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Updated: May 3, 2025
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 nobleman was not then in the city, but that within a week he would return. With this news he hastened to Marguerite.
That same night, about the hour that Marie breathed her last, Charles de la Pommeraye was riding furiously along the road leading eastward to Paris, where the King was holding a temporary court. He rode all night, and just as the first faint streaks of morning revealed in the distance the grey outline of the towers of Notre Dame, his horse thundered into the sleeping city.
The body of Bruneau still swung from the yards, a ghastly vision in the dim twilight. They shuddered as they saw it. "But courage, Marguerite," whispered Marie. "Cartier is close at hand, and he and La Pommeraye will surely be able to influence your uncle. I feel certain that to-morrow will bring us better things." "I hope so," said Marguerite sadly. "It is indeed time.
"Nay," interrupted La Pommeraye, "my generosity saved you not; it was the silver star you wore on your breast. I had intended to run you through; but that sparkling bauble caught my eye, and I could not resist the novel experience of tilting at you with my rapier."
"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.
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!"
A sudden instinct warned him; leaping back, he barely escaped a treacherous thrust from behind. At the same instant, De Roberval caught sight of his niece's pale face in the uncertain light; and, striking wildly at La Pommeraye, fell forward at the latter's feet. Charles heeded him not.
The merchants who had made large advances to the daring adventurers, in the hope of being recouped from the treasures of the New World, felt a momentary pang at their losses: but private disappointment was forgotten in the public rejoicing at the safe return of their daring and world-famous fellow-townsman, Jacques Cartier. La Pommeraye found but little pleasure in these festivities.
"Dead?" exclaimed La Pommeraye, beneath his breath. "All dead," was her quiet reply. "And yet you live! How long have you endured the loneliness of this dreary spot?" "Claude died before the snows fell, and since then François and I have lived I know not how. I have tried to die, but Heaven has been too kind."
De Roberval was not in St Malo when the news arrived, but La Pommeraye was, and the chance to bear the message to Picardy himself was too good to be lost. On reaching the castle he found, to his great disappointment, that Marguerite had been for some time in Paris, while Claude had long before returned to his own home in Rouen.
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