t of the weapon had pierced his brain. It
was Bayard's sword; the sword the king had given him in the hour of his
ambition. In his terror at the sudden apparition of what he believed to
be his niece's spirit, his foot had slipped, and the stroke he had
intended for La Pommeraye had ended his own life.

CHAPTER XIX

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