A messenger was despatched to Picardy, but returned with the information that De Roberval had long been absent from his castle. He was busy in the wars; but as Paris would doubtless be his head-quarters, Charles and Marguerite determined to seek him there.
All this time no word of love had crossed La Pommeraye's lips. He yearned with unutterable longing to claim as his own the right to cherish and protect Marguerite for the rest of her life, but daily he realised how deep was the gulf which separated them. Her heart, he knew, could only be won across Claude's grave, and each time that he tried to speak, the vision of the desolate cemetery on the island rose before him, and the words froze on his lips. Marguerite could not help seeing his devotion; but she so carefully avoided giving him any sign of encouragement that the weeks at the manor-house of Limoilou, and the subsequent journey to Paris, were both passed without La Pommeraye's being able to get any nearer to her. Ungrateful she could not be. She felt for the fair giant a tender, sisterly affection, and learned to understand how Claude and Marie had both had for him such an unbounded admiration.
At Paris Charles established her in a secluded quarter—for although she had friends in the city, both deemed it wise that for the present, absolutely no one should know of her return. 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. She was deeply moved on learning that she was so soon to be confronted with her uncle. How should she meet him? What would he have to say to her, whom he doubtless believed long dead?
Her life had become a strange chaos. She hardly knew why she had allowed herself to be brought to Paris. It would be impossible ever to resume the old relations with her uncle; but to live much longer dependent upon strangers was out of the question. Some arrangements for her future must be made without delay, but in any case De Roberval must be informed of her presence. Feeling of any kind seemed almost dead within her, but remembering the circumstances of their parting, she could not look forward to meeting her uncle again without a tremor of anticipation.
She noted the fire in La Pommeraye's eye, as he walked up and down her apartment, after giving her the information; and a day or two afterwards when he came to consult her about some business matters, she asked him what his plans were.
"I shall seek out Sieur de Roberval," said Charles, "as soon as he arrives, and arrange a meeting between you in whatever way you may direct me. And then——"
He checked himself abruptly; but Marguerite saw the flash of his eye, and the resolute expression his mouth assumed as he kept back the words which had been on his lips. She laid her hand gently on his arm.
"M. de la Pommeraye," she said, "you have proved yourself a true and devoted friend to me. I know that I can never hope to repay your unselfish sacrifices; nor can I ever express even a small part of my gratitude for all that you have so nobly done. Nay, listen to me——" as Charles was about to interrupt her. "I feel more deeply than I can tell you; you must let me speak this once. I am not ungrateful, believe me." Her voice trembled a little, though she controlled it instantly. "But I am about to ask one more kindness at your hands. There has been enough blood shed—too much. Unhappy woman that I am, how shall I render an account of all the deaths of which I have been the cause?" She turned away for a moment; and the rare sobs shook her slight figure. Charles was awed into silence before a sorrow too deep for any words. At last she turned to him, and with an imploring gesture said: "I beg of you to spare my uncle's life."