PARDON PROM THE KING.
A FEW days afterwards, Pomperant, attended by the reiters, made a sortie from Pavia, and as he was returning, after an unsuccessful quest for provisions, he descried some half-dozen French men-at-arms advancing towards him at a rapid pace. No sooner, however, did this little troop discern their danger, than they galloped back towards the French camp. It then appeared that they were merely acting as an escort to a lady, who refused to return with them. Seeing this, Pomperant ordered the reiters to halt, and rode towards her alone.
The lady was young, attired in a riding-dress of green velvet, and there was something in her appearance that reminded him of Marcelline. As he drew nearer, the resemblance seemed to increase, till at last Pomperant, who scarcely dared to trust the evidence of his senses, could no longer doubt. It was Marcelline herself. Uttering a cry of surprise and delight, he pressed towards her, and the next moment was by her side.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” he exclaimed, gazing rapturously at her. “Do I indeed behold Marcelline d'Herment, whom I have so long mourned as lost! Speak, and reassure me. I thought you had perished beneath the walls of Marseilles.”
“Yes, 'tis I, in good truth, Pomperant,” she rejoined. “I was not even injured by the explosion which you supposed had caused my death, I have been most anxious to inform you of my escape, but could find no means of communicating with you.”
“Had you done so, you would have saved me months of grief,” he cried. “But I will not reproach you. My delight at meeting you again is too great to allow the presence of any other sentiment. I care not even to ask by what strange and fortunate chance you are here. Enough that I behold you.”
“We meet only to part,” she rejoined. “But you shall hear what has brought me to Pavia. When I explain to you the motive of my journey your wonder will cease. My brother, the Seigneur d'Herment, has been condemned to death by the Parliament of Paris, and is now in the Conciergerie waiting the execution of the sentence. At Aix, where I had an interview with his majesty after the siege of Marseilles, he graciously promised that if I had any favour to ask from him, he would grant it. When I heard that my unfortunate brother had been doomed to death, I bethought me of the promise. By my entreaties I obtained a respite from the Chancellor Duprat, and immediately set out for Italy, and, undeterred by all difficulties and dangers from which one less resolute than myself might have shrunk, crossed the Alps, and, after some unavoidable delays, reached the French camp before Pavia yesterday. I easily obtained an audience of the king, who was in his tent, and when I threw myself on my knees before him, he said, 'I recollect you well. You are one of the heroines of Marseilles. I have not forgotten my promise to you.' 'I have come to claim fulfilment of that promise, sire,' I replied. But when I explained my errand, he looked very grave, and said, coldly, 'You ask more than I can perform. I cannot pardon your brother. As an accomplice of the traitor Bourbon he must die.' 'Sire,' I rejoined, 'I am equally guilty with my brother, since I accompanied the Constable de Bourbon in his flight.'”
“'You have made amends by your conduct at Marseilles,' he replied; 'but your brother's case is different. You too loyal to ask me to spare a traitor, even though he should be of your own blood.' 'Your royal word has never yet been broken, sire,' I rejoined. 'I hold you to your promise.' For a few moments he looked displeased, and I trembled, for I expected a refusal. Without making a remark, however, he signed a warrant, which was lying on a table near him, and gave it to me, saying, as he did so, 'There is the pardon. Deliver that to the Chancellor Duprat, and your brother will be set free.'”
“Nobly done!” exclaimed Pomperant.
“Nobly done indeed!” cried Marcelline. “And I shall ever bless him for his clemency. Oh! Pomperant, how could you draw sword against such a king?”
“Because I have sworn to follow Bourbon, and shall stand by him to the last,” he rejoined. “Hear me, Marcelline. We are now on the eve of a decisive battle, which will either result in the downfal of François de Valois, or in the utter destruction of Bourbon and his followers. Have I not your good wishes for success?”
“Pomperant, I have told you that I am loyal to the king. After his great generosity towards me, can I nourish any treasonable sentiments against him? My prayer will be that you may escape, but I shall also pray that the king may be the victor.”
“If you so pray, you will pray for my death, Marcelline. Bourbon has told me that if François should ever give him battle, he will conquer or die on the field. If he falls, I shall not survive.”
“You have done wrong in thus attaching yourself to a rebel, Pomperant. If you persist in your treason, I must tear you from my heart, whatever the effort may cost me.”
“Oh! say not so, Marcelline! Better we had never met than you should use such cruel language towards me. Better I should have thought you lost for ever than find you changed.”
“I am not changed, Pomperant. But I will not continue to love a traitor and rebel. Quit the service of the king's enemies. Seek some place of safety, and when I have obtained my brother's pardon, I will return and join you. Will you do this? Will you fly with me now? Come! come! you shall have all my love. But if you stay here, you will behold me no more.”
“You tempt me sorely, Marcelline. But I cannot—must not—yield. I cannot sacrifice my honour even to my love. I am vowed to Bourbon, as I have told you, and shall follow him to the last. Think you I could desert him now?”
“Then you must forget me, for I shall hold you unworthy of my love, and tear you from my heart. Farewell!”
“We have not yet parted,” cried Pomperant. “Fortune has placed you in my hands. You must go with me to Pavia.”
“To Pavia!” she exclaimed. “Never!”
And she turned with the intention of galloping back to the French camp, but Pomperant seized her bridle and detained her.
“You are my prisoner,” he said.
“You cannot mean this, Pomperant?” she rejoined, in alarm. “You will not detain me against my will. My brother's life is at stake. You will be answerable for his fate should he be put to death.”
“Have no fears about your brother,” said Pomperant. “I will find a faithful messenger to take the warrant to Duprat.”
“Pomperant,” said Marcelline, “you will not dishonour your knightly character by detaining me against my will?”
“No,” he replied, after a great effort, “Ï will not hinder you. You are free. But do not return to the French camp,” he added, perceiving she was about to ride in that direction. “I will send Hugues with you. He is amongst yon troop of reiters. Take him with you to France.”
“I have a servant at Novara, and shall be safe when I arrive there,” she rejoined. “This conduct is worthy of you, Pomperant.”
“It has been a misfortune to me that I have ever loved you, Marcelline,” he rejoined, sadly. “I must try to banish all thoughts of you in the strife. If I fall, bestow a tear on me. If I escape, we may meet again.”
“Perhaps so,” she replied. “Heaven only knows what is in store for us.”
Without a word more, Pomperant called to Hugues, who instantly obeyed the summons and rode towards them.
“Attend this lady to Novara,” he said, “and then return as best you can to Pavia.”
Hugues bowed assent, and Pomperant, drawing near to Marcelline, said, in a low, deep voice, “Are we to part thus?”
“We must,” she rejoined in the same tone. “Farewell!—forget me!”
“Would I could forget her!” ejaculated Pomperant, as he rode back with the reiters to Pavia.