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Updated: May 23, 2025
Early in April everything was completed; and one bright morning the three vessels stole out through the surrounding islands, caught the last glimpse of the lantern tower, and sailed away for America. Marguerite and Marie, with the faithful Bastienne, stood on the deck of De Roberval's ship, gazing back at the shores of La Belle France.
Trophies of the hunt were scattered here and there; and a pair of crossed swords surmounted an ivory crucifix which hung above a well-worn prie-dieu. "Vanity and ambition," said La Pommeraye to himself as he glanced round the room. The words well summed up De Roberval's character. He would have no man in the nation greater than himself.
While this scene was taking place on deck, a very different one was going on below, in Roberval's cabin. Gaillon, who must have been so constituted that he could do without sleep, had seen Marguerite leave her cabin and ascend the gangway. He knew that Claude had gone on deck, and there was no doubt that the lovers were together. Now was his chance.
At last it shot back, and, as he pressed his sturdy shoulders against the wall, the secret door swung open. When La Pommeraye leaped forward with drawn sword, Etienne showed no sign of fear. "It is I, Monsieur," he said, with unmoved slowness. La Pommeraye lowered his weapon, and exclaimed: "What brings you here at this hour? I thought you were one of De Roberval's hired assassins."
"You have come," said he, "to see a crime receive its just punishment, and though shame has come upon my own kindred, my hand shall not relax. Bring the prisoner on deck." As Gaillon and two of the crew departed to fetch Claude, Père Lebeau, who had witnessed with horror the development of events, hastened to Roberval's side, and with his hand on his arm besought him to consider.
Etienne left him, and in half an hour's time was galloping along the muddy roads, on which great puddles gleamed like silver shields. As he rode on, he pondered what manner of man it was whom he had just left, and how, knowing that his life was in danger, he could loiter in the very stronghold of his enemy. On the morrow, at the appointed hour, Charles presented himself in De Roberval's room.
The French had little to do with Canada for the rest of the sixteenth century. Jacques Carrier's best successor as a hydrographer was Roberval's pilot, Saint-Onge, whose log of the voyage up the St Lawrence in 1542 is full of information. He more than half believes in what the Indians tell him about unicorns and other strange beasts in the far interior.
Just as the young man was about to be swung aloft, he turned with unflinching calmness to De Roberval, and with firm, unwavering tones said: "The son of Louise d'Artignan curses you with his dying breath! May you perish miserably by your own murderous hand!" De Roberval's whole expression changed on the instant from cold impassiveness to wild fury.
Something in the metallic ring of his voice gave Cartier a cold shiver of dread, a menace of impending evil. It would have been useless to enquire further, however, and he returned to his ship to consult with La Pommeraye, his second in command, and with his other officers. La Pommeraye had been left in charge of La Grande Hermine while Cartier paid his visit to Roberval's ship.
"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.
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