Next day all Paris knew the details of De Roberval's death. He had been set upon by an assassin, had struck his would-be murderer down, and slipping in the blood of his victim, had fallen on his own sword, thus ending the brightest career in France. So ran the report; and there was no one to contradict it.

La Pommeraye, when he had ascertained that Roberval was indeed dead, had had but one thought—to get Marguerite away from the spot before the crowd which, attracted by the scuffle, had already begun to gather, should become aware of her presence. He hastily drew her back into the church; hurried her by a side exit into another street; and so conveyed her, half-fainting, to her home. When she was able to listen she learned the truth from his own lips. Her mind went back over the terrible scene through which she had passed; she saw her uncle lying side by side in death with a paid cut-throat; and suddenly there flashed across her brain the words which Claude had uttered as he stood on the deck of L'Heureux, the noose about his neck: "May you perish miserably by your own murderous hand."

Paris went into mourning. The court, the Church, the city, all laid aside their usual occupations to do honour to the remains of him who had upheld in two worlds the glory of France, who had been a devout son of the Church, and who had ever kept the name of his monarch as a talisman against his foes. His body, after lying in state for three days, was buried with all the pomp and ceremonial due to his rank and fame; and the real truth concerning his death remained a secret in the hearts of the two he had so cruelly wronged.

Marguerite's return to France could not be for ever kept unknown; and, indeed, since her uncle's death, there was no further need for concealment. Her story—or as much of it as she chose to make public—soon began to spread abroad. Many and garbled were the versions of it which were circulated at the court and in the city. But to most of those who looked upon that noble and beautiful face, with its traces of bitter suffering, suspicion of evil was impossible. The friends who had known and loved her before her departure would gladly have welcomed her back; but she shunned all society. Never again could she mingle in the world of Paris. She accepted the invitation of an old and dearly-loved companion, and went to stay at a villa on the banks of the Seine.

Here, after a time, La Pommeraye ventured to visit her. As the weeks went by, the beautiful air of her native land, the constant companionship of friends, the return of health and strength, had begun to restore to her something of her lost youth; though the old vivacity was for ever gone. She welcomed La Pommeraye with more cheerfulness and freedom than he had dared to expect; and gradually he began to think that distance from the scene of her sorrows, and the removal of her uncle—the cause of all her suffering—were making her feel the past less keenly. In spite of his conviction that she would never love him, he almost began to hope. The old yearning pain which had never died stirred at his heart more uncontrollably than ever. He struggled manfully to show no signs of it, fearing lest he should lose even the joy of seeing her, but daily he threw himself in Marguerite's way, and daily he could not but feel that he was growing more necessary to her.

And, indeed, to the lonely and saddened woman, his companionship was an unspeakable comfort. The steadfast, broad-shouldered, handsome giant had saved her from untold horrors, he had proved his devotion to her at a cost which might well have appalled the bravest. She knew that whatever might happen to her, his strong arm was ready to shield her from evil for the rest of her life. Alone in the world as she was, she clung to him as her best and truest friend; she loved him indeed, with all the strength that was left her, though not in the way for which he longed. Her woman's eye saw through the restraint he put upon himself; she knew that his heart was unalterably hers, and that, sooner or later, some day he would speak. She dreaded the inevitable parting, and sought to defer it by every means in her power.

It came sooner than she expected. A period of comparative peace had given La Pommeraye's sword an unwonted rest, but hostilities were once more commenced, and he could not remain idle. His post was on the field, but he was unable to go till he had learned from Marguerite's own lips whether life still held a chance of happiness for him.

He was in Paris when the news came. After a few hurried preparations he left the city and hastened to her side. His heart beat wildly as he paced with her in the moonlight up and down the terrace overlooking the river. It was early spring—just a year since her rescue from the island. Thronging memories surged in her heart, and kept her from noticing the silence of her companion, till at last he spoke.

"Marguerite," he said, for he now called her by her name, at her own request, "I have to leave Paris to-morrow. There is hot work awaiting my sword in the south, and I must delay no longer."

She turned to him in sudden alarm; the news was quite unexpected.

"My friend—my brother," she said impulsively, "do not leave me! Not yet, not yet!"

The moment had come. The love pent up in La Pommeraye's heart would be restrained no longer, and burst from him in a torrent of passionate words. She could not stop him now; it was too late. She stood pale and silent as he poured forth all the love and longing of those weary years. Her heart was moved with a great compassion for him; but when, encouraged by her silence, he touched her hand, she drew it suddenly from him. Before her rose the dead face of him who had been as truly her husband as if a priest had blessed their marriage; she felt once more the touch of her child's lips at her breast; she saw again that double grave on the lonely hillside so many thousand miles away. She had loved once, and her heart was dead and buried in that far-off grave. Life held no second love for her, henceforth there was nothing left her but the memory of that which once had been. But her friend, her only support and comfort, must she lose him too? Heaven was cruel indeed to her. She covered her face with her hands.

"God help me!" she said shudderingly. "It cannot be."

He thought she was relenting. In an instant he had taken her hands in his, while he pleaded passionately for time, for hope; no promise, only permission to spend his life in her service, only a word to carry with him on his journey. But she had regained her self-control, and spoke now with a quiet, sad decision that was as a death-knell to his heart.

"My friend," she said, "I would have saved you this if I could. I have tried to spare you, and"—her voice trembled—"to spare myself. Hush," as he was about to interrupt, "it is because I do love you—though not in the way you wish—that I would have spared us both this parting. You are all I have left in the world—if I lose you, I am indeed alone."

She stopped a moment. There were no tears in the wide, dark eyes as she looked straight before her, over the gleaming river, but her face was white as death in the moonlight, and the lines about her mouth told of the hidden depths of feeling beneath that quiet exterior. Charles had sprung to his feet, an impetuous outburst on his lips, but she silenced him with uplifted hand.

"Come," she said, "let us continue our walk, and I will tell you what I have thought I should tell to no living being on earth."

And there, with tearless eyes and in a voice that never faltered, she told him the whole story of those three years on the island, omitting nothing, giving the outlines clearly and briefly, but with a vividness which burned the details on Charles' throbbing brain as if they had been branded with a hot iron.

"And now," she said, as she finished and turned to him, lifting her calm eyes to his pale and hopeless face, "now you will see why it is impossible that I should give you what you ask. My life was Claude's; I gave myself utterly to him. He suffered with me, he died for me; I have nothing left but his memory, but to that I shall be true till I die. My friend, do you understand now?"

He was on his knees before her. She gave him her hands unresistingly, and he laid his hot forehead against them for an instant. Then he looked up at her, and she saw that indeed he understood.

Her face, as she met his look, was full of an infinite tenderness and pity. Laying her hand gently on his head, she stooped and kissed him once upon the brow. The whole manner of the action was so austere, so full of the sadness and remoteness of one whom a vast, impassable gulf separates for ever from all human and familiar intercourse, that it told Charles more plainly than any words could have done, the hopelessness of his love. He bowed his head in silence a moment, then pressing his lips passionately to her hand, he rose and left her.

She never saw him again. When she realised that he was indeed gone, that the last link which bound her to her past was broken, she began to feel bitterly the utter loneliness of her lot. Alone in the world, without kith or kin; alone, without the possibility of ever unburdening her heart to any human being, the old madness which had stared her in the face on the Isle of Demons seemed about to return.

But she was to have a noble salvation. Her uncle's estates were now hers. The wars had left them poor, untilled, in a wretched condition. The peasants were starving, the ramparts of the castle were tumbling down, and robber bands were plundering what remained to her. A life of action was what she needed: her resolve was soon taken, and in less than a month she was on her way northward, taking with her a companion of her own rank who had consented to share her solitude.

The journey was a weary one. Repeatedly she would have turned back, but her determined will urged her on. She was the last De Roberval; the noble name was a sacred trust to her, and she would keep it noble to the end. When she reached her castle, the peasants who remembered her, and had thought her dead, flocked about her, weeping and laughing, kissing her horse and her garments, until, touched to the heart, she broke down and mingled her tears with theirs.

And now her true life began. At first it was hard. The old memories came crowding back upon her. Her uncle's face seemed to stare at her from the deserted halls; and when she entered the room where she and Marie had nursed and tended Claude through his illness, such an agony of remembrance rushed over her that it seemed as if at last her mind must be unhinged. She sought refuge in occupation; late and early she worked as no De Roberval had ever worked before, and her retainers called down blessings on her head. But when the toil of the day was over, and she sought her lonely pillow, she heard all night the booming of the waves on the rock-bound shore, and saw the faces of her dead staring at her out of the darkness.

Thus the days of her desolate widowhood dragged themselves by. Her youth was gone, and the grey hairs which had startled Cartier had now many companions. But they seemed only to add beauty and character to her sweet, sad face. She gave herself up to unselfish devotion to others and her duty; and as if the storms of her life had buffeted themselves into exhaustion in her youth, the rest of her days seemed destined to pass in peace and tranquillity—if not in happiness.

She heard at intervals from La Pommeraye. Means of communication were difficult and uncertain in those days, but he contrived to send her occasional messages, and to assure her of his undying devotion and readiness to serve her in any way she might need. Often her heart ached within her when tales were brought of a famous soldier who was ever in the brunt of the battle, who courted death, but whom death seemed to shun.

At last she learned of a desperate fight, in which the forces of France had almost come to wreck. A gallant hero had led his division to victory. During a short respite he had removed his helmet, and was watching the life-and-death struggle in the valley below him. Suddenly he saw the French line waver. Bidding his men follow him, and with his lion-like hair streaming in the wind, he galloped into the thick of the fray. Right and left he struck; left and right the enemy fell before him. The battle was won for France; but on a heap of corpses he was found with a bullet in his brain: "Dead on the field of honour"; dead in the prime of his strength; with an unblemished record, and a name dear to every soldier in the kingdom.

THE END

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