Читать книгу Marguerite De Roberval - Thomas Guthrie Marquis - Страница 4

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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, chérie," 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."

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

"There is very little to tell," answered Marguerite, with some reluctance. "We were coming home in the moonlight, as you know, my uncle and I, and as we crossed the Sillon my uncle stopped to say a word to a sailor who gave him good-night as we passed. I did not notice that he was not at my side, and so was a few paces in front of him, and in full light of the moon, while he was in shadow. Suddenly a swaggering ruffian of a fellow came towards me with an insolent jest, and before I could realise what he was about to do, I felt his lips touch my cheek. I cried out, and my uncle instantly rushed upon him with drawn sword. That is the 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 never been 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 never thought to stand by and see a De Roberval disarmed. Yet, such was this scoundrel's skill, that after a few passes he succeeded in wrenching my uncle's sword from his hand, and we were at his mercy."

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

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

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

"I trust you may never chance to see this cowardly scoundrel. But if you compel me to finish my story—when my uncle's sword flew clanging against the parapet, I could stand by in silence no longer. I had looked to see the fellow punished as he deserved, and now a De Roberval stood unarmed before him. Everything swam before my eyes, I thought only of saving my uncle's life, and, drawing the little dagger I always carry, I would have plunged it into the villain's breast, had not my uncle caught my hand. I remember no more till I found myself at home here."

"Bravo, m'amie!" cried the enthusiastic Marie, clapping her hands. "I knew your courage would not fail you. But what a terrible experience for you 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, look like? Describe him for me."

"I cannot, you foolish child! Do you suppose I noticed his features? He was tall and powerful; but beyond that I saw nothing, except his laughing 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 his breast," exclaimed Marie, half-jestingly, half-serious. "I must indeed see him. I shall know no peace until I do."

"Then your desire is granted," said Marguerite, "for, if I am not mistaken, 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-maiden opposite. That will show you the true character of your hero."

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

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

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

"Oh, as to his conduct and character that is another matter. But what a magnificent carriage he has; and what shoulders! I should like to meet such 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 me he is like what Charlemagne must have been; or—yes—like Charles de la Pommeraye!"

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. de Pontbriand was lamenting the death of his friend in Paris? You have surely 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. Now that I hear it again, I remember that that was the name my assailant had the audacity to give my uncle last night. It had vanished from my memory when I swooned. But what do you know of De la Pommeraye? Where did you ever meet him?"

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

"I am sorry to hear that you know him," said Marguerite, a little coldly, "for I fear he is in danger of being killed in earnest this time. As I came to myself in my uncle's arms at the door last night, I heard him say, 'To-morrow night, remember! The Sillon: and come without witnesses.' The words can have only one meaning. They must be about to meet again to-night; and in a calmer mood, and with a better weapon, my uncle cannot fail to administer to him the chastisement his insolence deserves."

"Pray Heaven the Sieur de Roberval may not meet his death instead," exclaimed Marie fervently. "If this man and Claude de Pontbriand's friend 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 and strength on his side. Your uncle will require the aid of an angel from Heaven 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 what you 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 some plan 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 we could say would only make him the more determined. But I will tell you what 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 any one, we could intervene in time to prevent bloodshed, and if your uncle should chance to be getting the worst of it, we should certainly be able to save his life. La Pommeraye could hardly kill him in our presence. We should, besides, have the rare opportunity of seeing a contest between the two best swordsmen in France," and the impetuous girl's eyes sparkled with some of the warlike fire of her warrior ancestors. "Would it not be a glorious chance, Marguerite? But how we should manage to conceal ourselves in an open space like the Sillon, I do not know."

"Oh, as to that," said Marguerite, "that would be easily managed. Within ten yards of the spot where they fought last night there is a step leading down to the water's edge, and closed on either side. It is called the 'Lovers' Descent'—Claude showed it to me one day—and there we could stand without fear of detection. But I must consider your mad scheme. Could we possibly manage to prevent a catastrophe? And even if we succeeded in doing so, would it not be only a postponement of the issue? They are determined to meet, and we should only make them so much the more determined—to say nothing of my uncle's wrath when he discovers our presence. But then, if what you say of La Pommeraye be true—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. There was no mistaking her origin. She was a peasant of Picardy, faithful, honest, good-natured, and strong as an ox. She had been in the service of De Roberval's family all her life; and once, by her courage and devotion, had actually saved his castle when it was besieged by the Spaniards. They had forced their way to the very gates, and had built a huge fire against the door of the tower, whence the defenders had fled in terror, when Bastienne seized a keg of powder, and dropped it fairly into the midst of the fire, round which the soldiers stood waiting till the great oaken doors should be burned away. The castle shook to its foundations, and the courtyard was strewn with the dead and the dying. The advance was checked; De Roberval's men rallied, rushed from the castle, and won a glorious victory against overwhelming numbers. Bastienne herself was badly shaken by the explosion, and terrified half to death at her own daring. To the end of her days she fancied herself haunted by the spirits of the unhappy Spaniards whom she had sent to such a fearful end.

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

"Ma'amselle," she exclaimed, in what she meant to be a muffled tone, as she came towards the girls with a mysterious air of having some thing of importance to communicate, "I fear there is trouble in store. As I passed the Sieur de Roberval's room just now I saw him making fierce passes with the sword that hangs above the boar's head. If he is not possessed of the Devil"—and she crossed herself hurriedly—"he must be getting ready for a duel, and at his age, too! Heaven have mercy on us all if anything should happen to him! What is to be done?"

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

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

A little before the appointed hour that evening, having taken old Bastienne into their confidence, they secretly left the house, and made their way to the place of rendezvous, which, as has been said, was but a short distance away. All three were soon established in the cramped and narrow little stairway which Marguerite had described, and waited with no small trepidation the arrival of the contestants.

It was difficult to keep Bastienne quiet. A bright moon was shining in a clear sky, and a gentle breeze crept in from the Channel, cold and piercing. The younger women scarcely felt it; but Bastienne's old bones ached, according to her, as they had never ached before. However, by dint of threats and entreaties, they succeeded in silencing her; and none too soon, for a brisk step was heard approaching, and the next moment a gay voice soliloquised 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 to one'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 were concealed, and began his reflections on the world at whose portals he was standing, by trolling a gay drinking song. When it was finished he recklessly dashed into a Spanish ditty, commemorating the defeat of King Francis at Pavia. In this he was interrupted by an angry voice at his elbow:

"A pleasing pastime for a son of France—to sing the glory of her foes!"

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

"Villain!" came the indignant answer, "before you utter any further insults, know that you speak of Mdlle. de Roberval, my niece, whose name your vile lips are not worthy so much as to pronounce. Draw, and defend your 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 of respectful deference. "Had I known the circumstances, I should not have been so ready to offer you the second contest. In the light of the moon I mistook your years. Your skill with the sword is, I am aware, justly renowned, but my youth and strength give me the advantage. Accept my humble apologies, Sieur, and let us end this quarrel without blows. I will leave St Malo at once, and you shall not be reminded by my presence of 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, in the person of an unprotected girl, the oldest name in France, but you dare to taunt with age and unskilfulness a man whose sword is dishonoured 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. Stand on your guard!" As he spoke, he made a fierce and sudden lunge, which would have taken a less wary opponent by surprise, and ended the duel on the spot.

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

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