"You hear, M. La Pommeraye," said Francis, "what the Duke says; but we had hoped to fill our coffers with the riches of Canada."
"May it please your Majesty," said Charles, "there are no riches there, save a few furs and fish. These might serve to give a St Malo or Rochelle merchant enough wealth to retire on, and provide for his daughters, but would not go very far towards fitting out a battalion. I had had great hopes of the enterprise, but the experiences of last winter have taught me that nothing is to be gained by our struggles to colonise the barren North. The noble fellows who are wasting their lives in that sterile land, with only murderers and robbers as companions, would be far better in France, protecting her shores from foreign invasion."
"There is truth in what you say," answered the King, after a moment's pause. "We are much in need of De Roberval. The Picards worship the 'Little King of Vimeu,' and if he does not return, we fear we shall get but scant funds and few troops from the sturdy men of his province. But what is it that you would have?"
"A ship, Sire," promptly replied La Pommeraye, "manned and provisioned for a voyage to Canada, and permission to Cartier to return in it, and recall Roberval to France."
"_Parbleu!_" said the King, "a modest request! Well, we will consider the matter, and see what course it will be best to take."
"But, Sire," said Charles, his distress and anxiety getting the better of his diplomacy, "the winter draws near, and unless we start at once we shall not be able to reach Charlesbourg Royal till spring."
As he finished speaking, the Duke of Guise, who had been conversing aside with some one near him during the last few sentences, turned to the King.
"May it please you, Sire," said he, "this mad nephew of mine is desirous of a favour at your hands. It seems he owes his life to this gallant gentleman, and he prays me to entreat you to grant him whatever he requests."
As he spoke, Charles recognised in the gay young cavalier, who now came forward, his discomfited antagonist of the adventure on the road to Picardy.
"We have met before," said he, bowing to La Pommeraye. "Sire, this is none other than the redoubtable swordsman whose deeds have been buzzed through the court for a week--to the lasting chagrin of Jules Marchand. Uncle, if you love me, you owe him a debt of gratitude. That I am not at this moment in heaven, praying for your soul, is due solely to his generosity."