enterprise have you on hand? Your serious looks bespeak some weighty scheme. Whatever it is, my sword is at your service."

"I doubt if it would be wise to take such a fire-eating duellist into our confidence," said Claude, regarding his friend with a smile.

"Now, Claude, that is hardly fair. You know I am no duellist. I merely fight when I am compelled to, and never without just provocation. For instance, I had a delightful passage-at-arms last night, but it was no fault of mine. I was coming across the Sillon when a pretty girl came towards me with a leisurely step that seemed to say: "I have just been watching for you." She had a face like a flower, in the moonlight, and I could not resist snatching a kiss. That was all: but it acted like a match in a powder magazine. She started back with a cry. Evidently she had not been waiting for me; and before I could apologise, or take back the kiss, her lover swooped down upon me with drawn sword."

"I trust," exclaimed Claude, "he let a little of the impudence out of your gallant hide."

"Not a drop. I know the danger of kissing pretty girls in the public thoroughfare, and never do it without having my hand on my sword-hilt. He sprang forward, and I sprang back. The girl was between us, and in his haste to spit me, he pushed her roughly aside. The slight pause gave me time to draw my sword. He came at me, blind with fury, but I was on my guard. A pass or two showed me that I could disarm the fellow in five minutes. The fair one stood by, mutely wringing her hands, and as I wished to stand well in her opinion, I resolved to show her what I could do. I have been learning some cuts and thrusts and guards in Paris, and now was my chance to put them in practice. I bewildered the fellow, and when I thought her highness must have seen that I was the better man, and the more worthy, I let out with a rapidity rarely seen in musty old St Malo, and my opponent's sword went clanging against the wall.

"The man was no coward. No sooner was his sword out of his hand than he tore open his shirt, crying: 'Stab, villain, insulter of women!' But if I had attempted to take him at his word, and punch a hole or two in him, I could not have done so, for even while he spoke his beloved sprang between us, and hissing the epithet 'Coward!' in my face, flashed a dagger towards my breast. So quick was the stroke that I am afraid only a miracle could have prevented a woman from at last making a permanent impression on the heart of Charles de la Pommeraye, but I was once more to be saved from the base designs of the sex. My antagonist seized her hand from behind with a vice-like grip; and there we all stood--a most interesting group of enemies. He was the first to speak.

"'Put up your toy,' he said sternly to the girl, who, except for that one word 'Coward!' had never uttered a sound since the beginning of the struggle. 'Put up your toy; my life is in his hand. He has won it with the sword.'

"'Charles de la Pommeraye,' I answered, 'never strikes a weaponless man. Take up your sword, my friend, and let us give this fair Amazon a little more worthy entertainment.'

"But he would not even look at the weapon that had failed him.

"'Here it is,' said I, lifting it from the ground. 'But I am very much afraid we shall both have to sheathe our swords for to-night. Yours has lost a good foot. That wall has excellent granite in it. But meet me here to-morrow with a fresh weapon, and we can finish our little difference by the light of yonder moon.'

"'I am no duellist,' he cried, 'but I accept your offer. Your name is known to me, Charles de la Pommeraye, and I know you as a man of honour, despite your unknightly conduct towards a defenceless woman. See, she has fainted! Help me with her to my house, and to-morrow at this same hour I will meet you at this spot without seconds or witnesses. Lift her gently,' he added, as he raised the girl's shoulders. 'Put your arm about her on the left, and we can carry her between us.'

"But she was perfectly limp. We were really dragging her through the street, when I said: 'This will never do. Lead the way. I will follow you.' As I spoke, I raised her from the ground, and although he resisted my action, he soon saw that there was no help for it, and strode before me in silence. The moon shone full in the girl's face as she lay in my arms, pale and lifeless, and I saw the error I had committed. She was unmistakably of high-born lineage, and I would have given worlds to undo my rash action; though what she was doing at that place and at that hour is beyond me to conjecture. But we were at the door of my antagonist's house in a few moments, and he bade me hand over my burden. As he took her in his arms he exclaimed: 'To-morrow night, remember. The Sillon: and come without witnesses.'"

"Quite a romance," said Cartier; "but you are never long in a place without picking up something of the sort. How long have you been in St Malo?"

"Since yesterday afternoon. I had gone out for a moonlight stroll, and was crossing the Sillon, dreaming of that glorious voyage we had together up the Hochelaga."

"Well, Charles," said Claude, "have a care! If you keep up this sort of thing you are never likely to have another such voyage. But, by the way, did not your adversary act in rather a strange way for a lover? He allowed you to carry the fair one, did you say?"

"Yes, and walked ahead, as if he had been her father."

"I am inclined to think you have been mistaken. No lover would have behaved in that manner. He is probably her father or elder brother."

"Neither, neither, Claude? He was too young to be her father, unless the moonlight greatly deceived me, and he resembled her as much as I do one of the gargoyles on Notre Dame de Paris. But I am glad you have thrown out the hint. I will diligently enquire of him if he is her lover, and if he is not, I will be satisfied with disarming and humiliating him a little for his boldness. If he is, however, I am much afraid I shall have to despatch him to Heaven, as an obstacle in the way of my winning the lady of the dagger. I have felt the charms of many a fair woman before, but none ever had power to move me as did that helpless girl last night as I carried her to her home. She is an angel, Claude, with the face of a Madonna!"

"Well done, Charles!" exclaimed Claude, laughing. "I am glad to hear that you are caught at last. Hear him, Jacques; how delightful it is to hear him confess that he has felt his heart burn before now. But this is the one, only, and lasting affection. Ah! Charles, you are still a sad dog! In this same town six years ago I heard you swear that you would live and die true to the beautiful daughter of the Sieur des Ormeaux; in just one week you were on your knees to Cosette, the daughter of the drunken captain of a fishing smack; and in two months after that I saw you myself, in the shadow of Mont Royal, wildly gesticulating your undying devotion to the daughter of old Adario, that greasy potentate whose warriors were filled with awe at the imposing way in which you bellowed a 'Te Deum.'"

"Silence, Claude, or, by Heaven, I shall forget that we are sworn friends in love, in war, and in peace, and challenge you to fight as soon as I have finished with the fool whom I must now hasten to meet. Do not follow me, I beg of you; I would not have him think I had friends standing by to witness our struggle. Good-bye; and if I am not back in half an hour you will find an account of all my worldly possessions in an iron box, about six inches square, in my room at the old inn."

Without another word he strode away from them, and a few paces brought him to the end of the street, where the buildings ceased at the beginning of the neck of land known as "The Sillon," which connects St Malo with the mainland. At that time this strip of land was not nearly so wide as it has since become, and was merely a narrow causeway, protected from the encroachment of the tides by a stone wall on the side towards the sea. The two men followed him no further than the end of the street, and stood in the shadow of the last house, waiting to learn the result of the encounter.

"There goes the bravest fellow in France," said Claude, as they watched him disappear. "I only wish there were more like him. He was born to fight; and he has done so much of it that he has at last come to look upon a duel as a necessary part of his day's amusement. And the best thing about him is that he has killed fewer men than any other duellist in France. He has the heart of a child, and the arm of a giant. But hark! Stand close. His opponent comes this way. He is past. Listen! By Heaven, but they have lost no time. They are at it already. I only wish he had not insisted on our staying concealed. I would rather see him at sword play than watch an army in action. But what is that? A woman's scream, as I live!"

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."