Out in the streets of the city he walked, he cared not whither. Passers-by turned to look at him; but he heeded no one. He strode on, absorbed in his own inward struggle, till he drew near the Church of the Innocents, in the heart of the city. A party of nobles were approaching, and as they passed him, a burst of laughter from among them attracted his attention. He raised his eyes; saw De Roberval, and his sword leaped from its scabbard. Half-a-dozen other weapons instantly flashed in the sunlight; but La Pommeraye, recollecting that he had no quarrel with any save one of their number, sheathed his blade, and unheeding the shouts of welcome from some of the party who recognised him, beckoned De Roberval aside from the group.
"My presence here alarms you," he said, for the nobleman's sudden pallor had not escaped his notice. "And with good reason. I have but just returned from the Isle of Demons."
"Indeed; and what concern of mine is that?" returned De Roberval, with an assumption of carelessness, though he could not altogether steady his voice.
Charles looked him straight in the face.
"Coward and murderer!" he said between his teeth.
"They are dead then?" said De Roberval, still striving to speak calmly.
"Dead!"
De Roberval had taken a quick resolve. Mastering himself with a great effort, he said hurriedly: "We cannot speak of it now. Meet me to-night at this spot, and the darkest tale you have to tell I will listen to. If you desire my life, I am weary of it, and would gladly lay it down."
The man had aged greatly since Charles last saw him. His shoulders were bent; his hair was almost white; and his face was thin and worn. Something in his voice made Charles believe that he was sincere, and for a moment a feeling almost akin to pity stirred in his heart.