Читать книгу Marguerite De Roberval - Thomas Guthrie Marquis - Страница 5

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Had the two combatants not been so deeply absorbed in their own affairs at this juncture, they could not have failed to discover the presence of the three women; for at the sight of her master at the mercy of his opponent, as she supposed, Bastienne forgot her caution, and could not suppress a scream. Further demonstrations on her part, however, were instantly nipped in the bud—if one can use the expression with reference to Bastienne's good Picard mouth—by a prompt and determined application of her mistress's hand. Marguerite's quick eye had seen that her uncle was still uninjured; and at all hazards the secret of their hiding-place must not be revealed. She held Bastienne firmly till she felt the old servant's lips tighten under her hand, in sign of submission to the inevitable; and then, with a whispered warning, and without releasing her grip on the woman's arm, she turned her whole attention once more to the scene before them. Marie, in the meantime, had never taken her eyes from La Pommeraye, and was following his every movement with breathless interest.

The two men stood foot to foot, eye to eye, watching each other as only trained swordsmen can watch. Back and forth they swayed in the clear light of the moon, their swords clashing and singing as they parried or thrust. De Roberval's face, wrinkled and hard at any time, had now an expression of diabolical hate. He was as pale as the walls of the houses in the moonlight, and his eyes glowed with a murderous fire. He seemed reckless of his life, and savagely thrust at his opponent every time any part of his body was left unguarded.

It was otherwise with La Pommeraye. Confident of victory, he smiled calmly at the other's rage, occasionally darting in a straight thrust at some part of his antagonist's body, that told Roberval how entirely he was in the good-natured giant's power. The moonlight, that made the old man's face cold and stony, seemed to illuminate with warmth the handsome features of the younger.

Roberval noted the smile as the moonlight shone full upon La Pommeraye, and his fury increased. Fiercely he flew at him, and thrust with the dexterity which had made him the most distinguished swordsman among the nobles of France. La Pommeraye had to move with lightning swiftness to avoid a wound; and once, indeed, he felt a stinging sensation near his heart, and knew by the warmth at his side that blood was flowing.

It would not do to trifle longer. As if a whirlwind had entered his arm, his weapon flashed hither and thither with such rapidity that Roberval forgot his hate, and thought only of keeping off the attack. But it was useless. Once, twice, thrice, he was touched, touched so lightly that no blood was drawn, and just as he was about to lower his sword to his generous opponent, who was evidently playing with him, he caught a look in La Pommeraye's eye that told him he was once more about to attempt disarming him.

Such a disgrace and humiliation must be averted. He braced himself for the struggle. He determined if possible to bind his antagonist's blade. But to no avail. The trick was an old one, and ordinarily an easy one to outwit; but the arm that now practised it was a giant's. De Roberval vainly tried to hold his sword. His wrist seemed suddenly to burn and crack, and a circle of light flashed before his eyes. It was his sword, torn from his grasp, and hurled over the wall into the water. A quivering silver arc marked the spot where it had gone down. La Pommeraye stood with the same imperturbable air as before. He was smiling as only a victor can, but there was neither scorn nor pity in the smile.

"It shall never be told me that I was beaten," said Roberval impetuously, as he snatched a jewel-hilted dagger from his girdle.

"Hold your hand," said La Pommeraye, sternly, as he saw the frenzied man direct the weapon towards his own breast. "Put up that toy, and be a man. You have been fairly beaten, as has every one who has crossed swords with me. It is no disgrace; but no one shall know what has passed here to-night unless from your own lips."

But his words came too late. The dagger, flashing downwards, struck the breast of the infatuated man, who fell apparently lifeless.

A wild scream rang out from behind the wall. It was Bastienne, no longer to be restrained. But neither Marguerite nor Marie heeded her now, for both had rushed to the side of the prostrate swordsman.

He had fallen forward on his face, and Marguerite flung herself upon his body. La Pommeraye had seen men die before; he had killed a few in his day, both on the field of battle and in single combat; but never before had he had the same stirring of conscience that he now experienced at the spectacle of this beautiful girl overcome by the sorrow he had brought upon her. But his weakness was only for a moment.

"Mademoiselle," he said, approaching, "perhaps we may still be able to do something for your uncle. His wound may not be fatal."

He bent over to assist her to rise, but she was on her feet unaided, and drew back from him with the one scornful word she had flung at him the night before, "Coward!"

La Pommeraye stooped over the lifeless figure at his feet. As he turned it reverently over he noticed that there was no mark of a death-struggle on the limbs or face. Death seemed to have taken sudden hold. But no! he felt the heart, it still beat! The dagger had never pierced the breast! His eye suddenly caught the jewel-hilted weapon lying on the ground.

"Mademoiselle," he exclaimed, seizing it joyfully, "your uncle has only fainted. Here is his dagger untarnished with his blood."

He held it out to where she had been standing a moment before, but she had disappeared, and in her place stood De Pontbriand.

"I am glad to hear you say that," remarked the latter. "It would have been a severe blow to his niece had he fallen by your sword."

A groan told that De Roberval was recovering. If La Pommeraye was a good swordsman, he was an equally cheerful liar. He realised fully how deeply Roberval was stung by the disgrace of his defeat.

"There was little danger of his falling before my sword," he said; "his cloak, which had been cast on the ground, became entangled with his feet, and he fell; and rather than give an opponent the satisfaction of saying he had spared his life, he drew his dagger, as I should have done under similar circumstances, and would have ended his own existence, but the hand of Providence has in some strange manner intervened."

He was still kneeling beside the fallen man, and somewhat to his surprise he felt his hand clutched and pressed, showing that his explanation had been understood and accepted.

De Roberval was soon completely restored to consciousness. He attempted to rise, but when he put his right hand on the ground he fell back with a groan. La Pommeraye saw in an instant what was wrong. The strength of his effort to disarm De Roberval had broken one of his wrist bones.

"Sieur," he said, "you must have fallen heavily, your wrist is broken."

Such was the case, and it was a fortunate mishap for the House of Roberval. It was this that saved his life. He had drawn his dagger, raised it for the blow, but in the process of bringing it down he had twisted the broken wrist so severely that the sudden pain had caused him to lose consciousness, and the dagger, barely touching his breast, fell beneath him in the dust.

"Monsieur, let me help you to your feet," said La Pommeraye, and, as he spoke, placed his strong arm under the reclining nobleman, and raised him as if he had been a babe.

De Roberval was as one in a dream. He seemed hardly to realise what had happened until he saw Cartier and Pontbriand standing by.

"What brings you here?" he almost shouted.

"We heard a woman's scream," replied Cartier, "and fearing that some unfortunate fair one had met with a mishap, we rushed to the rescue."

"A woman's scream! What woman?" and De Roberval looked hastily round; but the three women had discreetly disappeared.

Before he could say aught further he was interrupted by La Pommeraye, who gallantly came up, and, holding out an unsheathed sword, said: "Let me, Monsieur, present you with your weapon, which you lost when you so unfortunately slipped on your cloak."

It was a lie, and De Roberval's look showed that he was aware of it. Possibly he was dimly conscious of having already committed himself by his silence to his generous opponent's explanation, or his wounded vanity may have been too strong to allow him to confess his humiliation before the other two men; at all events he replied, with an attempt at dignity: "I thank you, Monsieur, but you must sheathe it for me, as my right hand is helpless."

Without a word La Pommeraye raised the sheath, and drove the blade home.

"You are generous," said De Roberval, "and I hope you may learn to be as honourable as you are generous. I am wounded, and will soon recover; but the kiss that burns on my niece's cheek is a wound from which she will never recover."

At the words a sword flashed from its scabbard, and De Pontbriand stood fierce and defiant before his friend.

"So!" he shouted, "it was Marguerite de Roberval you dared to kiss—you, whose lips are polluted with the kisses of a thousand light-o'-loves! Draw, and defend yourself!"

"Draw, Claude! Never!" and he drew his cloak more closely about him, so as not to let it be seen that he was unarmed. "Never, Claude. Friend in love, friend in war, friend in death, even if that friend give the blow. Strike if you will; I have done dishonourably, and no hand is so worthy to punish dishonour as the hand of Claude de Pontbriand."

"Enough of this," interrupted De Roberval. "Put up your sword, De Pontbriand. He has apologised, and I accept his explanation. The whole affair arose from a mistake. It would be well, however," he added, turning to Charles, "if this would teach you a lesson on the unmanliness of assaulting every unprotected woman you may happen to meet. But where," and he checked himself suddenly, and threw a piercing glance round him, "is the woman whose scream you heard? Has there been any one else here?"

"We were some little distance away, Sieur," said De Pontbriand, "when we heard the scream, and when we came out into the open there certainly seemed to be a number of figures here, three of whom disappeared on our approach into the shadow of yonder wall; and when I turned to look for them, there was no one to be seen."

The fact was that Marie's quick eye had caught sight of the two men as they emerged into the moonlight and came towards them, and, like a flash, she had drawn the other two women into the shadow of the wall. The instant they recognised the voices, knowing that all was safe, and in terror of being discovered, the two girls seized each an arm of old Bastienne, and taking advantage of the momentary surprise caused by Claude's discovery of the identity of Charles' opponent, had made their way back to the nearest street, with a speed to which the old serving-woman's legs were totally unaccustomed, and never rested till they had landed her, breathless and panting, at the door of their own house.

Charles, in the meantime, discreetly held his peace. He might have imagined that he had dreamt the whole scene had not De Pontbriand been able to vouch for the scream. At all events there was now no trace of the three women to be seen, and after a thorough examination of every possible spot where so much as a mouse might have been concealed, they gave up the search. De Roberval looked a little perturbed.

"You must have been mistaken," he said to Claude. "There certainly cannot have been anyone here. At all events," he went on, "the affair must now be considered at an end. De Pontbriand, you must get into no quarrels. We shall have need of all our good men if we embark upon this Canadian expedition, which I have now in mind."

"Good, good!" cried Cartier, tossing his cap in the air like a schoolboy. "Up with your sword, Claude, and let us get our old friend to join us; we shall have need of him. And, La Pommeraye, beware of bringing down on you the wrath of your friends. It is easy to fight enemies, but he who makes an enemy of his friend loses something he can never regain. To-morrow, then, let us meet and talk over our plans."

In a few minutes the group had separated. Cartier and De Pontbriand escorted Roberval to his home, while La Pommeraye turned his footsteps away from the city, and towards the broad, moonlit fields. He was restless and disturbed. The image of Marguerite de Roberval haunted his brain, and he could not get rid of an uneasy impression that Claude's eagerness to defend her honour had something more behind it than mere chivalrous gallantry. Then, too, how came she so suddenly upon the scene of the conflict? and whither had she disappeared? He walked all night, not caring whither, absorbed in pondering over the mysterious circumstances which surrounded the beautiful girl who had made so strong an impression on his imagination; and the first faint streak of dawn found him back at the spot where the fight had taken place. Looking idly over the wall his eye caught the gleam of De Roberval's sword full fifteen feet below the surface of the clear water. No one was about. In a moment he was stripped. He took one quick plunge, and the next instant the sword was in his hand. When he returned to the city, he waited till it was full day, and then with eager steps proceeded to the house whither he had borne the unconscious form of Marguerite two nights before. Hammering on the door, he waited, uncertain what to say or do, and timid as a schoolboy for the first time in his life. The old, crusty servant who opened the door, curtly informed him that his master was still in bed.

"Tell him," he said, "that Charles de la Pommeraye wishes to see him in his own room if possible."

In a moment the servant returned, and, guiding him through a long and dark hall, brought him to a chamber hung with trophies of the fight. On a couch in the centre, overhung with heavy curtains, lay De Roberval, haggard and worn, having evidently passed a sleepless night.

"Go, Jean," he said, waving his hand to his servant.

When the door was closed La Pommeraye advanced, and bowing, said: "Monsieur must pardon my visit, but I have fished up his sword, and thought it best to bring it to him at once. Ah, I see mine on the floor! It has not often had such treatment; but it was used in a dishonourable quarrel and deserves dishonour."

As he spoke he took it up lovingly and placed it in its sheath.

The tears were in the eyes of De Roberval as he took his loved blade in his left hand, but his voice was hard and cold.

"I thank you, Monsieur," he frigidly replied. "You add one more to the obligations under which you have already placed me."

La Pommeraye saw what an effort it had cost the nobleman to make even this slight admission. It was like swallowing the bitterest hemlock to acknowledge his debt to the man who had vanquished him, and whose generosity had shielded him from disgrace. The young adventurer was shrewd enough to see that if he would win favour with the uncle of Marguerite he must wound his vanity and pride no further. He felt that it would be wise to withdraw, and, after expressing in a few words his regret for the thoughtlessness which had been the cause of the unfortunate affair, he was about to leave the room, when De Roberval called him back.

"Stay," he said, "I have fought many battles, but last night I fought with the most honourable, if the most thoughtless, man in France. This afternoon at four o'clock Cartier and De Pontbriand meet with me to consider the expedition to Canada. Join us in our councils; we cannot but be benefited by the experience and courage of so distinguished a soldier, and one so well acquainted with the New World."

La Pommeraye bowed his acknowledgment, and found himself once more in the streets where life was just beginning to stir. He was soon at the inn to which for years he had resorted when in St Malo, and after a breakfast that would have satisfied Goliath himself, he went to his room to snatch forty winks to brace and refresh him for further adventures.