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 n.o.ble name was a sacred trust to her, and she would keep it n.o.ble 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sure 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