Title: The cardinal's musketeer
Author: Taylor, Mary Imlay
Language: English
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THE CARDINAL’S MUSKETEER


[Illustration: CARDINAL RICHELIEU

FROM THE PORTRAIT BY PHILIPPE DE CHAMPAIGNE, IN THE GALLERY OF THE
LOUVRE]



  THE
  CARDINAL’S MUSKETEER

  BY
  M. IMLAY TAYLOR

  AUTHOR OF
  “ON THE RED STAIRCASE,” “AN IMPERIAL LOVER,” “A YANKEE
  VOLUNTEER,” “THE HOUSE OF THE WIZARD”

  [Illustration]

  CHICAGO
  A. C. McCLURG & CO.
  1900



  COPYRIGHT
  BY A. C. McCLURG & CO.
  A.D. 1900

  _All rights reserved_



CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                 PAGE

       I. THE CLOCKMAKER’S SHOP                              7

      II. THE SECRET OF THE GARRET                          17

     III. PÈRE ANTOINE                                      30

      IV. THE PASTRY SHOP ON THE RUE DES PETITS CHAMPS      40

       V. THE CHÂTEAU DE NANÇAY                             54

      VI. A BUNCH OF VIOLETS                                67

     VII. PÉRON AND PÈRE ANTOINE                            81

    VIII. PÉRON’S FIRST VICTORY                             93

      IX. THE CARDINAL’S CLOCK                             104

       X. IN THE TOILS                                     114

      XI. RENÉE                                            124

     XII. MADAME MICHEL’S STORY                            139

    XIII. THE CARDINAL’S INSTRUCTIONS                      154

     XIV. THE HOUSE AT POISSY                              164

      XV. THE SIGNAL                                       180

     XVI. THE CARDINAL’S SNARE                             191

    XVII. MONSIEUR AND MONSIGNOR                           203

   XVIII. MADEMOISELLE’S TRINKET                           218

     XIX. MADAME LA MÈRE                                   227

      XX. PÈRE MATTHIEU                                    241

     XXI. THE INN AT AMIENS                                252

    XXII. A GREENWOOD TRIBUNAL                             264

   XXIII. THE DUNGEON OF THE CHÂTEAU                       275

    XXIV. THE CARDINAL’S RING                              288

     XXV. ARCHAMBAULT’S INFORMATION                        301

    XXVI. IN THE FOREST OF CHANTILLY                       310

   XXVII. AN ACT OF JUSTICE                                324

  XXVIII. A CHANGE OF FORTUNE                              332

    XXIX. MADEMOISELLE’S DISAPPEARANCE                     342

     XXX. THE HOUSE ON THE RUE DE PARADIS                  350



The Cardinal’s Musketeer



CHAPTER I

THE CLOCKMAKER’S SHOP


ON the Rue de la Ferronnerie, near the end of the Rue St. Honoré, where
Henri Quatre was stabbed, stood the clockmaker’s shop. In the days of
the thirteenth Louis, the streets of Paris were narrow; the windows
of one dwelling peeped curiously into those of its opposite neighbor,
and especially was this true of the old Rue de la Ferronnerie and
of the shop of Jacques des Horloges, the famous clockmaker, at the
sign of Ste. Geneviève. It was shop and house united, the upper story
overhanging the lower, and under the eaves of the gabled roof the
swallows built their nests. It was a quaint little house, the weather
stains upon its front and the narrow windows speaking plainly of its
antiquity. The strong oak door, black with age, had iron clamps which
formed crosses at the top and bottom, while in an alcove above was a
rough stone image of Ste. Geneviève. Within, on the lower floor there
were three rooms; the one in front was the shop, next to this was the
living-room for the clockmaker’s family, and in the rear the kitchen.
In the second story there were three small apartments, and above these
again was the attic in the gabled roof. From the interior of the house
this garret could be reached only by a ladder, put through a trap-door
in the floor; but there was another entrance by a stone staircase which
ascended to the roof on the outside of the house, from the court in
the rear. From these steps two doors opened into the interior, one
at the second story and one, a small one, in the roof; the first was
frequently opened, the latter was always securely fastened.

The family of the clockmaker was small; it consisted of only three
persons and the great gray cat, called M. de Turenne. There were
Jacques des Horloges, properly called Jacques Michel, a man of middle
age and a master of his trade; his wife, an excellent woman; and one
adopted child, the boy Péron. To this child, the long narrow room which
constituted the shop, was a chamber furnished with as many marvels as
any grotto of fairy lore. Jacques Michel, who had supplied the clocks
for the Louvre, who regulated the great clock on the tower of the old
Palais de Cité, the first clock that ever told the hours in Paris,
and who could make watches like the famous “Nuremberg eggs,” had a
marvellous collection in his shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie. There
were many greater and wiser than little Péron who contemplated these
elaborate pieces of mechanism with amazement. Horology had advanced by
strides since the days when the caliph Aroun-al-Raschid presented the
famous water-clock to Charlemagne; yet Jacques Michel did not scorn to
imitate that curious machine, and one of his clocks, which especially
delighted Péron, had, too, twelve horsemen, armed cap-a-pie, who
appeared at twelve doors beneath the dial when the hour was struck.
Here, too, in a dim corner stood a miniature of the great jacquemart
of Dijon, which Philip the Bold of Burgundy carried away in carts from
Courtray, the fruit of his victory at Rosbecque. In solemn rows upon
either side of the shop, and in double tiers at the ends, stood tall
clocks and short clocks, old-fashioned and new; here were clocks with
the old steel spring enclosed in a little barrel, and others with the
fusee with its catgut attachment; and here were some of the first with
weights and flies. On the right was one with the signs of the zodiac on
its face; to the left stood another on which perched a golden rooster,
who crowed when the hour struck. There was one also, with silver
doors below its solemn face, which opened to reveal the images of the
Virgin and St. Elizabeth. There were watches, too, so diminutive that
the child never ceased to marvel that they could tell the time; in a
cabinet was a watch, shaped like a cross and set with jewels, said to
be the one worn by M. de Guise when he was stabbed in the presence
of Henri III. Here, too, was a watch set in a ring, which struck the
hours; and here was the almond-shaped timepiece carried by two of the
house of Valois and discarded, to come at last into the clockmaker’s
hands; and here were marvellous little pieces of mechanism which set
in motion figures of the Virgin, the apostles, and the saints. The
clockmakers of Paris occupied a dignified position, protected by the
statutes of Louis XI. and Francis I. They enjoyed rights and privileges
of their own; nor could a man become a master of the trade unless he
had served eight years as an apprentice and produced a _chef-d’œuvre_
under the eyes of an inspector of the corporation. Jacques des Horloges
was a past master of the art, and he had accumulated a sufficient
fortune to gratify his taste for these antique and wonderful machines.
Many of the timepieces in his quaint shop were kept continually in
motion, and the soft tick and the loud tick rapped out their noisy
contention hour after hour; the cock crew, the jacquemart struck the
silver bell, and the twelve horsemen rode out, to the entertainment
and delight of the lonely child, who sat day after day gazing at
these marvels, and telling himself stories of what the clocks said
to one another. He and the great cat, M. de Turenne, seemed to find
their chief amusement in this occupation. Péron told himself that the
deep-toned jacquemart was a great warrior, and that the Image de Notre
Dame had the voice of a saint; and away over in the corner his quick
ear heard the little voice of M. de Guise crying out that he was slain.
The child was full of fancies, and many a tale he wove from the talk
of the clocks. It was his custom whenever he crossed the Pont Neuf to
go and look at the Tour de l’Horloge of the Palais de Cité, for to him
the face of that clock had many expressions: when it smiled, little
Péron was happy; when it frowned, he was sure to have ill luck. It was
only the overgrown imagination of a solitary child, for the boy was
very solitary; his only companions were Jacques Michel and his wife,
his only playmate M. de Turenne. At this time he was eight years old,
a handsome, sturdy, little fellow with a rosy face and golden brown
hair, a thoughtful expression in his large dark eyes, and the sober,
old-fashioned manners of a child who lived chiefly with his seniors and
whose play was of the most sober sort. Although Jacques des Horloges
was the possessor of a comfortable fortune, little Péron was plainly
dressed; his short jacket was usually a well-worn blue taffety, and
his breeches were of coarse wool, except on Sundays and saint-days,
when he had the honor of appearing in a complete suit of black taffety
with a collar of heavy lace. There was a still greater distinction
reserved for Easter and Christmas,--a hat with a long curled plume,
and then Péron felt that even Monsieur was not more grandly arrayed.
At such times the child felt a certain shyness even of M. de Turenne,
and walked about stiffly until the solemn occasion was past and he was
at home again in the old blue jacket. Little Péron was scarcely known
to the visitors to the shop, although Jacques Michel had many grand
patrons, from the queen to the Prince de Condé. Great ladies came
there in their coaches and descended the carriage steps, assisted by
liveried footmen, entering the shop with the rustle of marvellous satin
and brocade gowns, little velvet cloaks on their shoulders and great
ruffs of lace standing up to their ears. They moved about admiring,
wondering, criticising; one loved the clock that was inlaid with gold,
another wanted only the Valois watch, which was not for sale. All the
while they furnished rare entertainment to the wondering child, who
crept back between the tiers of clocks and watched them secretly,
because he liked to look at their pretty faces and beautiful clothing;
but he detested the airs with which they noticed him if he came out
from the hiding-place. They either had haughty glances for him or
condescending pleasantry, and the child, who was shy and proud, fled
from both. He only peeped out at the great dames surreptitiously, and
wove fanciful romances about them as he did about the beloved clocks
which were his playfellows. And he saw all the beauties of the Marais;
the Princesse de Condé came there, and Leonora Galigai, the favorite
of Marie de’ Medici, and Catherine de Vivonne, and Mademoiselle de
Montmorency, and even the Princesse Marguerite of Lorraine. Little
Péron knew them all by sight, and he told the cat, M. de Turenne,
in confidence, his opinion of each; but there was one visitor, an
infrequent one it is true, but still a visitor, who made the child
shrink back yet farther with his cat in his arms. This was a man whose
very presence seemed to change the atmosphere of the shop, and who was
received with great courtesy by Jacques des Horloges; a priest, clad in
the habit of a bishop, with a pale, keen, Italian face, his eyes having
a brilliance and penetration which always startled the child. Péron
was not the only one, however, who was fascinated by the presence of
the future ruler of France, Armand Jean du Plessis, Bishop of Luçon.
The boy shrank and yet was attracted, creeping after awhile into some
position of vantage where he could watch the pale, haughty face, the
handsome, slender hands, the wonderful, dark eyes; but the bishop never
saw his small admirer. Indeed, Péron had a reason besides his shyness
for avoiding the customers; he felt instinctively that he was not
wanted at such times. Jacques Michel seldom called upon the child for
any service, and even dismissed him roughly in the presence of these
visitors from the Marais. When more humble callers were there, he was
unheeded, but the arrival of a nobleman was often the signal for his
departure. Yet at other seasons the boy was not only kindly treated,
but was privileged beyond other children of his years and condition.
His hands were soft and white, for he had never been called upon for
any menial service, and seldom even for errands; his bed was soft, and
the clothing upon it was finer and more luxurious than that on the bed
of Madame Michel herself. He had the little room next the workshop,
because the rear apartment on the second floor, the one which opened
on the stairs from the court, was full of apprentices. Péron’s room
had a bit of tapestry on the wall, the picture of a stag hunt--the
stag pulled down by a savage dog and the hunters in full career toward
it; and there was a white curtain in his window, and over his bed was
a silver crucifix. He had, too, a tiny square of Arras carpet on the
floor, and a velvet cushion on which he kneeled to count his beads. He
enjoyed the best at table, also: many a dainty found its way to his
plate which was not shared either by the clockmaker or his wife; yet
he was not indulged in all directions. He was kept indoors when he
longed to run out in the sunshine and play with the children of the Rue
de la Ferronnerie; he was forbidden playmates of his own age, and he
seldom went anywhere except to the Rue de Bethisi to learn his lessons
from Père Antoine, a truly sober diversion. At first he rebelled
against these rules, but after awhile he accepted them, and turned
for consolation to M. de Turenne and the jacquemarts. He peopled his
world with fanciful personages, among whom there always moved a slender
figure clad in a bishop’s robe. He was an observant child, and studied
everything about him, watching the apprentices for hours and making
endless little models of clocks out of paper or wax,--a dull life for
a child certainly, yet not an unhappy one, for he was naturally dreamy
and old for his age, and he had no troubles. No one crossed him, he
had never received a blow in the whole course of his existence, and
never a sharp word, except in the presence of Jacques Michel’s great
visitors. As for Madame Michel, he was--though he knew it not--the
very apple of her eye, and it was one of her chief joys to train the
soft, golden brown curls on the boy’s head. Many an hour did she spend
washing and pinning out on a cushion the great lace collar he wore on
fête days, and she sighed in secret over the linen one, and the worn
blue taffety jacket of daily wear.



CHAPTER II

THE SECRET OF THE GARRET


THE little Péron enjoyed every privilege of the clockmaker’s house,
but there was one spot in it which he had never entered. That was
the garret under the gabled roof. It was not forbidden him, perhaps
because the mere prohibition was unnecessary, when it was impossible
to penetrate that mysterious corner. For mysterious it was, not only
to Péron, but also to the apprentices; and there was no little gossip
about the closely fastened door in the roof, and the child heard it
when he wandered into the workshop to watch the men manufacturing the
marvellous machinery for his well-beloved jacquemarts. No one went to
that garret but Madame Michel, and she went only at stated intervals;
entering sometimes by the outer staircase, but more frequently by
the ladder which went up to the trap-door in the ceiling of her own
room. When she was up there, the apprentices always knew it, as well
as Péron, for they could hear her steps overhead on the loose boards
of the attic floor. What she did there was the subject of much idle,
half-jesting conjecture. It could scarcely be a store-room, for she
went up and came down empty-handed; they knew this, for the more
curious had surprised her in her entrances and exits more than once.
It was suggested that she sought this retired spot for the purpose
of devotion, but it was further observed that she was usually out of
temper after these excursions, and always belabored with her tongue any
one whom she caught spying upon her, which did not support the theory
of prayer and meditation. The more simple explanation, that she went
there to clean and dust the attic, did not suit them either, although
natural enough; for the goodwife was scrupulously neat, and had more
than once wrought mischief with her dust brush among the curiosities of
the shop, until she had been driven out by Jacques des Horloges.

Many a jest was made about that garret, and when the apprentices found
that little Péron shared their curiosity, they were only too ready to
fill his mind with wonderful tales. The child began after awhile to
feel a certain awe mingled with his interest in the secret chamber.
The men amused themselves telling him of the hobgoblins who lived
under the roof and blew the smoke down the chimneys into the house
on days when they were angry. They dressed them up to please their
own fancy and amaze the boy. Sometimes the goblins were little and
grotesque and lived on eggs stolen from the swallows’ nests under the
eaves; again they were large and fat, and sat squat on the ground
like toads, and devoured only curious little boys who peeped into
their dens in the attics. Again, they told him that the queen of the
fairies lived there and ate nothing but cream of clouds à la Zamet.
And so the garret became a wonderland to Péron, and he dreaded to see
it as much as he longed to explore, with all a boy’s eager fancy for
adventure. He was a sober-minded child, too, although so fanciful, and
he did not altogether believe the tales that were told him. However,
between belief and unbelief, his curiosity waxed strong, and he made
many expeditions up the stone stairs from the court to try the handle
of the door in the roof; but it was never unfastened, although he sat
in the court below and watched it often. Nor was his success better
with the trap-door; he could not reach this to try it, for the ladder
was always locked up in a closet, except on the auspicious days when
Madame Michel ascended. He asked once to accompany her, and was refused
more sharply than he had ever been refused any favor before. He was
not a child to fret or cry because of a denied pleasure; he neither
repeated the request nor asked the cause of the refusal, but accepted
the rissole that madame gave him, on her return, as an apology and
peace offering. Indeed, all the rest of that day she was unusually
indulgent and apologetic to him, and in the evening took him to the
pastry shop of Archambault on the Rue des Petits Champs to purchase
some of his favorite bonbons and a marvellous dove of sugar, with
green eyes which sparkled like jewels. Yet, although she was unaware
of it, she had not propitiated him, for the desire of his heart was
now, boylike, to see the attic. He pattered along at her side without
revealing his thoughts, however; and a strange couple they were on the
streets. The good dame was Norman French, a Rouennaise by birth, and
a big, broad-shouldered woman with a keen, brown eye and a pleasant,
broad face, her black hair brushed smoothly back under her wide-winged
white cap; and her dress was that of a well-to-do tradesman’s wife,
and withal scrupulously neat. But there was no beauty about her,
while about the child there were both beauty and grace of movement.
Even in his plain clothes his little figure was striking, and he had
a fine, fully developed head for his years. His reserve, his quaint
air of dignity, were unlike the manners of the children at play in
the streets. Indeed, he had a fixity of purpose which was to prove
troublesome to Madame Michel. He accepted her blandishments--but he
remembered the attic.

One fair day his opportunity came, as all things come to him who
waits. Jacques des Horloges was busy in the shop, the apprentices were
deeply engaged on a large clock for M. de Rambuteau, and the cat, M.
de Turenne, ran away from Péron and hid. The child hunted for his
playmate with the zeal born of idleness, and finding the rooms below
empty, he clambered up the stairs to the upper floor. When he came to
Madame Michel’s room he stood transfixed at the open door. The ladder
was at the trap, and he heard madame’s voice in the court, engaged in
shrill altercation with a peddler. The child could scarcely believe
his eyes. M. de Turenne was forgotten; here was something of far
greater interest. He advanced cautiously, not because he felt himself
a transgressor, but because he was awed at the possible revelation
which lay before him. His heart beat as he set his small foot on the
first rung of the ladder, and then he drew back. The stories of the
hobgoblins beset him with strange misgivings; he fancied that he heard
a soft sound overhead; he hesitated, and a little tremor of excitement
ran over him. What would he see up there? Ah, that was the question!
He reflected, however, that he would like to see a hobgoblin, and
he did not believe that they ate little boys. He was screwing up his
courage, admitting to himself that the possibilities were ugly. But
curiosity is a strong motive power, and the child was no coward, if
over-imaginative, as children so brought up are likely to be. He
wavered only a moment or two; decisive action was necessary before
Madame Michel returned. He took his life in his hand and climbed the
ladder like a young hero; he did not pause again until he reached the
floor of the attic, for fear his courage might fail. At the top he
drew his breath and stood still; it took a few minutes for his eyes to
become accustomed to the gloom, for there was only one window in the
roof, and that a small one. Then he looked about him with a sharp sense
of disappointment, for he saw nothing,--that is, nothing of interest
to a child. It was a very small room indeed, with the naked rafters
above, and, strange to say, in spite of madame’s neatness, a cobweb or
two festooned the corners. The window in the roof revealed the rough
boards of the floor and nothing more except three large plain chests of
solid wood standing in a row on one side. A barren spot to have excited
so much curiosity, and certainly not a promising home for hobgoblins.
Péron’s first impulse was to go down the ladder again, but he thought
better of it and began to move about the attic, examining it until he
assured himself that there was nothing to be seen except the chests.
Having arrived at this conclusion, he betook himself to these; he
tried the lid of the one nearest the trap-door, but it defied even the
industrious efforts of little fingers, and he turned away, disappointed
and piqued. The next was equally unaccommodating, although he devoted
more time to it; he found the lock and applied his eye to it, in a
fruitless effort to see inside. Curiosity now was whetted by defeat and
he approached the third, his little face more rosy than usual and his
lips pinched tightly together. He was destined to succeed at last; the
first touch assured him that the lid was unlocked, and he put out all
his child’s strength to lift it and peep in. Again a disappointment;
he saw only some neatly folded clothing; but something in the color
and appearance attracted him and he pursued his investigations. With
infinite care and labor he lifted the lid upright and turned it back
on its hinges, then stood gazing with pleased eyes at the objects
revealed. Nothing very unusual, only the small clothing of a child of
two or three years old, but of a quality and color so delicate that
little Péron examined them in wonder. They were as beautiful as the
gowns of the belles of the Marais. The chest was closely packed, but
the boy got no deeper than the upper layer. Here was a little coat of
the palest blue, and Péron knew that it was of velvet and satin, and
the lace on it seemed to him like the frost-work that he had sometimes
seen on the windows at Christmas. He fingered it gently, for he was
a careful child, and the tiny roses in the pattern delighted him. It
was while he was examining them that he felt something cold touch his
exploring fingers, and a tiny chain of gold slipped out from the folds
with a locket on the end of it. His attention was at once absorbed by
this new object of interest; it was small and round, and Péron thought
it was the brightest piece of red glass that he had ever seen. On it
was engraved a very curious picture,--curious to him, at least,--a
little lion rampant, a wreath or a scroll, and some figures which he
could not decipher. He did not know what it was, but he took it nearer
the window, when he discovered that the light made it sparkle. The
chain did not interest him, and he gently worked at the links until he
accidentally detached it, and then he dropped the chain back into the
chest and stood shifting the stone in his fingers to catch the changes
of light. He remembered seeing one such stone before,--he thought it
was on the neck of the Duchess of Rohan,--and he was delighted with
his discovery. It was still in the little nervous fingers when Madame
Michel came suddenly up the ladder, having approached unheard while he
was fascinated with his bit of red glass. At first the good dame did
not see the invader of her sanctum, and when she did, she discovered
the open chest at the same instant and came forward with an outcry that
frightened the child so much that he drew back, clasping his treasure
tightly to his breast, and gazing at her angry face in mute, wide-eyed
alarm.

“Mère de Dieu!” she cried, running to the open box, and looking in with
feverish anxiety, “what have you done, you little rogue?”

She examined the clothes with fierce scrutiny, but she could detect
no disturbance of their neat folds, for Péron had handled them so
delicately that no harm was done. She slammed down the lid, and,
locking it, thrust the key in her bosom before she turned to the child.
Her anger was slightly mollified, but there was still some agitation in
her face and manner, and she gazed searchingly at the offender.

“How long have you been here?” she demanded sharply.

The boy was still alarmed by her unusual conduct, and he kept the bit
of red glass tight in his little fist.

“I do not know,” he said, shaking his head; “I was looking for M. de
Turenne, I--”

“Mon Dieu!” cried madame, looking about behind the boxes, “is that
beast here? If he had got into the chest, he would have torn up
everything.”

“He is not here,” replied Péron soberly. “I could not find him, and I
came up the ladder.”

“What did you want to come up here for?” asked the woman suspiciously,
having satisfied herself that M. de Turenne was not in hiding.

“I wanted to see the hobgoblins,” rejoined the child calmly, his
agitation departing as her anger subsided.

Madame looked at him in amazement, her eyes very round.

“Ciel! the boy is mad,” she said to herself softly, and then aloud,
“You are dreaming, mon enfant, what do you mean? There are no
hobgoblins in this house.”

“Mais oui, madame!” exclaimed the child wisely, “there are, here under
the roof; they said so;” and he pointed downward.

“They?” repeated the good woman, bewildered; “who are ‘they’?”

“Jehan and Pierre, the apprentices, and Manchette, too,” he replied;
“it must be true!”

“Ah!” ejaculated madame sharply; “so they gossip about this place, do
they?”

Gossip was a long word for little Péron; he wrinkled his brows.

“They told me of the hobgoblins,” he repeated stoutly.

Madame Michel’s face cleared a little.

“Ah, only nonsense to frighten the child!” she exclaimed, with a sigh
of relief. “Sainte Geneviève! I thought--” But she did not finish the
sentence; she laid a heavy hand on Péron’s shoulder.

“Listen to me,” she said, in a sharp, clear tone. “I have never whipped
you, mon enfant, but if you say one word of this attic to Jehan,
Pierre, Manchette, or any one else, I will surely whip you, Péron, and
you shall have no dinner; neither shall you go to the Rue des Petits
Champs;--do you understand me, eh?”

Péron looked up at her red face and his childish courage quaked; but he
was a proud child, and he inwardly resolved that he would never bear a
blow--he would run away first.

“Why do you not speak?” she cried angrily; “you hear me, enfant!”

“I will not tell, madame,” the boy answered gravely, “but you will not
whip me!”

She let go of him, amazed at the look on his face, an expression of
almost shame coming over hers. She knelt down on the garret floor and
kissed the child’s hand, the picture of humility.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” she said, tears in her voice; “you are
right, I will not whip you.”

There were tears in her eyes also. A moment later she rose, and brushed
the moisture from her eyelashes with the back of her broad, strong hand.

“I am an old fool!” she said, giving the boy a push toward the ladder;
“go away, mon enfant, there is nothing here but some old chests, old
clothes, and old hopes!”

At this moment her eyes fell on the form of M. de Turenne, who was
sitting placidly at the top of the ladder, licking his gray fur, the
end of his tail moving in a charmed circle.

“Scat!” she cried, stamping her feet, “between the cat and the child I
shall go mad,” and she drove them both down the ladder and slammed down
the door after them.

All the while the piece of red glass had remained tightly clasped
in Péron’s hand. In his agitation he had held it unconsciously,
and now he was afraid to tell Madame Michel, dreading a repetition
of the scene. He crept away with it to his own little room and
examined it with a tremor of excitement. It was so pretty, and it
had so nearly precipitated a terrible calamity; for he felt that had
madame struck him, he should have died of shame. He was afraid to
return the stone and afraid to play with it, and it became a fresh
cause for embarrassment. However, he finally solved the problem by
determining to hide it away. In a little cupboard in the corner of
his room there was one shelf devoted to his treasures,--wax and paper
models of jacquemarts, broken watch-springs, some fancifully shaped
pebbles, a number of marvellously useless valuables, and here Madame
Michel never meddled. Therefore he loved it with the pride of sole
proprietorship, and here in a dark corner he stowed away the bit of
red glass wrapped in a soiled sheet of paper. For a few days he took
it out surreptitiously and played with it, and then he forgot it and
it lay there unheeded and unsought; for as yet Madame Michel had not
discovered her loss.



CHAPTER III

PÈRE ANTOINE


AFTER Péron had gratified his curiosity in regard to the garret and
found it such a bare and unprofitable spot, he speedily forgot it, and
only once again during his childhood was he to startle Madame Michel
with the mention of it. This was on the occasion of a conversation
which took place some months later in the shop. The house at the sign
of Ste. Geneviève was too small to harbor any of the apprentices at
night, so after work hours they took their departure, leaving the
members of the little family to themselves. As none of his patrons ever
visited him in the evening, Jacques des Horloges was then at liberty
to entertain his personal friends. The clockmaker was a quiet man,
not much addicted to conviviality, and he had few visitors at such
times, occupying himself frequently with studies connected with his
work or in straightening his accounts. It was the family custom in
the evening to gather around the table in the living-room, which was
cheerfully lighted with tapers. Madame Michel was always knitting, her
needles flying with marvellous celerity, while her eyes were equally
alert in observing Péron and M. de Turenne. Jacques des Horloges was a
broad-shouldered, stalwart-looking man, a native of Picardy, his rugged
face and honest, kindly eye commending him to the observer. He had a
powerful build for one of his profession, and looked better suited to
bear the sword than to wind the machinery of delicate watches. His
dress was suited to his station in life and showed no signs of the
fortune which, it was whispered, he had accumulated. His only ornament
was a chain of gold around his neck which supported a tiny, cruciform
watch, so ingeniously manufactured that it not only struck the hours
but showed also the day of the month.[1]

It was on one of these evenings, when Jacques and his wife and little
Péron sat around the table, that a knock at the shop door disturbed
the quiet scene. Madame Michel rose and went to answer it, still
knitting, even when she walked across the dimly lighted shop, not even
dropping a stitch as she made her way between the tiers of clocks.
When she opened the door she curtsied low and greeted the visitor with
reverence as well as affection. A moment later she returned to the
living-room conducting a tall, thin man wearing the plain black habit
of a priest,--a man of middle age, stooping slightly in his bearing and
with a face of unusual sweetness and refinement of expression. Michel
greeted the new-comer with as much cordiality as his wife had shown;
and even little Péron ran to draw forward a chair for him, while the
cat rubbed himself against his cassock with evident affection. There
are some persons to whom all animals turn with instinctive trust and
affection, and there is no better sign, as there is no worse than the
aversion shown to others. The instinct of an animal is more unerring
than human perception: it recognizes both brutes and traitors.

The priest smiled an equal welcome upon all, but there was perplexity
in his blue eyes. He sat down and laid his broad-brimmed hat on the
table and clasped his hands on his knee; and he had handsome hands,
slender and nervous, with delicate finger-tips. His face was pale,
with lines about the thin lips and under the large eyes, showing
care, anxiety, midnight vigils; he had the face of a student, and the
hair, already gray at the back of his head, was white on the temples.
His gaze rested now on the child, who, having seated the visitor,
had resumed his own place on the floor, where he was cutting out a
paper clock. The priest watched him attentively, while Jacques des
Horloges and his wife waited in respectful silence for him to open the
conversation. Something about little Péron interested Père Antoine so
much that it was some moments before he looked up, and when he did, it
was with a grave face.

“I have strange tidings,” he said softly, glancing from Jacques to his
wife. “M. de Bruneau has been arrested and will be condemned to death.”

Michel stared at him in blank amazement, and madame uttered a cry and
dropped her knitting-needles. The priest made a sign with his hand
toward the child on the floor, and it had its effect at once; both his
auditors restrained their agitation.

“I cannot understand,” Jacques des Horloges said. “What was his
offence? Not a plot against the king, surely?”

“Ay,” Père Antoine replied soberly, “something of that sort, although a
much exaggerated charge, manufactured, I fear, by his enemies. He was
taken on the Rue St. Denis, on information furnished by one high in the
favor of Albert de Luynes.”

“Who is he?” asked Michel eagerly.

The priest glanced again at the child.

“It is M. de Nançay,” he said, in a low voice; “one of the witnesses
against the accused is his cousin, Lemoigne de Marsou.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Jacques des Horloges, nodding his head slowly.

“A trap, of course, mon père,” Madame Michel exclaimed, leaning forward
in her interest, her knitting forgotten.

“It would seem so,” Père Antoine replied thoughtfully. “M. de Bruneau
was led into making some admission. There has been too much sharp
practice in tracing plotters. I truly believe that de Bruneau may be
innocent of all treason, but it cannot be proved. Since his majesty
reached his majority, madame his mother has been discontented with her
position. She cannot accept any place but the first. She has ruled
so long during the king’s childhood that she is not willing to give
up. It is said publicly by her partisans that she has been admitted
to the council merely for the sake of appearances and has no voice in
anything, though her name is used, and the people hold her responsible
for affairs in which she has no part. The young men of her party are
therefore constantly plotting to reinstate her in authority, and her
jealousy of her son fosters these intrigues both here and in her court
at Blois. It is some affair of this kind in which de Bruneau is
implicated, but I think that M. de Nançay is far more likely to have
burned his fingers than this young man.”

“It is strange,” remarked Jacques des Horloges; “M. de Bruneau is the
last man of whom I should expect such disloyalty; he could not have
been in his senses.”

“He says that he had been drinking when the confession was forced from
him,” Père Antoine rejoined; “it was at Archambault’s pastry shop.”

“You have seen him, then?” asked Madame Michel eagerly.

“I went immediately to the Châtelet,” the priest replied; “I found him
much as I expected. He has not the fortitude to meet such a calamity.”

“He has powerful patrons, mon père,” the goodwife said; “is there no
hope of intercession?”

The priest shook his head.

“None,” he answered; “there have been too many plots, too many
intrigues; they will make an example of him. The whole weight of the
Marquis de Nançay’s influence, never greater than now, will be thrown
into the scale against the prisoner.”

“Ay,” remarked Michel sternly, “’tis his opportunity to be rid of a
troublesome rival, and marvellously well planned too, if I mistake not.”

“I fear so,” said Père Antoine thoughtfully; “it has worked out
strangely, at least. Certainly, M. de Bruneau’s death is in his favor.”

“I am sorry for the accused,” said the clockmaker; “I remember him from
a lad of twelve. ’Tis a sad end for a young man and a soldier. Did
you tell him aught of that matter whereof we spoke before?” he added,
glancing anxiously at the priest.

Père Antoine shook his head. “Nay,” he answered. “How would it profit
us? He is as good as a dead man, so could not aid us if he would, and
I have never been sure that he would. He is a feather-brain, and we
cannot put so weighty a matter into idle or desperate hands. He cannot
aid us, but he might work us some mischief with his careless tongue
even now. I deemed it best that he should die in ignorance of that
which would not serve him, and might harm others.”

“I have felt much as you do, father,” Michel rejoined, after a moment’s
silence; “once or twice he came here to the shop, talking with me
freely, yet I did not wholly trust him. He seemed to me a harebrained,
ambitious young man, desiring nothing so much as his own aggrandizement
and not likely to welcome the thought that one stood ahead of him upon
the road to name and fortune.”

The priest did not immediately reply; he was leaning forward and
fingering out a silent piece of music on the table with his slender
fingers.

“There might have been some question as to his claim,” he said
thoughtfully; “in a case like this, where there is confiscation, he
might have had a better chance than the true heir.”

Madame Michel drew her breath deeply, clasping her hands to her bosom.

“The finger of God is in it!” she exclaimed devoutly.

“His hand directs all things,” Père Antoine returned quietly; “it is
our blindness which does not recognize it.”

There was another pause, and in it Madame Michel surreptitiously wiped
a tear from her eyes. The regular throbbing tick of the clocks sounded
distinctly from the shop, and little Péron began to doze, with his head
on the low stool in the corner; it was past his bedtime, but he was
forgotten.

“When will M. de Bruneau be tried?” asked Jacques des Horloges, at last.

“Immediately,” Père Antoine replied; “’tis a well established case;
there are several witnesses, all relatives of M. le Marquis.”

“Sent purposely, no doubt,” exclaimed madame indignantly. “The old
rogue!”

“I am sorry for the poor gentleman,” Michel said once more; “he is like
to have a short shrift. Will you see him again, mon père?”

“I have a permit from the king,” the priest replied, “and I shall
stay with the unhappy prisoner to the end. There is absolutely no
earthly hope, and I fear M. de Bruneau has never set great store by the
heavenly.”

As he spoke, he rose from his seat to leave them, and the movement
startled Péron, who opened his sleepy eyes just as the priest glanced
in his direction.

“The child has been asleep,” Père Antoine remarked, smiling. “How
great a blessing is the unconscious freedom from care! I had well nigh
forgotten your present, Péron,” he added, thrusting his hand into his
wallet and drawing out a pale blue silk handkerchief; “I brought this
for you, little one, because you begged for a silk handkerchief the
other day.”

The child was wide-awake now and came running to the priest, all
eagerness for the small bit of silk in Père Antoine’s outstretched hand.

“Oh, madame, it is just like the beautiful silk in the chest in the
garret!” Péron cried, delighted; “the same pale blue--but it is not so
thick and glossy!” he added, on examination.

At the child’s words both men glanced quickly at Madame Michel, whose
face flushed scarlet.

“Hush, Péron!” she exclaimed angrily, “you do not know what you say.”

“How is this, mother?” asked Jacques des Horloges gravely.

She laughed a little, her agitation giving way to a milder feeling.

“I left the ladder down and the little rogue is as active as a cat and
more curious,” she said, apologetically.

Père Antoine smiled, laying his hand softly on the child’s curls.

“The likeness to his father grows daily,” he remarked to Jacques; “do
you not see it?”

“I try to think it is in my eyes,” rejoined the clockmaker bluntly; “it
is like to do him more mischief than good.”

“He is in higher hands than ours,” replied the priest sadly, making a
sign as though he blessed the child, before he bade them good-night and
went on his solemn errand to the Châtelet.



CHAPTER IV

THE PASTRY SHOP ON THE RUE DES PETITS CHAMPS


IT was one of Péron’s few privileges to pay an occasional visit to the
pastry shop of his friend Archambault. A privilege which he prized most
highly when he could go without Madame Michel, because he was then
certain to be the recipient of various little gifts of sweetmeats, of
which he did not receive so large a share in her presence. But the
permission to go alone was so rare that it was scarcely obtained in a
twelvemonth, and then only when the goodwife was so occupied that she
could not spare the time either to make or to fetch some dainty for the
dinner of Jacques des Horloges. But it was only a few weeks after Père
Antoine’s evening visit that one of these rare opportunities presented
itself, and little Péron trotted off as fast as his sturdy legs could
carry him to the Rue des Petits Champs. He was clad in his every-day
clothes, and his taffety jacket was beginning to show threadbare spots
at the elbows; but his apparel did not disguise the child’s native
grace, and his dark eyes shone with happiness. He walked swiftly, not
stopping to speak to any one, ignoring the children at play, according
to his instructions, and clasping a livre tightly in his rosy fist; for
madame had bidden him be careful of it and bring her the change, and he
knew well that she made much ado over the careless spending of a denier
or a sou. It was a great thing for him to be trusted with so stupendous
a sum as a whole silver livre, and he felt the responsibility,
resisting the temptation to disobey orders and stop to watch the
youngsters at play in the Rue de l’Arbre Sec, which was right in his
way. With a strong appreciation of his own virtues, he kept straight
upon his course, and arrived at the pastry shop, above the door of
which swung the sign of Les Trois Champignons. In this establishment
there were two rooms,--the outer one, which Péron entered, furnished
with a long counter in front of the kitchen door, and full of small
tables for the accommodation of a motley crowd of visitors; and the
inner apartment, on the opposite side from the kitchen, which was for
the entertainment of persons of consequence. No one was more quick to
recognize the most ethereal differences in rank or social degree than
Archambault, the cook, and like all vulgar people he was noisy in his
eagerness to serve the rich and the great; yet--with all the faults
natural to his class--the honest fellow had a good heart, and fed the
poor at his back door as liberally as he fed the rich at his front.
For which he was not to blame, as it is a common fault of human nature
to prefer to receive the poor at the back door. St. Teresa and her two
sous had the help of God, but doubtless she would have had a low seat
at the pastry cook’s.

When little Péron entered the shop, the outer room was well filled with
guests, scattered in groups at the various tables. The greater number
of them were soldiers, and there was a good deal of noisy talk and
laughter. The attendants were moving about at a rapid pace, endeavoring
to fulfil the demands made on them from every quarter, and there was no
one behind the counter when the boy reached it. A little embarrassed by
the crowd and the noise, the child stood waiting for some one to attend
to his wants, watching meanwhile the groups nearest at hand. At a table
close by sat three young soldiers wearing the dress of musketeers. They
had reached a course of sweetmeats and pastry, which they were washing
down with a liberal supply of good red wine. A soldier is always
interesting to a boy, and little Péron gazed at these men with eager
curiosity; their rich uniforms, their fiercely curled moustaches,
their polished accoutrements, all pleased his eye. After awhile, a few
words of their conversation attracted his attention, and he listened
trying to understand, for the name of M. de Bruneau was one that he
remembered hearing from Père Antoine. The men were discussing in low
tones the trial of the latest political offender; they were talking
also of M. de Luynes and of the king, and it seemed as if the fate of
de Bruneau, for some reason, excited unusual interest. It was evident
that no one quite believed in his guilt, although no one could prove
his innocence.

“M. de Bruneau died like a gentleman at noon to-day,” remarked one of
the musketeers, eating a citron with a certain placid enjoyment of the
sweetmeat and his gruesome subject.

“I heard that his knees shook and he was sadly frightened at the sight
of the block,” said another, shrugging his shoulders.

“Parbleu! I do not blame him,” cried the third; “’tis one thing to die
in a fight, or even to fall by a sword-thrust on the Place Royale,
quite another to walk up to the block to be bled like an ox. No one
seems to know what was the full charge against him either, except the
accuser.”

“Who is a cousin of M. de Nançay, whereby hangs a tale as long as a
sermon,” said the first speaker.

“And Bruneau was the cousin of the dead marquis, was he not?” asked the
second soldier.

“Ay,” responded the other, “which is the handle of the tale.”

“And M. de Bruneau’s property is confiscated?” continued the inquiring
soldier.

“Certainly, and that is the gist of the tale!” retorted his companions,
laughing.

“His accomplices both escaped,” said the first speaker,--“one to
England, the other, M. Benoit, to Flanders.”

“M. de Bruneau stopped,” began one of the others, “to--”

“To bid his sweetheart adieu!” interjected the gayest member of the
party, laughing.

“And was taken on the Rue St. Denis by the provost-marshal and”--the
speaker held his hand over his mouth and pointed at the inner
room,--“and M. de Nançay.”

“Ventrebleu!” exclaimed the other, “what a pleasant rencounter.”

At this they all laughed loudly, and little Péron, who was still
watching and listening, wondered what could be so amusing in a subject
which seemed to be the same of which Père Antoine had spoken so
gravely. The child’s wondering gaze attracted the attention of the
youngest musketeer, and he mistook the boy’s eager attention for a
longing after the sweets on the table, seeing that he was neglected and
wore a rather shabby coat. The soldier had eaten well and was in the
humor to be not only kind but mischievous. He leaned back in his chair
and held out a rissole to Péron.

“Here, Master Bluecoat,” he said gayly, “have a tidbit. I have eaten
and you are not yet served.”

Péron shook his head, drawing back indignantly, but the musketeer did
not recognize the meaning of his repugnance.

“Come, come,” he said, “no need of shyness; I do not want it, my boy, I
have had one bite--and one of my bites is equal to three of yours.”

He pressed it upon the child, who retreated still more toward the
counter, his little face flushing scarlet. The other two soldiers had
now become interested and each held out a sweetmeat laughing, much
diverted at the boy’s discomfiture.

“Here is a citron,” said one.

“And here a tart,” cried another, while the first offender still
flourished his rissole.

“I do not want them!” exclaimed Péron, now backed against the counter,
and looking at them in angry bewilderment.

But they were not to be put off so easily.

“You will miss it, Master Bluecoat,” said the soldier with the rissole;
“’tis an opportunity not often found at Archambault’s, sweetmeats free
of charge! Try my cake, monsieur.”

“I do not want what you have tasted!” cried Péron, with disgust.

This sally was greeted with laughter as the astonished guardsman looked
blankly at the child. He recovered, however, in an instant, and made
the boy a mocking bow.

“I beg your pardon, M. le Marquis!” he said. “Can I not order for your
excellency? Archambault does not know who is without.”

The jest caught the fancy of his idle companions.

“Give place here at the table,” they cried, clearing a space in the
dishes; “let the marquis sit!”

Before the child realized their intention, the gay musketeer had picked
him up in his arms and set him down in the center of the table.

“Place for the pièce de résistance!” he cried, laughing; “room for M.
le Marquis de Rissole!”

Amazed, angry, half frightened, little Péron sat amid the dishes gazing
defiantly at his tormentors, too proud to cry, too surprised to attempt
an escape, remembering only to hold tightly to Madame Michel’s precious
livre. Around him the three musketeers gathered, jesting, laughing,
making him fanciful obeisances as they offered every dish in turn, as
if serving a prince. Their boisterous merriment drew a group of idle
spectators, and the child was soon the center of a noisy circle, which
constantly widened.

“M. le Marquis, permit me,” said his first tormentor, “here are some
bouchées à la reine--or here are tartelettes aux confitures.”

“And here, your excellency,” cried another, “are macarons aux amandes!”

“Coquilles de volaille,” said a third, “œufs farcis!”

“Croquettes de ris de veau,” said one of the new-comers, “and a roast
of hobgoblins, with a sauce aux champignons!”

Amidst this hubbub the child remained silent, his courage was wavering
a little, and his small mouth closed tighter as did his clenched fists,
but he kept his dark eyes fastened defiantly on the ring of laughing
faces. The jest was no jest to him, and it required all his force of
will to bear it; but he was too proud to waver, too shy to understand
or retort to their rough pleasantry. The table on which he sat was
being crowded at the edge with dishes, and the light fell full on his
golden brown head and shabby, blue taffety jacket. The color which had
come to his face with his first anger had faded with his increasing
alarm, and his eyes looked unnaturally large and bright.

The jesters had just begun a fresh assault with cakes and pies, when
the door of the inner room opened and a tall man came slowly out,
pausing at the sound of the merriment at the table by the counter,
and glancing in that direction with an air of displeasure. He was
evidently a person of consequence, as his bearing and the richness of
his dress indicated. His face was handsome and severe, and his brow was
concealed by a great plumed hat; he wore a collar of rich lace over
his velvet coat, and ruffles of lace, two fingers deep, finished his
satin breeches at the knee and fell over the wide tops of his boots.
He stared haughtily at the laughing circle about the boy, and then his
glance alighted on Péron and seemed for the moment arrested by the
child’s face and figure, and he looked long and attentively at him.
There were still many persons at the other tables in the room, and
presently the tall stranger began to attract nearly as much notice,
though of a respectful kind, as did Péron. But the new-comer heeded no
one save the child, and it was evident that the scene did not meet with
his approval. At last he moved forward to the edge of the circle of
jesters, and as one of the servants approached he spoke to him with an
imperative tone and gesture.

“Who is the child?” he demanded sharply.

At the sound of his voice the musketeers and their friends looked
about, and seeing him fell back discomfited; only the little boy
remained motionless in his seat on the table, not knowing how to escape.

“Who is that child?” exclaimed the great man again, impatiently.

Some one had warned the chief pastry cook, and Archambault came
hurrying from the kitchens. A glance told him the story, and with a
swift movement he swept the little fellow from the table into the
background and stood bowing obsequiously to his tall guest.

“Are you all deaf?” exclaimed that personage tartly; “I have asked
three times about that boy. Who is he?”

“Only little Péron, M. le Marquis,” replied Archambault blandly; “the
son of a poor tradesman.”

“An ill-mannered cub to make such a scene,” remarked the great man
haughtily. “I did not know you kept a playhouse, Archambault.”

The pastry cook was profuse in his apologies. He was a little round man
with a bald spot the size of a poached egg on the back of his round
head, he had little round eyes that glistened not unkindly, and even
his fingers were as round and plump as croquettes. He made a thousand
excuses and waited on M. le Marquis to the door, looking out at the
liveried lackeys awaiting his irritable guest. When he was safely out
of hearing, however, Archambault was no longer amiable. He hurried
back, and as he passed through the group of musketeers he flourished
his hands in frantic gesticulations.

“Morbleu!” he cried, “you will ruin me, you coxcombs! That was M. de
Nançay, and he is more ticklish for the proprieties than M. de Luynes!
Between your appetites and your manners I shall be a ruined man! If
you do not mend your ways, you dogs,” he added, shaking his fat fist
at them, “I will run you all out with a spit. Mordieu! I shall be
outlawed!”

With these words he disappeared into the kitchen, pushing Péron before
him, and closing the door sharply behind him.

In spite of Péron’s recent alarm and anger, he became at once so
interested in the busy scene which opened before his eyes that he
almost forgot his troubles; but not so did Archambault. The pastry
cook seemed absorbed in thought and took no notice of the cooks and
scullions hurrying to and fro with smoking pots and gaudily dressed
dishes. He even forgot the child’s errand and hurried him through the
kitchens, across the court, and into a room which opened at the back of
the house on the Rue de Beaujolais. So rapid had been their movements
that the bewildered boy did not recollect Madame Michel’s orders until
he suddenly bethought himself of the livre still in his hand.

“I have not the tarts,” he said, drawing back as Archambault began to
unfasten the outer door. The pastry cook stopped and rubbed his head.

“Diable!” he ejaculated, and then after a moment’s thought he called to
a scullion.

“Gaspard, bring hither some tarts and cakes,” he said, “and be quick!”

Péron opened his little fist at last and gravely extended the money.

“You were to take out the price,” he said.

The scullion had already hastily filled the order and put the bundle
in the small customer’s arms but without taking the livre. Archambault
meanwhile had thrust his head out from the door and looked anxiously up
and down the street; he drew back now and grasped the child by the arm.

“Come!” he said impatiently, as Péron held back.

“I have not paid,” the boy protested, stoutly resisting.

“Some other time will do,” retorted the fat pastry cook.

“Madame Michel wished the change,” replied Péron stubbornly; “that is
why she gave me a livre.”

“Mon Dieu!” cried Archambault, beside himself with impatience, “quick,
Gaspard, the change; this child would wait for change if he bought his
own coffin!”

And it was not until this business had been transacted to Péron’s
satisfaction that he was willing to go out at the door which had been
opened for his convenience. But after the livre had been changed he
stepped out into the street, closely followed by the pastry cook. There
was no one in sight, and Archambault laid his hand on the child’s
shoulder.

“Now mind you, Péron,” he said, with emphasis, “run down to the Rue St.
Honoré and so to the shop. No time to dream now, no dallying,--vite!”
and he clapped his fat hands and laughed a little as the boy ran off in
the direction that he indicated.

He watched until the lad was out of sight and then returned to his
business with evident relief. He did not know how anxious Péron was to
be at home or what a horror he had conceived of the pastry shop.

The child ran the whole distance and arrived so out of breath that
Madame Michel marvelled and scolded while she counted the change. She
found one more pie than had been paid for, which she however supposed
to be intended as the messenger’s perquisite, and so set her mind at
rest. Her conscience permitted an increase in the amount received more
readily than a decrease in the returns from her livre. Being satisfied
with the results of Péron’s shopping, she did not pursue her inquiries
and remained ignorant of the scene of which he had been the hero.



CHAPTER V

THE CHÂTEAU DE NANÇAY


IT was not until Péron was ten years old that he made a journey outside
the gates of Paris. Jacques des Horloges was accustomed to go from one
grand house to another, to regulate and mend the great clocks, for his
skill was held in high esteem, and such errands frequently took him
beyond the city limits. But he had never taken the boy with him until
one day, as he was setting out, Péron begged so hard to be allowed
to accompany him that he consented. The stout Norman horse which
Jacques always rode stood saddled at the door, and the clockmaker had
just finished packing his saddle-bags when the child ran out, eager
and importunate for the privilege of a ride beyond the gates. Michel
listened to the petitioner with some amusement and a good deal of
doubt. He stood hesitating, his hand on the saddle and his eyes on the
pleading face. He was wavering between a desire to gratify the boy and
a doubt of the wisdom of yielding to persuasion; and while he was still
undecided his wife came to the door.

“Péron wants to go,” he said, smiling, “and I have the mind to take
him, only”--he paused, still looking at the child--“I am going to
Poissy and beyond.”

“To Nançay?” madame said quickly, and she too looked at Péron.

“Ah, may I not go?” cried the boy, turning from one to the other. “I
will be good, I will do just as I am bid!”

“Poor baby!” exclaimed the woman, “’tis a pity, and yet--”

“There can be no harm done, I think,” Jacques remarked, after a moment,
“and it is meet that the child should see something besides the shop
and the Rue de la Ferronnerie. Give me what he may need for three days,
and he shall go.”

Péron uttered a cry of delight, and danced about on the doorstep, while
Madame Michel hesitated yet a moment longer.

“Ought we to ask Père Antoine?” she said doubtfully.

Jacques des Horloges shook his head. “I have not time,” he said, “and,
after all, it is no great matter. So be quick, for I must be off.”

Without more ado a little bundle for Péron was added, he was mounted
behind the clockmaker, and they set out on their journey, the child as
full of eagerness as though they were going out into a new world. He
looked about him proudly from his perch behind Jacques; he felt that it
was an important event in his life, and he was conscious of the envious
glances of the children in the streets. But the sights of the city
were familiar to him, and it was not until they had passed beyond the
limits of Paris and were traversing the green meadows that he realized
the delights of a ride in the open country. He was not a talkative
child, and he took his pleasure silently, gazing about him with great
interest and noting every unusual object. The river seemed so beautiful
out here, running through the fields, that he could scarcely believe
that it was the same Seine into which he had so often looked from the
Pont Neuf. Those observant dark eyes saw every wild flower, every green
leaf by the wayside, and followed eagerly the flight of the swallows
overhead.

Jacques des Horloges was as little inclined to conversation as the
child. The clockmaker’s broad, sturdy figure sat squarely on the
back of his stout horse, and he kept his eyes on the road, attending
steadily to his own business. He was not a romantic person, and would
have been much amazed at the child’s fancies about the matter-of-fact
objects in view. He was a plain man who saw only plain duties in life,
and, for the most part, performed his share of them in a simple way.

This silent couple made the journey of five leagues to St.
Germain-en-Laye without interruption and without incident, and riding
into the town stopped for dinner at the Three Moons. The child, tired
from the long ride, was glad to find a seat at the table in the public
room, where they were forced to wait some time to be served, for it
was crowded with guests. It was the season for the annual fair in the
forest of St. Germain, and the inn was filled with traders, mummers,
and merrymakers going there for business or entertainment. At a table
near Michel’s sat a company of strolling players, and the jests and the
grimaces of the clown soon aroused Péron in spite of his weariness. The
grotesquely painted face and the gay dress with its fringe of bells
delighted the child and diverted his attention even from his food.
There were soldiers here too; but he had cared less for them since
the scene at Archambault’s, although he could not yet entirely resist
the fascination of their highly polished corselets and the rattle of
swords and spurs. There were peddlers there with their packs, on the
way to trade at the fair, musicians, countrymen, a motley gathering
and a lively one, the ripple of talk and laughter, the clatter of
dishes, the rush and hurry of attendance, all enlivening the scene. Yet
there was grave enough talk whispered in some of the corners of that
very room. Where there was a knot of persons of the better class, the
conversation ran on the quarrel of the queen-mother and the king, on
the defeat of her troops at Ponts-de-Cé and the possibilities of peace;
of the influence of Albert de Luynes and the return of the Bishop of
Luçon from exile at Avignon. Food enough for talk, but it was low
spoken; there had been two courts and two factions too long for men
to venture free speech. Marie de’ Medici, the queen-mother of France,
who had ruled during the king’s long minority, could not retire from
a foremost place in the government. Jealous, spiteful, scheming,--a
wily Italian,--she never rested from her endeavors to control her son
and his affairs until she was defeated by the wit and determination of
Richelieu; and for years France beheld the strange spectacle of two
courts and two trains of courtiers, a mother and son at swords’ points
with each other. Behind all this was the ever-watchful jealousy of the
two religious parties. The Huguenots, no longer protected by the great
Henry, were suspicious of his son and fearful that their rights would
be infringed. The Catholics, on the other hand, liberated from the
strong rule of the dead king, and hoping much from Louis XIII., were as
restless and eager for strife as ever, and found themselves, in their
turn, encroached upon by the Huguenots, who were unwilling to grant
the freedom of religion to others which they demanded for themselves.
So long the victims of intolerance, they were themselves intolerant.
Already the great trouble was brewing that would culminate in the siege
and fall of La Rochelle, the stronghold of the Protestants. During the
regency of Marie de’ Medici--a season of weakness between the time
of Henri IV. and that of Richelieu--the grandees had grown restless
again under the royal yoke. Since the days of François I. the power
of the great nobles had been diminishing; they saw it with infinite
discontent, and now gathered around the queen-mother, intriguing and
plotting for a larger part in affairs, encouraged to hope much from the
divisions in the state, and from the jealousy and reckless ambition of
Monsieur, the king’s brother. All these matters therefore furnished
fruitful topics of conversation at every public house; and dangerous
gossip it was.

Jacques des Horloges was too wise to join in such talk, but he met
some friends and it was some time before he set out again upon his
journey. The two--the clockmaker and the child--left the town and
rode on to Poissy, passing through the midst of the fair before they
reached the gates of that place. The booths were set up in the edge
of the forest under the shelter of the trees, and from branch to
branch were swung ropes of flowers and evergreen, from which hung
little bells that tinkled merrily with every breeze. The open grass
plots were covered with dancers, arrayed in the gayest hues, like a
moving bouquet of tulips, while the music was furnished by various
groups of players, and was full of variety, from the loud blasts of
the hautboys to the guitars which were coming into common use, having
been introduced at the French court from Italy. There were, too, the
shrill sweet notes of the flaïos de saus, or reed flutes, which were
coupled by pairs in the orchestras and played the minor keys, some soft
and even sweet, especially in the open air, in spite of the crudeness
of the instruments. The scene was not only gay, but it had a certain
rural charm of its own, which was not even cheapened by the itinerant
tradesmen who were crying their wares by the roadside. There was a
large concourse of people, for the Fête de St. Louis never failed to
bring a full attendance. There was a poultry show, too, and a horse
show, each drawing a large audience, and a full selection of marvels to
dazzle and bewilder the country people.

Jacques des Horloges, however, was not diverted from his even course
by sights which he had witnessed every year, and he rode along at a
steady gait, until a strolling gypsy stopped his horse, offering to
tell the clockmaker’s fortune. Michel shook his head.

“Away with you,” he said impatiently, “I have more serious work to do
than to listen to your babble.”

“Have a care, master,” retorted the fortune-teller glibly; “’tis
ill-luck to scorn a friendly warning, there may be trouble ahead!”

“Pah!” ejaculated the clockmaker, urging on his stout horse, “the devil
take your nonsense.”

“’Tis not the time for indifference,” said the gypsy, holding up a long
finger; “the king makes peace with the queen; changes come; yonder boy
is not yours!”

Jacques des Horloges stirred uneasily in his saddle.

“Mère de Dieu!” he exclaimed softly, but he only urged his horse on,
without looking back until he reached the gates of Poissy.

Here they put up at the first hostelry in the main street, and
Jacques saw his horse safely stalled in the stable before he took his
saddle-bags on his arm and set out with Péron to attend to the errand
which had brought him so far. They passed through the streets out on
to the road which led along the bank of the Seine. To the left, the
ground rose gradually until it reached a hilly elevation, fringed by
a woodland. Some sheep were grazing on the slopes, and the afternoon
sun cast long shadows in the hollows. Over the tree-tops showed the
gray turrets and gabled roof of a large château. The clockmaker plodded
along, leading the child by the hand, and neither spoke until a turn in
the road brought them around the shoulder of the hill and in full view
of the house. Then Péron uttered an exclamation of pleased surprise,
and Jacques des Horloges stopped involuntarily and stood looking at the
scene.

“Do you like it?” he said, turning to the child.

“It is beautiful,” replied Péron; “is it the king’s house?”

Jacques laughed. “Nay,” he said, “did you think it like the Louvre?
We are going here to fix the old jacquemart. This is the Château de
Nançay.”

Before them the ground rose in a succession of terraces to the
elevation on which were the buildings. A stone wall ran along the face
of the lowest terrace, with great iron gates, which stood open. Above
this were three other terraces, faced by low parapets, in the Italian
fashion, and beautifully grassed and planted with roses. The highest
formed an immense quadrangle, in the center of which stood the château
and its out-buildings. It was of gray stone and of a graceful style of
architecture, a mantle of ivy climbing over its turrets and arching the
long row of windows which commanded the terraces. Behind it were the
stables and the house of the steward of the estate. The whole place
was in perfect order and beautifully situated on the spur of the hill,
overlooking the river and sheltered by a small forest in the rear. On
the central turret of the château was one of the old jacquemarts, and
even at a distance two figures could be discerned, one on either side
of the dial, which, on nearer inspection, proved to be two knights in
complete armor, who struck the hours with their bronze maces on a great
silver bell above the face of the clock. It was a very old clock, one
of the first made in imitation of the famous jacquemart of Dijon, and
this central turret of Nançay had borne for years the name of “Tour de
l’Horloge.”

To Péron, this house was more beautiful than the Louvre or the Palais
des Tournelles in the old Marais, because of the open country about
it. To the child, bred in Paris, the green field and waving trees, the
slope of the hill-tops, the blooming flower garden, was a setting of
perfect beauty. He followed the clockmaker up the successive steps of
the terraces, too obedient to lag behind, but gazing about in pleased
wonder. He saw the great velvet faces of the pansies, the clustering
roses, the more modest violets; he noticed everything that escaped the
eye of Jacques des Horloges; and he followed, in the same silent mood,
into the great house itself. They did not approach the stately main
entrance, but were admitted by a porter at a side door. The clockmaker
was expected, and being an old visitor was permitted to set about his
work undisturbed. It was his business to wind and clean and lubricate
the machinery of every clock in the château, from the jacquemart to the
cook’s timepiece, and there were many. Jacques was a man who performed
all tasks expeditiously and quietly, and he commenced his rounds at
once, only bidding Péron keep near him. He entertained no fear of the
child getting into mischief; in that respect he was too unchildlike,
and often perplexed the good clockmaker.

There was no occasion to fear that Péron would offend for lack of
interest in what he saw; the boy was amazed and delighted at the beauty
and richness of the château’s interior. The floor of the great hall
was tessellated, paved with Italian marble, and the balustrade of
the main staircase was elaborately carved. While the clockmaker was
busily engaged with the old timepiece in the hall, Péron went about
softly, peeping in first at one door and then at another, each in
turn, giving him such a bewildering vista of beauty and luxury, that
the child fancied himself in fairyland. No one seemed to be stirring
in this part of the house; indeed the marquis was away from home,
and the little explorer, meeting no one, grew bolder and ventured
into the dining-room to look at the display of silver and gold on the
immense carved sideboard. Here were not only dishes and goblets, but
also fanciful vases and figures of the precious metals; there were
also several beautiful examples of ceramic art, the work of Maître
Bernard des Thuilleries and of his predecessor, Robbia; and the abace
and crédence, nearer the table, were covered respectively with rare
glass and plates and dishes. The room was very long, and at the end
was a mirror in a gold frame of such curious design,--ropes of flowers
tied with broad ribbons and held above and below the glass by golden
cupids,--that Péron stood a long while examining it, not noticing his
own figure reflected therein. A strange contrast he presented to his
rich surroundings, the clockmaker’s boy, in plain, dark clothes and
coarse boots, but handsome and full of health, and large for his years.

Beyond the mirror was a door draped with pale blue hangings, and Péron,
grown bold, lifted the silken curtains and stepped into a smaller
room, softly carpeted and richly furnished. But here he was destined
to meet with a surprise. He had advanced quite a way before he became
suddenly aware that he was not alone. At the other end of the apartment
stood a child, a little girl, of about Péron’s own age or less, and
she was gazing at him in the most profound amazement. She had seen the
intruder before he was aware of her presence, and was searching him
with a glance that was not only full of astonishment but of disdain, as
she observed every detail of his shabby appearance.

At the sight of her Péron halted too and stood returning her gaze,--but
with very different feelings. To him she seemed the most beautiful
child that he had ever seen. At the first glance he thought her a
fairy. She was small and slight, with the fair, rosy loveliness of
childhood, her great black eyes, fringed with long black lashes and set
off with delicately pencilled black brows, while, in direct contrast,
her hair was like spun gold and extremely fine and glossy. This little
vision was arrayed in pure white, with ruffles of fine lace and
little white silk shoes. It was not marvellous that the clockmaker’s
child should gaze in amazement at this small beauty who, in his eyes,
rivalled the fairest belle of the Marais.



CHAPTER VI

A BUNCH OF VIOLETS


THE two children, thus suddenly confronted, stood regarding each other
for some moments in silence. Then the little girl drew back with a
gesture which was wonderfully full of hauteur for one so young.

“Who are you?” she demanded arrogantly. “Where did you come from, boy?”

“From Paris,” returned Péron promptly; he was not shy of another child.

“From Paris?” she repeated, opening her eyes to their fullest extent;
“what are you doing here, then?”

“Nothing,” the boy answered truthfully, all the while thinking more of
her wonderful appearance than of her imperious questions.

The little girl stood a moment longer as if uncertain what to do, and
then she stepped backward toward the door behind her, all the while
keeping her eyes fixed on the intruder.

“Mademoiselle!” she called loudly. “Mademoiselle Lucien!”

The portière was lifted hastily and a young woman came in answer to the
summons. The little girl pointed her finger at Péron, who still stood
there, embarrassed now by his situation but not knowing how to escape.

“Mademoiselle, look at that boy,” cried the child, “he must be a thief!”

“I am not!” exclaimed Péron, amazed at the accusation and resenting it
with all his honest heart.

“How did you come here, then?” asked the little girl, “and what are you
doing?”

“Go away, boy!” exclaimed Mademoiselle Lucien haughtily, catching hold
of the child by her side. “Come, Renée!” she added, “do not go near
him; there has been fever in Poissy and his clothes may be full of it!”

“His jacket is very poor!” little Renée remarked mercilessly, “and his
shoes are coarse--are you a beggar?” she added, addressing him.

“No,” replied Péron, with passionate indignation, “I am not a beggar or
a thief, any more than you are!”

“You are an impertinent child!” said Mademoiselle Lucien, drawing her
little charge nearer to her; “if you do not go away I will call one of
the men to put you out with a whipping!”

“That you shall not!” cried Péron, his face scarlet with indignation;
“no one ever whipped me--I would kill any one who did!” and he clenched
his fists and faced them like a fury.

“Ciel!” exclaimed mademoiselle, “he is a little savage; come away,
Renée!”

But her charge was not inclined to go. She was a spoiled child and not
accustomed to obeying her governess. She found Péron more interesting
than the humble village children whom she was accustomed to order about
at her will.

“I will not go, mademoiselle,” she said wilfully; “I want to know why
he has come here in his poor jacket and his coarse boots!”

Péron was not given to conversation, but he was a child who had
listened and thought, and the shyness which had sealed his lips at
Archambault’s did not possess him to-day. He forgot it, for he was
burning with indignation at the manner in which this little demoiselle
treated him.

“You are ill-mannered to speak of my boots,” he said gravely. “Père
Antoine says that a beggar may be the same as the king, in heaven.”

Mademoiselle Lucien laughed. “What have we here?” she exclaimed; “is
this an infant preacher?”

Péron only looked at her, not understanding either her laughter or her
words. But the little girl understood the boy better than the woman;
her curiosity being excited, she was eager to pursue her inquiries.

“Who is Père Antoine?” she demanded.

“A good man,” replied Péron promptly, “who would tell you that you were
naughty to call me a thief!”

At this juncture Jacques des Horloges appeared suddenly at the door.
He had missed the boy and was overwhelmed with amazement to find him
angrily confronting the little girl and her governess. The latter
recognized the clockmaker at once, and began to understand the child’s
appearance in the château. She listened to Michel’s profuse apologies
with contemptuous indifference.

“It does not matter as long as M. le Marquis is absent,” she said, with
a shrug; “but pray, Maître Jacques, keep the boy from running over the
house; we do not allow the village children even in the kitchen for
fear of some contagion for Mademoiselle Renée. You will take him away
from these rooms at once.”

The clockmaker obeyed without a word, but once out of hearing he
muttered loudly to himself, and to Péron’s surprise administered no
rebuke. Instead of scolding the child for his intrusion, Jacques seemed
to resent intensely Mademoiselle Lucien’s arrogant orders.

“The saucy hussy!” he ejaculated; “and in this house, too! Mademoiselle
Renée will take some infection, will she? Pah! ’tis the boy who needs
the care.”

Grumbling to himself and holding Péron tightly by the hand, the honest
man gathered up some of his tools in the hall and, still leading the
child, proceeded through a small door to the staircase which ascended
on one side of the Tour de l’Horloge. This was the main tower of the
château and was very strongly built of stone; in the older days,
before the use of artillery, it would have been capable of a lengthy
resistance. The stairs which led to the jacquemart were constructed
after the fashion of the early turret stairs, being of stone and
winding around the tower, between the outer and inner walls, and so
narrow that one resolute man could have held the enemy at bay upon
the step. They were lighted high up by narrow, lance-shaped loopholes
in the wall and were festooned above with cobwebs; for this spot was
seldom visited except when the great clock was wound.

Jacques Michel climbed up slowly, followed by little Péron, for the
stairs were too narrow for the two to walk abreast. Half way up they
came to a door which opened into the house; here the clockmaker paused,
and laying down his tools on the step fumbled in his pockets for a
key, which he presently produced and unlocked the door. It opened with
some difficulty on its rusty hinges, and he entered the room beyond,
pushing the child before him. It was a large apartment, evidently
long unused. Three large windows looked out over the terraces and the
sloping fields beyond to the Seine. The ceiling was of carved oak, the
floor paved with enamelled tiles, the great carved bedstead, inlaid
with ivory, stood partially screened by the Arras tapestry of the
closet. The benches in the window recesses and the arm-chairs were
all beautifully carved, and in one corner of the room was an alcove
furnished with a crucifix and prie-Dieu.

Jacques des Horloges stood looking about him with an expression as
reverent as if he stood in a chapel. Péron had long ago learned
the futility of asking him questions, and he remained silent, only
observing everything with a child’s keenness of vision. The quiet and
the air of desertion about the place oppressed the boy, but he did not
speak. Finally the clockmaker seemed to recollect him and gently pushed
him toward the alcove of the crucifix.

“Go say your prayers there, Péron,” he said abruptly; “we ought to pray
here.”

“Why?” asked the child. “Is this a church? It does not look like one.”

“Nay,” replied Jacques, crossing himself, “but a good lady died here
who is now, I doubt not, an angel in Paradise.”

“Was she a saint?” inquired Péron, in an awed tone, for Père Antoine
had trained him well.

“Ay, as near one as a woman may be,” said the clockmaker bluntly. “I
know no better, nor will you ever see her equal. Say your prayer,
child, and look well at the room, for we must go on, but I would have
you see this place; and here, I think, M. de Nançay comes not--nor the
others.”

When the prayer was said, Jacques took the child to the window and
pointed out at the garden.

“You see yonder the terrace by the fountain,” he said, “I will take you
down to a door which opens from this tower, and you must go there and
wait for me. I can see you from above as I work, and will come to you
presently. It is a dizzy place up by the clock and I would not take
you.”

With this instruction, he took Péron back the way they had come, first
locking up the room and putting the key in his breast. At the foot of
the stairs they found a door which let the boy out into the garden, and
he ran off along the terrace, happy to breathe the free air again and
see the flowers; for the strange apartment and the command to tell his
beads for the sake of a dead woman had shaken his sensitive nerves,
and he was not recovered from his treatment at the hands of little
Mademoiselle de Nançay. Péron resented it with all the strength of his
proud heart, and so angry was he that the unusual conduct of Jacques
in the locked room was of less consequence. He did not find time to
wonder at it,--he could only think of the insulting tone and words of
the little girl, especially interesting to him because she was so near
his own age. He neither understood nor appreciated class distinctions;
the child Renée had been educated in arrogance beyond her years, and
recognized differences in birth and station; Péron, on the other hand,
had only the teachings of Père Antoine, who had sought to instil into
the boy’s mind the humility of the Christian, seeing plainly enough the
pride which filled the childish heart and was likely to work mischief
enough without any prompting.

Péron walked along the terraces now to the fountain indicated by
Jacques, and here he stopped, standing with his back to the château and
looking at the flowers, the velvety grass, the birds picking on the
slopes. The splash of the fountain made pleasant music in his ears,
and he was just beginning to feel at his ease when a slight sound above
made him look up at the terrace behind. There, leaning on the parapet
and watching him curiously, was his little tormentor. Renée was alone,
having eluded the vigilance of her governess, and her arms were resting
on the stone balustrade while she leaned over so much that her chin
rested on them and her golden curls hung over her face, shading it and
framing it, while her great dark eyes were fixed on the boy. It was a
charming picture, since both children were beautiful in their different
ways and both possessed marked characteristics. At the sight of her,
Péron’s anger returned with full force, and he turned his back on her,
his fists clenched and his face growing very red. She was not a boy,
and he could not chastise her as he had once unmercifully beaten a
youngster who ventured to stone M. de Turenne.

There is nothing more effective in reducing arrogance than silent
contempt. Péron’s manifest scorn had an immediate effect on the little
spoiled beauty of the château. She had been accustomed to adulation,
servility, humility; honest anger was new and interesting. She was
not troubled with any grown-up reserve, and there was, too, a secret
relenting. She was not an ill-natured child, only a spoiled one,
and under all lurked a tender heart. She could not forget her unkind
criticism of the stranger’s poor clothes; she had reasoned it all out
and come to a conclusion. He was the clockmaker’s son and doubtless he
was poor. Renée had a vague idea of poverty, but she knew that it was
a state which deserved commiseration; her old nurse had taught her not
to despise it, but Mademoiselle Lucien’s subsequent teachings had not
been wise; and Renée had no mother. Her rudeness to the clockmaker’s
boy troubled her, and she was as quick to act on a good impulse as on a
bad one. Péron’s squarely turned back did not disturb her, for she felt
herself a great lady and able to bestow her favors where she chose. Yet
she was rather at loss what to say and how to begin; above all, she
saw a party of horsemen coming up the road, and knew that her father
would very soon cut short her adventure. She received no encouragement
from the boy, however, and when she spoke at last it was in a rather
uncertain voice.

“I am sorry,” she said softly.

No answer from Péron.

“I did not mean to speak of your boots,” she ventured again.

Still no reply.

“I am sorry,” said Renée once more, “and I think you are mean to be so
cross!”

Péron gave her a sidelong glance but refrained from speech, and there
was a prolonged silence. Then, just as the horsemen were dismounting at
the lowest terrace, he felt something brush his cheek and a bunch of
violets fell at his feet. He looked up then and saw Renée running away,
laughing, her golden curls waving in the breeze and her white garments
fluttering. When he was sure she could not see him, Péron stooped
down and picked up the violets; he was very fond of flowers, and none
bloomed in the Rue de la Ferronnerie. He was still holding the nosegay
when the party of cavaliers came sauntering up the terraces, so near
him that he could hear their talk. A gay party they were, dressed in
the richest fashion of the court and led by the tall and fine figure
of M. de Nançay, the same who had seen Péron at Archambault’s. They
all wore high, loose-topped boots and full lace-ruffled breeches,
with jackets of gay colors and short cloaks of velvet thrown back on
the shoulders and displaying equally rich linings, while their hats
were well trimmed with plumes. They were lightly armed, only one or
two wearing hallecrèts and carrying pistols; they could scarcely
have ridden from a greater distance than Paris. As they approached
Péron, he caught sentences which he heard without comprehending their
significance.

“’Tis dull now that the queen-mother has no court at Blois,” one of the
party remarked, “but there may yet be two at Paris. I hear, too, that
the Bishop of Luçon wants the cardinal’s hat.”

“He will not get it,” said M. de Nançay sharply. “The devil take the
Bishop of Luçon. Albert de Luynes will never see a cardinal’s hat on
the head of Jean Armand du Plessis.”

“Yet ’tis said that the queen-mother desires it,” suggested another
follower mildly, “and you, M. de Nançay, are too stanch to recede, even
after the defeat at Ponts-de-Cé.”

Nançay struck his sheathed sword across his boot.

“The queen-mother is duped,” he said; “the bishop is a fox who will rob
her sheep-fold. A fig for a woman’s wit, when she is flattered by so
skilful a priest!”

“It may be you are mistaken, M. le Marquis,” replied the first speaker,
“Madame la Mère reads well the wit of the bishop. I have often thought
that he would yet defeat M. de Luynes, and if he gets the ear of the
king--”

The marquis frowned darkly, giving the courtier a black look.

“You choose a strange subject for croaking, monsieur,” he said, in a
biting tone, “especially here!”

His companions all stared at the luckless disputant, who grew crimson
and stammered an apology which, fortunately for him, was lost, for at
that moment M. de Nançay’s eye alighted on Péron. Jacques des Horloges
had observed the party approaching, and hurrying down from the château,
with his tools, was just preparing to leave the place with his little
charge, when the marquis discovered the boy. The sight of the child
seemed to disconcert the nobleman more than the speech of his friend,
and a sharp change came over his face. He turned to an attendant who
was following at a respectful distance.

“Who are those people--the man and the boy?” he asked sharply.

“Jacques des Horloges, the famous clockmaker of St. Honoré, M. le
Marquis,” replied the man; “the child, I think, is his--I have seen him
in his shop.”

For a moment the marquis hesitated, as if undecided whether to recall
the clockmaker or not, and his followers stood about him, secretly
amazed that he should notice such humble persons. But M. de Nançay did
not heed them, he continued to watch Michel and Péron until both had
passed out of the gates and taken the road to Poissy. When they were
out of sight he led the way to the château; but there was a frown on
his face, and his temper was more acrid than usual on such occasions;
for he had the reputation of being a genial and hospitable host.



CHAPTER VII

PÉRON AND PÈRE ANTOINE


THE Rue de Bethisi was the artery which connected the older quarter
of the Hôtel de Ville and the Palais Tournelles with the more modern
neighborhood of the Louvre. In the vicinity of the Church of St.
Germain l’Auxerrois, the Rue de Bethisi divided the Rue de l’Arbre Sec
from the Rue des Fossés St. Germain l’Auxerrois, the spot fortified
by the Normans during their siege of Paris, and the scene of the
murder of Coligny. Near this corner, on the north side of the Rue de
Bethisi, and not far from the Hôtel Montbazon, was the lodging of Père
Antoine, though it was some distance from his parish of St. Nicholas
des Champs. The house was tall and narrow, with an oriel window in the
second story, which commanded a view of three streets. Houses are not
mere masses of stones or bricks and mortar: they have expressions,
eyes, mouths, ears; one might almost fancy--souls. They are the shells
of those who inhabit them, and many speak, in plain language, their
own histories. Is there anything more sad than the house of death?
more desolate than the forsaken home? This house on the Rue de Bethisi
had an expression of serious benevolence. The room which Père Antoine
occupied, where little Péron came daily for his lessons, was a large
one on the second floor, and well lighted by the oriel window. There
were no indications of wealth in the furnishings; the polished floor
was scantily covered with two threadbare rugs, there were two carved
arm-chairs,--one in which the priest always sat, the other turned
to the wall and never used. Besides these there were two or three
stiff-backed chairs, a table, a crucifix, a small but beautiful
painting of the Annunciation, and a little clock, fashioned after those
of the Valois period, a gift of Jacques des Horloges; for portable
clocks were still a luxury for the rich, and the priest would as soon
have dreamed of buying one as of possessing a cardinal’s hat. This was
all, except the books, and those were Père Antoine’s greatest worldly
treasures; they were arranged with loving care on the shelves on either
side of the room. Many of them were of great value, gifts from the
wealthier patrons who had learned to appreciate him or owed him a debt
for consolation that could never be repaid. Some of these gifts were
splendid specimens of the bookbinder’s art, and rich in clasps of gold
and silver. It was told of Père Antoine that one of the princes of the
blood had sent him a worldly book bound with great magnificence and set
with jewels, and the good priest had returned it with the quotation of
St. Jerome’s words: “Your books are covered with precious stones, and
Christ died naked before the gate of His temple!”

To this room came daily little Péron, the clockmaker’s adopted child,
to learn his lessons out of Père Antoine’s primer, and to spend a
laborious hour copying from the Gospels, that he might learn his Bible
and his penmanship at the same time. It was a pretty sight to see
the rosy-faced, dark-eyed boy sitting by the pale, studious priest
and taking his lesson soberly. Péron was a good scholar, and willing
enough except on occasions when the shouts of children at play made
his ears tingle and his heart throb; but he had never been allowed
to join in those rough sports, so he bore the ordeal with patience,
and only sighed more heavily at the task. He loved his teacher, as
many other people loved Père Antoine, and he had a quick mind. The
surroundings, too, were an incentive; he longed to be able to read all
those books, those beautiful books which he was allowed to look at and
to handle with a care that had been instilled by constant teaching and
example. By the time he was ten years old he could read both French
and Latin fairly well, and by spelling out the longer words could
gather the meaning of most of the books which he especially loved to
look at. These were the older volumes, with gayly decorated borders,
some of great beauty and a few having miniatures _en camaïeu_ or _en
grisaille_ after the fashion of the time of Charles VI. There was one,
the “Heures de la Croix,” which was curiously bound in white silk with
sacred emblems upon it, and encased in a red “chemise,” a kind of
pocket in which books were kept, and which was made of silk, velvet,
or sandal-wood, as occasion might require. Naturally, the books which
attracted the boy were those most gorgeously bound or emblazoned with
pictures of saints and martyrs, such as the “Livre d’Heures,” “Les
Miracles de Notre Dame,” the illuminated antiphonaries and missals. He
had even tried to spell out the “Commentaries of St. Jerome” and “Boèce
on Consolation,” this last because it was bound in green “Dampmas
cloth” and very beautifully embroidered. He was familiar, too, with
every printer’s and bookseller’s mark, and these were then curious
enough, from the two leopards of Simon Vostre to the six-oared galley
of Galliot de Pré, bookseller of Paris in 1531, nearly a hundred
years before Cardinal de Richelieu. But it was these old books, whose
capital letters had been decorated by the illuminator in many colors,
which pleased Péron, and not any of the more modern volumes. Solid and
somewhat dreary books for a child to spell a lesson from, but none the
less helpful in the struggle; and so faithful was the pupil that there
was seldom a day that Père Antoine did not send him away with some
word of commendation. And praise from the priest meant more than the
wondering admiration of Madame Michel, who regarded the boy as a marvel
of erudition for his years; and so he was, for a child of his condition
in the world. So ready was he to learn, and so prone to meditation,
that Jacques des Horloges occasionally grumbled out a fear that he
might be made a better priest than a soldier, for strangely enough the
clockmaker never seemed to entertain a thought of training Péron as an
apprentice at his own trade.

It was the child’s custom to talk more to the priest than to any
one else. In the shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie he confined his
confidential communications to M. de Turenne, but on the Rue de Bethisi
he found his tongue, and many times Père Antoine turned his face aside
to hide a smile, too wise to wound the boy’s feelings. This was the
secret of his power, for a child both dreads and hates ridicule.
It was therefore to the priest that he carried the doubts and the
curiosity awakened by his visit to the Château de Nançay. Père Antoine
knew nothing of the journey to Poissy, and was unprepared for the
sudden questions which his pupil propounded. The boy had been reading
laboriously from “Les Petites Heures,” guided by his teacher’s pencil,
when he stopped and turned his large eyes upon him.

“Père Antoine,” he said slowly, “who died in the room next the tower at
the great château near Poissy?”

The priest leaned back in his chair, an expression of intense
astonishment crossing his face, instantly followed by one of sorrow so
sharp that the pupils of his eyes contracted as if with pain.

“Who told you of Poissy?” he asked quietly.

“I have been there,” Péron declared with an air of conscious pride;
“Maître Jacques took me on horseback. We rode a long way and saw the
fair in the forest.”

“The fête at St. Germain-en-Laye?” said Père Antoine. “Did you like the
green fields and the flowers, Péron?”

The child looked down; he was thinking of the bunch of violets which he
had brought home surreptitiously and hidden in his cupboard; he was
ashamed to keep anything that had been thrown at him as if he were a
beggar or a vagrant.

“I should like to live always in the green fields,” he said; “they are
so much prettier than the stone walls of the Rue de la Ferronnerie.”

Père Antoine sighed, laying his hand softly on the bent head with one
of his rare caresses.

“Poor child,” he murmured sadly; “our paths are not always easy, the
stones cut our feet; but fret not for a different condition of life;
discontent is a cankerworm which eats the heart. The streets of Paris
are narrow and dingy, yet you may learn here to walk the narrow way of
life eternal. You grow to be a big boy, Péron; presently, instead of
spelling with me, you will begin to learn the lessons of existence.
Some of us can have green fields and flowers, but many, my child, have
only the flint-paved way, and are shut in by walls as grim as those of
the Châtelet. See to it that you crave not that which is another’s;
verily, there is no more cruel sin than envy.”

“Why do the rich say rude things to the poor?” asked the boy sharply.

A slow flush crept up to Père Antoine’s temples and his sensitive lips
tightened.

“It is the way of the world, Péron,” he said softly, “not God’s way.”

“It is a very mean way!” the child declared promptly; “I will never
stand it.”

The priest looked at him in surprise; for some time he had been
conscious of the development of a new characteristic in his pupil, but
he was not prepared for the fire of the boy’s resentment. He shook his
head gravely.

“You must not harbor thoughts of malice, Péron,” he said; “I have
labored to teach you the lessons of Christian humility.”

“I do not see why some people are so rich and others so poor,” Péron
remarked, unmoved.

“You are not very poor,” Père Antoine replied soothingly, “you have a
comfortable shelter, and the care of good Maître Jacques and his wife.”

He was endeavoring to quiet the child, but his words only called forth
another question.

“Are my father and mother really dead?” Péron asked, leaning his elbows
on the table and gazing earnestly at his teacher.

Again the older face clouded and the kind eyes dwelt sadly on the rosy
countenance of his interrogator.

“Both dead, Péron,” he answered softly. “Your mother when you were a
baby, your father when you were three years old.”

“Did you know my mother, Père Antoine?” the child asked, a longing in
his tone which may have caused the spasm of pain that passed over the
priest.

“I knew her all her life,” he answered, “and I was with her when her
spirit passed into Paradise; she was a very noble, gentle, Christian
woman.”

He bent his head as he spoke and crossed himself, seeming for an
instant to forget the child.

“Do I look like her?” the boy asked, with eager interest.

“You have her eyes, my child,” Père Antoine said tenderly, “but you
grow daily more and more like your father.”

“Of what did he die?” Péron inquired; his mind seemed fully roused at
last, and he was not inclined to spare.

The priest’s pale face grew even more grave than it had been; he laid
his hand on the neglected book before his pupil.

“He died suddenly,” he said; “but come, child, you neglect your lesson.”

But he was not to evade the persistent little questioner.

“What was my father’s name, what is mine?” he asked; “other boys have
always two names--or three, sometimes even four--but I am only Péron.”

The priest spoke severely now. “My child,” he replied, “you have no
name but Péron now, nor can I tell you your father’s name; neither can
Maître Jacques. Be content, my boy, to bear the name we have given you
and to do your duty, since you may not know more than we can tell you.
See here rather this sentence which you left half read.”

Péron followed his guiding pencil for a few moments, and then he looked
up again, fixing his eyes on his instructor.

“You have not told me who died in the room at the château at Poissy,”
he said.

The priest passed his hand over his eyes; he was thinking prayerfully,
although the boy did not know it. A long, sad vista opened before
Père Antoine’s mental vision; the questions of love, duty, necessity,
beset him. He was a wise man as well as a good one, but sometimes a
child may confound a sage. He loved Péron too, with the tenderness of
a woman, and he felt that with him lay the chief responsibility, since
he was the most intelligent as well as the most deeply concerned of his
guardians. After an instant’s pause, a pause so slight that the eager
interrogator scarcely noted it, the priest answered him in his usual
calm tone.

“The Marquise de Nançay died there, Péron,” he said gravely. “A very
good woman.”

This answer did not satisfy the boy.

“Maître Jacques said she was like a saint,” he remarked curiously.

Père Antoine drew a deep breath, his luminous eyes looking over Péron’s
head into space.

“We cannot judge,” he said, in a low voice, “but I have never known a
better woman.”

“Was she as good as my mother?” asked the child bluntly.

“She was as good as your mother,” replied the priest slowly.

“Maître Jacques made me say my prayers there,” remarked Péron gravely.

The sad shadow in Père Antoine’s blue eyes cleared, as sometimes the
clouds break in the eastern sky and let the sun shine through.

“It is well,” he said, and there was a reverent pause.

But this was not the end of it.

“Is that her little girl who lives at Nançay?” was the next question.

Père Antoine started, and the sensitive flush came again.

“No!” he replied sharply.

“Is that tall man, who wears such wonderful lace ruffles, her husband?”
pursued Péron, unmercifully.

“A thousand times, no!” cried Père Antoine.

“Then,” exclaimed Péron in triumph, “how can she have been the Marquise
de Nançay? I heard them call him the marquis.”

Père Antoine wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and rose and
opened the casement.

“It is warm,” he said, then he turned to the child with the manner
which his pupil knew how to interpret. “We have wasted much valuable
time,” he remarked gravely. “I wish you to learn from the Psalter
to-day. You should not ask so many questions; there may always be
several people of the same name. It is more important for you to read
well than to know so much of unprofitable matters. I notice that when
the letters are colored in blue, you more easily mistake them than
those in red; this is not as it should be, and shows either a want of
application or inattention to your lessons.”

For the next hour and a half Péron found Père Antoine a harder
taskmaster than he had ever been before, and many times, in the
interval, the child sighed as he thought of the green fields and
flowers between Paris and St. Germain-en-Laye.



CHAPTER VIII

PÉRON’S FIRST VICTORY


WHEN the boy was twelve years old, a great change came into his life.
The Prince de Condé, coming into the shop one day, saw him, noticed
his strength and beauty, and offered to receive him into his household
to be trained to the profession of arms. This opportunity was joyfully
embraced by Jacques des Horloges, who had long been in despair of
placing the child as he desired. Père Antoine had trained him well in
reading, and he was a fair scribe, but he had had no one to teach him
to wield a weapon or ride a horse, and the clockmaker desired to see
him a soldier rather than a priest.

Condé’s offer was therefore the subject of many debates in the room
behind the shop; Jacques Michel being eager to send him into the
household of a prince of the blood, and Père Antoine and Madame Michel
half inclined to put obstacles in the way, mainly because they could
not endure the thought of parting with the boy. But the opportunity was
too brilliant to be lost, and in the end the clockmaker prevailed.

So it was that madame washed and pinned out the best lace collar and
brushed the black taffety suit with many secret tears, and the day came
at last for Péron to leave, for a while at least, the humble shelter of
the shop at the sign of Ste. Geneviève and go with his adopted father
to his great patron. The boy was too proud to weep, but he covertly
kissed M. de Turenne and wiped his eyes surreptitiously behind the
jacquemart before he left the familiar quarters to begin a new life.
His heart swelled with pride, however, at the thought of being trained
for a soldier, and he walked as if he already felt a sword at his side.

The change from a shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie to the house of a
prince was marvellous enough, but it was not all. Péron had attracted
the attention and fancy of Condé, and was an acknowledged favorite in
the household. He was handsome, straight-limbed, and large for his
age; and he was not only trained for the camp, but also for three or
four years he served as a page to the princess. It was a happy and
uneventful period in his life, and he improved in person and manners.
He received his first lessons in sword play from Choin, an expert
fencing-master employed by Condé to train his men, and Péron was an
especial favorite with the maître d’armes. He was an apt pupil, his
lithe, active figure seemed made for sword practice, and he had a
wrist like steel. He was destined to serve as a musketeer, but he
was thoroughly trained in all military exercises, and became a fine
horseman before he was sixteen. He not only enjoyed the advantages
of a soldier’s education in the great establishment, but he became
accustomed to the manners and fashions of the court circle. In the
Hôtel de Condé he could see all the great personages of the day, from
the king and Monsieur to Richelieu; for the Bishop of Luçon was now a
cardinal. It had been his privilege also to attend upon the princess
when she stood in her grand salon to receive her guests, and to follow
her when she went to the Hôtel Rambouillet, where Catherine de Vivonne
received all the wits of the day, and where, at a later period, the Cid
was read to the chosen few of madame’s coterie.

But it was not Péron’s fate to remain long with Condé; another change
was to come into his life, and, like the first, it came suddenly and
unsolicited. It was the custom of Choin, the fencing-master, to train
the boys and young men of the household in the tennis court at hours
when it was unvisited by the prince or his guests. One afternoon they
were assembled there as usual, the maître d’armes and his pupils,
some dozen lads about Péron’s age, in various employments in the
establishment, and all given the advantages of military exercises, then
so essential to every young man. Choin was a merciless tutor: a blow
was apt to follow a rebuke or accompany it, and he showed no favor.
The lads were taught to use both pistol and sword, and many of them
were already expert. It was, however, a high compliment to receive a
challenge from Choin to single combat, and but few of the boys could
defend themselves at all against the fencer. He was a short, thick man,
with a neck like a bull’s, and much the same kind of wide nostrils.
His small bright eyes glittered like the points of stilettos, and his
shock of black hair hung in a straight bang across his low forehead.
He was half an Italian, he was one of the most expert swordsmen in
Europe, and he bore no love to Richelieu since the edict which had
struck such a blow at duelling. He was in no very amiable mood when he
called his pupils together, and more than one lad had received a box
on the ear before the first hour was over. It was his way, when out of
temper, to challenge one of the boys and vent his rage by inflicting
a humiliating defeat on the unfortunate. It happened that he selected
Péron, perhaps because the lad had shown a daring indifference to his
teacher’s mood and yet had, so far, escaped a blow. Choin did not know
the lion that was sleeping in the boy’s heart; he had made a favorite
of the clockmaker’s son, and had never before tested his skill in any
of his fits of passion. The two engaged now, to the intense interest
of the others. Both were stripped of coat and waistcoat, and Péron’s
lithe, slender figure presented a strange contrast to the bulky form
of the maître d’armes. The spectators, a group of half-grown lads and
hostlers, drew back in a circle large enough for the encounter, and
challenger and challenged faced each other. Choin was not only in a bad
temper, but also contemptuous of his adversary’s skill; he forgot how
intelligent and apt a pupil he faced. Péron watched him with heaving
breast; he looked for defeat, but was determined that he would not be
disarmed at the first stroke, as the others always were. He was, of
course, no match for the fencer in strength, but he had the activity of
a cat and he was not angry; moreover, he was sharply conscious of the
gaping interest of the onlookers, in the expectation of his failure.
The foils were blunt, happily for him, and there was no cause to fear
the uncontrollable fury of the maître d’armes. There was a momentary
pause; then, at the signal, their swords crossed, and Choin made the
pass which always disarmed the boys, though they had seen it a thousand
times. But Péron was not to be taken unawares; he sprang aside and
parried to the amazement of his instructor. There was another short
play, and again the maître d’armes failed to win and was even annoyed
by his adversary’s skill. Then the sparks flew; Choin began to put
out his full powers, and yet, miraculously, as it seemed to him, his
youthful opponent held his ground. The perspiration began to stand out
on the broad forehead of the fencing-master, and his short neck grew
red across the nape. He was furious, and his anger made his strokes
a trifle less dexterous than usual, while the boy, who had expected
defeat, was so elated by his successful resistance that he redoubled
his efforts. A grin, first of amazement and then of delight, began to
broaden on the faces of the spectators. Two or three slapped their
comrades with boisterous mirth, and there was a growing desire to
applaud. Choin felt it, and he glared around him fiercely.

“Ventre Saint Gris!” he cried, “if you asses do not hold your tongues,
I’ll whip every one of you, and spit you besides!”

This threat had the effect of slightly suppressing the enjoyment of the
spectators, but they could not refrain from their delighted interest
as another round commenced and still Péron kept his weapon. So intent
were they upon their amusement that no one noticed the quiet approach
of a small party of cavaliers, who halted at the sight of the fencers
and stood observing the scene. Choin was now fairly enraged, and he
was keeping his antagonist hotly engaged, the two dancing around the
circle; for as the maître d’armes thrust, Péron dodged and leaped from
side to side, parrying or avoiding every blow. Suddenly one of the
hostlers looked up and saw the group on the terrace; instantly there
was a murmur which reached the ears even of the fencing-master. “The
cardinal,” they cried, “and M. le Prince!” Choin started and looked up,
and in that instant Péron struck his foil from his hand and sent it
flying over the heads of the spectators.

“Bien!” cried the Prince de Condé, clapping his hands, “good hit! good
hit!”

Péron glanced up in amazement, and saw Condé and Cardinal de Richelieu
with several others looking down at them. The boy’s face turned
scarlet. A storm of applause burst forth at the prince’s approving
words, and the victor found himself a hero, while the maître d’armes
stood discomfited, fully aware that he had not only been defeated, but
had displayed too vicious a temper before his patron. Condé enjoyed the
whole situation.

“You are fairly whipped, Choin,” he said, laughing; “you are too
excellent a teacher.”

“I ask your excellency’s pardon,” stammered the fencing-master; “I
shall not make the same error twice.”

“By St. Denis! ’tis no error to instruct so well,” retorted the prince;
“at this rate, I shall have to engage your pupils to teach you.”

“Who is the lad?” suddenly asked the cardinal. He had been a silent
spectator of the scene, his keen face showing no sign of his thoughts.

“A protégé of mine, the son of a clockmaker,” replied Condé, not
without some pride in his selection.

“Of Jacques des Horloges,” said Richelieu, deliberately. “What is the
boy’s name?”

The prince called to the victor, who had retired among his comrades.

“Come hither, Péron,” he said, “and salute Monsignor.”

His face still suffused with blushes, his curls disordered, and with an
air of deep embarrassment, Péron advanced. The summons overwhelmed him
with confusion; the shy, proud boy had always shrunk from the presence
of this august personage, and he was awkward and agitated now that
he felt those piercing black eyes upon him. It was not the trembling
obsequiousness of the sycophant, but the shrinking of pride, and the
cardinal read him like an open page.

“This is Péron, monsignor,” said Condé, as the lad made his obeisance.

“Péron?” repeated Richelieu, thoughtfully. “What is the last name?” he
added, addressing the boy abruptly, as he looked searchingly at the
blushing and ingenuous face.

“I have no other,” replied Péron, with a simple dignity of manner,
rousing himself from his embarrassment.

“Ah!” ejaculated the cardinal, his eyes still fixed on the boy, “you
are then only the adopted son of the clockmaker of the Rue de la
Ferronnerie?”

“That is all, monsignor,” was the reply.

“You do not know who were your parents?” continued Richelieu, while
Condé listened surprised at his interest.

“If I knew my father, monsignor,” Péron said, “I should bear his name.”

“A trite answer,” remarked the cardinal. “Be not over-ambitious, my
son; serve the Prince de Condé and strike your good blows for France,
not in private brawls or secret conspiracy--and France will reward you.”

With these words he turned away and proceeded along the terrace,
accompanied by Condé and followed by an escort of gentlemen.

“I became interested in the boy at the clockmaker’s shop,” Condé said,
by way of explanation; “he has, as he says, no name but Péron.”

The cardinal made no immediate reply. He walked on deliberately; the
resolute, inscrutable face showed no sign of his secret thoughts. At
last, however, he spoke, a slight, sarcastic smile on his lips.

“Péron,” he said; “nay, rather Jehan François.”

“Your pardon, my lord cardinal,” replied Condé, “I do not think I heard
you aright.”

The cardinal smiled again. “M. de Condé,” he said deliberately, “give
me the boy.”

Condé looked at him in surprise.

“Is it possible that you also see the charm of the lad’s face
and manner, monsignor?” he asked in an amused tone; “he is but a
clockmaker’s boy, yet he interested me.”

“And he also interests me,” said Richelieu, calmly. “Frankly, M. le
Prince, may I have the boy?”

Condé shrugged his shoulders.

“Certainly, your eminence,” he said pleasantly; “he is not so precious
to me that I cannot part with him. His guardians, Jacques des Horloges
and a priest, Père Antoine, made much ado about his coming to me, but
doubtless they will be proud to give him to you.”

“That is soon settled,” Richelieu answered; “with your permission,
therefore, M. de Condé, I will take the lad with me to Ruel.”

So it was that, to Péron’s surprise and dismay, he found himself
riding that night to Ruel in the train of the man who had fascinated
his childish fancy, and whose figure had moved in every vision of his
boyhood. He could not decide whether he was pleased or not, but it was
a change which excited his fancy and flattered his youthful pride.
Not many boys of his years had had the good fortune to attract the
interest of Richelieu. It seemed to impress even Jacques des Horloges
and Père Antoine as a stroke of luck, for they made no objection to the
sudden change; it may have been that they dared not. In any case, all
went smoothly, and the fatherless boy took his place in the cardinal’s
house, watched, though he knew it not, by that keen eye which could not
be deceived.



CHAPTER IX

THE CARDINAL’S CLOCK


TIME passed, and there were changes in state and at court. The trouble
between the Huguenots and the Catholics had reached a climax, and
France had once more beheld a religious war. The gallant Duke of Rohan
had made his fight and lost. The famous siege of La Rochelle was now
a thing of the past; vanishing in the distance as the white sails of
Buckingham’s fleet vanished from before the starving city and left it
to the mercy of the cardinal. Richelieu had triumphed in war and peace,
though still beset by constant plotting and counterplotting at home.
The queen-mother, who had at first supported and patronized him, had
become jealous of his increasing influence with the king, and was now
intriguing to overthrow the minister. She was seconded in her efforts
by her second son, the Duke of Orleans, who, led on by his mother, had
openly rebelled against his brother the king, and invoked the aid of
Spain. His defeat at Castelnaudary had ruined the gallant Montmorency,
and Monsieur was ever ready to desert those whom he had involved in
his own dishonor. Marie de’ Medici had been defeated at every point in
her struggle with Richelieu, and finding herself in danger of being
shut up by the cardinal at Moulins and stripped of the last vestige
of authority, she fled at night, attended by only one gentleman, and
took refuge in Brussels. There she continued to hatch innumerable
conspiracies, determined to overthrow Richelieu and regain her own
place in the councils of her son. The struggle between mother and son
which Henri Quatre had predicted, was only to terminate with her death.
Unhappily she lived long enough to keep affairs in a constant turmoil
during most of her son’s reign, and at her death there was still left
the Duke of Orleans, who inherited her temperament. However, it was
during the early years of the queen-mother’s exile at Brussels that the
greatest number of plots were constantly springing up under the feet
of Richelieu, and it was at this time that he made the most use of his
followers and tried the merits of all those in his service.

Thus it happened that the years made many and swift changes for Péron,
while they made but few at the shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie. The
boy had grown to be a tall young man in the cardinal’s household,
and wore now the dress of Richelieu’s musketeers, having served his
patron faithfully and on several occasions with distinguished courage
and skill. He stood high in the cardinal’s esteem, and there seemed no
reason to regret his change from the service of Condé.

As for Jacques des Horloges, he showed little sign of increased age;
the clockmaker’s hair was gray now, and there were lines on his brow,
but he bore himself with the same appearance of muscular strength, and
Madame Michel did not look a day older. Her broad brown face was as
smooth as ever, and her glossy black hair was still put back under a
large white cap. M. de Turenne was dead, but a lineal descendant still
sat in the corner by the great jacquemart.

Since Péron entered the household of Richelieu, there had been much
recourse to the shop at the sign of Ste. Geneviève, and when the Palais
Cardinal was built it was Michel who furnished the clocks. It was from
the Rue de la Ferronnerie that the cardinal obtained the huge clock
which stood in one of the smaller salons of the palace; and a famous
clock it was, made for Catharine de’ Medici and especially framed to
serve the secret purposes of the Italian queen. The dial was of silver,
inlaid with gold, and it was surmounted by a silver angel with a
trumpet which sounded the hours. The case of the clock was so tall and
so broad that a man could stand within it without interfering with the
working of the machinery. It was of polished wood inlaid with brass,
and there was a small aperture in the door, which could be closed
or not, at will, by a slide, so cunningly contrived that it seemed
but part of the pattern of brass-work which ornamented the clock,--a
strange clock, which had served a double purpose, telling the time and
concealing spies, both in the Louvre and the Hôtel de la Reine. It
had a strange history: it struck the hour for the bell of St. Germain
l’Auxerrois to toll the signal for the Massacre of St. Bartholomew; it
counted the minutes before the murder of Henri de Guise, and it was
throbbing out the measure of time when Henri Quatre was dying. Through
Jacques des Horloges it came to stand at last in an apartment of the
Palais Cardinal; not in the salon where Richelieu held his court, not
in the anterooms crowded with the eager clients of the great minister,
but in a long, narrow room overlooking the Rue des Bons Enfants, which
was reached by a gallery leading to the entrance of the eastern wing; a
room where the cardinal received persons of all conditions who came to
him, voluntarily or involuntarily, on secret missions. Here the sting
of many a traitor was drawn, the key of many a plot was disclosed, the
secrets of the queen-mother were drawn skilfully from her agents. The
room was hung with crimson velvet; the chair of the cardinal stood
facing the clock of Catharine de’ Medici, and his visitor either stood
or sat directly in front of the clock. Only one door to the apartment
was visible, and that opened into the gallery; there was another, but
it was hidden by the hangings, and it closed the way to the private
rooms of Father Joseph la Tremblaye.

It was in this room that Péron stood, waiting the orders of the
cardinal. He had been summoned there at an early hour to wait until
Richelieu gave him some personal instructions. He had been employed
on many missions by his great patron, and he did not regard the
occasion as unusual. He stood looking up at the clock, for it recalled
many recollections of his childhood on the Rue de la Ferronnerie. He
had been a handsome boy and he was a handsome man, with a strong,
lithe figure and a face of unusually regular beauty. His glossy hair
was parted in the middle and fell in curls to his shoulders, after
the fashion of the day. He wore the rich uniform of the cardinal’s
musketeers, a wide collar of heavy lace around his throat and ruffles
of lace at his wrists. Many thoughts of his humble and lonely
childhood, of his training under Condé’s patronage, of his sudden
transfer to the household of Richelieu, were passing through the young
soldier’s mind. He remembered how the figure of the Bishop of Luçon had
fascinated his childish mind; he remembered the beauty of the Princesse
de Condé, and the face of Leonora Galigai, the wife of the hapless
Maréchal d’Ancre.

He was walking up and down the room when the hangings were put aside,
and Richelieu entered alone. His musketeer saluted and came to an
attitude of attention not far from his chair. Time had wrought changes
in the ruler of France. The pale Italian face had lost none of its
keenness, its inscrutable calm; his moustache and chin tuft were still
black, but the years had touched his hair with white. He wore his red
robe with a cape of priceless lace, and a small red cap on his head;
and he moved slowly to his seat. He did not speak for some time after
he sat down, but folded and endorsed some papers on the table at his
side; then he put them away, and looked up at the young man who stood
waiting his pleasure. His first question, though asked in cold and
deliberate tones, startled Péron.

“Are you fully armed?” he asked.

“I have my dagger and a pistol, as your eminence can see,” Péron
replied, laying his hand on his weapons.

“It is well,” said the cardinal, and he glanced at the clock; “in an
hour I shall have a visitor, and I shall receive him alone,--alone,
mark you, though I know him to be a violent and dangerous man. There
will be no guards in the gallery nor on the stairs; but you see the
clock, and doubtless you know its secret. It is my wish that you
conceal yourself in that clock; from where it stands you can see every
motion of my hand: if I raise it thus to my chin, seize and disarm the
visitor; if, however, he makes a sudden attack upon me, before I have
time to signal, you know your duty.”

“I know it, monsignor,” Péron said quietly, casting a strange glance of
interest at the great clock.

Richelieu saw it, and for a few moments his stern dark eyes studied the
young musketeer, and then a slight smile flickered on his inscrutable
face.

“You have been with me now many years,” he remarked, speaking slowly;
“I remember that you told me you had no name but Péron.”

“I know of no other, monsignor,” Péron replied, his face flushing.

The cardinal looked out through the window toward the Rue des Bons
Enfants.

“More than twenty years ago,” he said in a cold tone, “a gentleman of
France was beheaded for complicity in a treasonable plot against the
state, against the king. He was convicted and sentenced through the
testimony of his best friend; his estates, being confiscated, went to
the accuser. His guilt, however, was never fully established, and more
than ten years ago I found evidence which proved him innocent. The
man--the friend--who bore witness against him would have removed his
only child so that no claimant to the estate could ever be produced;
would have done away with the child, a boy of four years old, if he
had not been baffled by the fidelity of a servant and a priest. They
spirited away the boy, and bred him up in concealment, under a false
name, in a shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie.”

“Mère de Dieu!” cried the young musketeer, below his breath, “is it
possible that your eminence speaks of me?”

Richelieu looked at his startled face and smiled,--a strange expression
in those wonderful eyes.

“I have told your history, Péron,” he remarked coolly. “I recognized
you in the tennis court of Condé by your likeness to your father.”

“And my father died that death innocent?” cried Péron, forgetting
the presence in which he stood, forgetting all but this wonderful
revelation.

“He died innocent,” replied Richelieu, “and doubtless M. de Bruneau
died without cause also. He was the nephew of your father; he made
a claim to the estates; the king was inclined to listen, but there
was again a charge of treason, this time, however, with some sort of
drunken confession. M. de Bruneau went to the Châtelet, and from thence
to the block, and the man who had ruined both uncle and nephew still
possessed the estates and the title.”

“I remember,” said Péron, thoughtfully, “hearing Père Antoine speak of
M. de Bruneau. Monsignor, what is my name?”

The cardinal smiled. He had watched with interest the storm of emotion
which showed itself in the pale face of the soldier.

“Your name is Jehan François de Calvisson,” he replied, “and but for
the strange vicissitudes of destiny, you would be to-day Marquis de
Nançay.”

“Mon Dieu!” cried Péron, with passion, “and that man, whom I have seen
and passed a dozen times, is my father’s murderer!”

“Your father’s accuser,” corrected the cardinal, quietly. “His name is
Pilâtre de Marsou, Sieur de Briçonnet, but he bears your father’s title
and holds his estates at the pleasure of the king.”

Péron took two short turns across the room, his breast heaving and his
lips compressed. Richelieu watched him narrowly; doubtless his purpose
would be accomplished.

“I beg your pardon, monsignor,” Péron said, pausing before him, “but a
man can scarcely hear such a tale with composure.”

The cardinal glanced at the clock.

“In a quarter of an hour now,” he said, “M. de Nançay comes here to see
me on a secret summons. You will take your place, therefore, in the
clock, and remember your instructions.”

The fire leaped up in Péron’s eyes, and he laid his hand on his dagger.

“Pardieu!” he cried, “I pray your eminence to make the signal!”

Richelieu looked toward the door; his quick ear had caught the sound of
a footstep in the gallery.

“M. le Marquis is early,” he said coldly; and then he pointed to the
clock, his face as immovable as stone. “Take your position yonder,
Sieur de Calvisson, and do your duty.”

Without a word Péron turned with a white face, and stepped into his
strange place of concealment. As he did so, the clock struck eleven,
and the silver angel sounded the silver trumpet, a sweet clear note,
more penetrating than a bell.



CHAPTER X

IN THE TOILS


ON the stroke of the clock the door at the further end of the room
was opened and M. de Nançay entered unattended. As he advanced, his
tall figure loomed conspicuously in the narrow room. Time had dealt
kindly with him; he was now past middle age, but rather more handsome
than in his earlier manhood. As usual, he was dressed in the extreme
of fashion. He wore a suit of violet-colored velvet, his collar was
of Mechlin lace, as were the ruffles at his sleeves and his knees,
and he wore jewelled buckles on his low velvet shoes. A scarf of pale
blue silk, the color of Nançay, crossed his breast; he carried his
hat, covered with long plumes, in his hand, and wore no weapon but
his sword. He approached the cardinal with a truculent bearing, and
scarcely saluted as he paused before him.

“You are punctual, M. de Nançay,” Richelieu remarked, affecting not to
notice his manner. “Be seated, sir,” he added, indicating the chair in
front of the clock; “there are matters which we shall need to discuss
at leisure.”

After an instant of hesitation the marquis sat down, leaning his elbow
on the table, and gazing boldly and defiantly at the minister, whose
cold face was like a mask, without expression save for the dangerous
glow in the black eyes.

“I am pressed for time, M. le Cardinal,” de Nançay said haughtily. “I
came hither at your request and to my own detriment, for I should be on
my way to Blois.”

Richelieu held a sheet of folded paper in his hands, which he was
drawing back and forth through his fingers.

“Ah, to Blois!” he said, raising his eyebrows slightly, “M. de Nançay
mistakes his destination. To Brussels, was it not?”

The marquis frowned fiercely.

“Sir,” he said insolently, “’tis possible that you know my plans better
than I know them myself.”

The cardinal inclined his head. “It may be so, M. le Marquis,” he
replied, coolly unfolding the paper which he had held in his hand,
and spreading it out before his visitor; “you will be so kind as to
read over that list and see if I have omitted the name of a single
conspirator against the life of Armand Jean du Plessis.”

At the first sight of the paper the dark face of the marquis turned
pale, but he controlled himself with wonderful nerve and stared
contemptuously at his opponent.

“Sir,” he said coldly, “if you desire to head the list of your enemies
with the name of a prince of the blood, it is not for me to confirm or
contradict your suspicions.”

“M. de Nançay, you play boldly and well,” Richelieu said, “but you
have lost. You have not been unwatched, monsieur, since the day of
Castelnaudary. You were followed at Compiègne, your correspondence with
Monsieur and with the Comte de Soissons is in yonder cabinet. Your
intrigues in Lorraine and with M. d’Épernon are known, as was the plot
that you would have hatched in Languedoc. You are in my power, M. le
Marquis; it remains with you to obtain my best terms.”

There was not a change in the inscrutable face, but his inexorable
black eyes never left those of his victim; his gaze was fixed
unwaveringly on the man who sat listening to him, and who was
controlling his rising passion with a mighty effort which sent the
blood from cheek and lip. M. de Nançay saw that he was caught in a
skilfully laid trap, but he was a man of too bold a spirit and too
fierce a nature to waver even in the face of his deadly peril. His hand
sought the hilt of his sword and played with it, as though he longed
to draw the blade and strike it into the bosom of his tormentor.

“M. le Cardinal,” he said haughtily, “you have made strange statements,
but I defy you to produce the proof.”

Richelieu smiled for the first time. He leaned forward a little in his
chair, and pointed in the direction of the garden, which was one of the
beauties of the Palais Cardinal.

“M. le Marquis remembers perhaps the conversation which he held with M.
de Vesson under the lime-tree yonder?”

M. de Nançay wetted his parched lips with his tongue, and the beads of
perspiration stood out on his forehead.

“It is the first time I have known of hearsay testimony, monsignor,” he
remarked with a sneer.

“It is sometimes more valuable than false witness, M. de Nançay,”
retorted the cardinal, dryly.

“Is this all that you have against me, M. le Cardinal?” demanded the
marquis, with a black look,--“the trumped up and unfounded charges of
your spies, the diseased imaginations of your cooks and lackeys?”

“Bear with me, M. le Marquis,” Richelieu replied calmly, “there is yet
something more. I know of your designs against the state and against
my life; I know of the proposed meeting at Poissy--in short, monsieur,
I know all, from one of your number.”

The marquis drew a deep breath and leaned forward in his chair; he saw
that the play was played out.

“Give me the name of the man who dares to accuse Pilâtre de Nançay
behind his back,” he demanded fiercely.

The cardinal looked at him with a sardonic smile.

“It is easy to gratify you, M. de Nançay,” he said; “I had the greater
part of my information through Gaston d’Orléans.”

Nançay sprang from his chair, cursing Monsieur in a burst of fury.

“The accursed coward!” he exclaimed, “the liar who betrayed Montmorency
and a hundred more. May his soul perish in hell!”

The cardinal watched him keenly. Once he had almost raised his hand to
his chin, but he let it fall again, to the profound disappointment of
the watcher in the clock.

“Be seated, M. de Nançay,” he said quietly; “it is not my custom to
offer terms to traitors, but I have spoken of terms to you.”

“You are pleased to call your enemies traitors, monsignor,” the marquis
remarked bitterly, “yet you are not the king.”

“I have no enemies but those of the state, monsieur,” Richelieu replied
coolly. “I have sufficient evidence to send you to the Châtelet--ay,
to the block, but it is possible that your life may be spared under
certain conditions.”

For a moment there was a pause, and no sound but the throbbing of
Catharine de’ Medici’s clock, though it seemed to Péron that the noise
of his own heart-beats drowned that of the machinery over his head.
Nançay was again sitting in his chair, leaning forward, his eyes on the
floor. Opposite was Richelieu, as immovable as a statue and as cold and
remorseless.

“Name your conditions,” said the marquis, at last, in a hoarse voice.

“They are simple,” replied the cardinal, deliberately; “there are
three: First, you will make a full confession in the presence of
witnesses; second, you will affirm the names upon that list, excepting
Monsieur’s, who will make his terms with the king; third, you will sign
this paper which establishes the innocence of François de Calvisson,
late Marquis de Nançay, whose execution was due mainly to your
accusations. On these terms the king will spare your life.”

M. de Nançay laughed harshly.

“Being a ruined man, I should doubtless be harmless, M. le Cardinal,”
he said scornfully. “You offer terms which no one but a madman would
accept.”

The cardinal leaned back in his chair.

“You know the alternative, monsieur,” he retorted indifferently; “I
have but to raise my finger and you will be arrested.”

“Shall I?” cried de Nançay passionately, springing to his feet and
drawing his sword. “Not until I have my revenge, monsignor!”

He sprang toward the cardinal, overturning the table in his
impetuosity, and his weapon was at Richelieu’s breast when Péron
caught his arm with an iron grasp. The sudden apparition of the young
musketeer took de Nançay completely by surprise, and as he turned to
shake him off, he looked full into Péron’s face.

“Mon Dieu!” he cried, falling back, his own face turning the color of
ashes, and his gaze fascinated by this image of his dead victim. It
seemed--for one wild moment--that François de Calvisson had returned,
in the full flush of youth, to keep his reckoning. He stared wildly at
Péron, his breath coming short.

“Mon Dieu!” he cried again, “do the dead haunt me?”

“Ay, M. le Marquis,” said Richelieu, in his smoothest tones, “they live
ever in the consciences of those who have compassed their ruin.”

The marquis rallied at the sound of the voice he hated, and the truth
flashed upon him.

“So,” he said bitterly, “’twas for this that you hatched this scheme to
entrap me.”

In his first astonishment, Péron had snatched his sword from his hand,
but Nançay was now a desperate man, and he made a sudden dash forward,
trying to evade the young soldier and reach the door. But it was in
vain. Péron closed with him on the instant, and, not having drawn his
own weapons, clenched with him in a deadly embrace. The musketeer had
the advantage of greater agility and more coolness, and he pressed his
antagonist steadily back toward the window.

Richelieu had risen from his chair at the attack of M. de Nançay and
he now stood by it, watching the struggle with composure and making
no attempt to summon any one to Péron’s aid, although for a while the
victory seemed in doubt. However, assistance was not needed, for the
soldier succeeded in tripping the marquis and threw him at full length
on the floor. He fell heavily and lay unconscious, his rich dress in
disorder and his rigid face distorted with passion.

“Have you killed him?” demanded the cardinal, a suppressed eagerness in
his tone.

Péron was kneeling on one knee beside the unconscious man, flushed and
short of breath from the struggle.

“Nay, monsignor,” he said, “’tis but a swoon.”

“I thought you would use your weapons,” said Richelieu, slowly.

Péron raised his head proudly.

“I never strike a man in the back, your eminence,” he said.

“It is the more likely that you will be struck there,” retorted
Richelieu, dryly; “summon aid and have this carrion removed to a place
of security; then I have other orders for you.”

In a few moments M. de Nançay’s unconscious form was raised and carried
out of the room, and Péron again stood alone before Richelieu. The
cardinal had seated himself calmly and was arranging the papers thrown
out of place when the table was overturned.

“Sieur de Calvisson,” he said, addressing Péron by his new name, “I
have put a dozen men at your disposal; take them and go at once to the
Hôtel de Nançay on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre. Search the house,
secure all the papers, and arrest any suspect within it, leaving a
sufficient guard to prevent any person, man or woman, from entering or
quitting it. Do all this quickly and return to report to me.”

Péron bowed and retired. The cardinal followed him with his eyes until
the door closed behind him, then he leaned back in his chair and looked
at the clock.

“The fool!” he exclaimed, “the young fool! A dagger thrust would have
ended all. I mistook the boy’s nature; Michon or Jacques would have
made no such mistake.”



CHAPTER XI

RENÉE


PÉRON and his twelve men, all armed and prepared for possible
resistance, left the Palais Cardinal in less than a quarter of an hour
after Richelieu had given his final instructions. Péron was in command
of the party and walked a little in advance, anxious to be left to his
own meditations, for the last three hours had been full of emotion; in
that short space his life had been entirely changed. He was no longer
a nameless waif, the adopted son of a clockmaker; he bore a name long
honored in France, and his family had sprung from the noblest origin.
On his mother’s side he was related to the great Huguenot house of
Rosny, and on his father’s to the Catholic Duke of Montbazon. From
being a man of humble origin, whose only chance of preferment lay in
the favor of his patron, he was now a claimant to title and estates
lawfully his own. The incidents of his childhood, so perplexing to him,
were at last all understood. He remembered the room at the Château de
Nançay, where Jacques des Horloges had made him pray; he remembered
Père Antoine’s puzzling answers to his childish questions; it was all
plain now, the mystery of the attic on the Rue de la Ferronnerie, the
tenderness and respect with which he had been treated by the clockmaker
and his wife, and a hundred other trifling indications of his rank
which had been concealed from him. He was not slow to divine the motive
of this concealment; nothing could have been gained by the revelation
of such a secret, and it was a dangerous one too, while his father’s
enemy was in such a powerful position that he could easily have
removed the child. Péron’s feelings toward M. de Nançay were colored
with passionate resentment and a thirst for revenge. Had he been less
generous, he would have slain him in the struggle before the cardinal’s
clock, but it was not in his nature to strike a blow when an enemy was
at his mercy. A man less scrupulous of honor would not have hesitated
to avenge his father’s death. Nor would Péron have hesitated to kill
the marquis in an open fight, where both were equally armed. Had M. de
Nançay been free at that moment and the edict against duelling not in
force, Péron would have challenged him to single combat on the Place
Royale and fought him to the death. But Richelieu was cardinal, and the
duel was a capital offence. Yet, as Péron walked through the streets,
he felt that when the hour came and they met on equal terms, he would
surely kill M. de Nançay; and with this passionate feeling in his
heart, he approached the house of his enemy.

It was now the middle of the afternoon, and the party of musketeers
walking rapidly through the streets attracted more or less attention;
women peeped at them from the upper windows, tradesmen stared from the
doors of their shops, and a small train of ragamuffins had gathered
in their wake. The brilliant uniform of the cardinal’s guards and the
striking figure of their leader caused a little ripple of excitement.
The sudden swoop of Monsignor upon his enemies was proverbial, and the
sight of his soldiers always created interest, conjecture, sometimes
even alarm. They had reached the corner of the Rue St. Thomas du
Louvre, however, before anything occurred to delay their rapid
progress. Here there were many foot-passengers; a party had just left
the Hôtel de Rambouillet, another was going toward it, and through
these groups of gay gentlemen the musketeers were obliged to push their
way. Péron, considerably in advance of his companions and with his
mind full of his own thoughts, advanced quickly into the midst of the
crowd. But his course was barred by a young man dressed in the extreme
of fashion, with his face painted and his hair curled like a doll. He
was standing directly in Péron’s way, and as the musketeer approached,
faced about and eyed him insolently from head to foot. The glance was
unbearable, and Péron with a quick movement thrust him aside and would
have passed on, contemptuous of the fop, who seemed little more than a
boy. But this was not so easily accomplished. The young man instantly
resented the strong push of the soldier’s arm and sprang after him,
catching up with him and peering into his face.

“Sir musketeer, you struck me!” he exclaimed, frowning fiercely.

“Sir courtier, you blocked the public way,” retorted Péron, with
impatient contempt and a scornful laugh.

“Ah!” ejaculated the stranger, savagely, “you make a jest of it. Sir,
if you had hurt me, I would have thrown you into the street.”

“And had you hurt me,” retorted Péron, calmly, “I would have broken
your neck.”

The exquisite stared as if unable to believe his own ears.

“Impertinent!” he said between his teeth, “you are a musketeer, I am
the Sieur de Vesson! If we were equals, I would teach you to insult
gentlemen.”

“I am Péron the musketeer,” replied Péron, coolly. “Were you a man I
would beat you; but since you are a fool, sir, I will simply teach you
to give place to your betters;” and with that he caught the courtier by
the arm and made him spin around so suddenly that when he was released
he fell in a little heap into the crowd which had closed up about the
two. A glance at the faces which surrounded him, some curious, some
amused, some angry, warned Péron that he might be disastrously delayed.
Across the street was the Hôtel de Nançay, and in one of the windows
he saw a woman’s face. A warning, at any instant, might defeat the
cardinal’s plans. Péron drew his sword and glanced over his shoulder
at his followers, who were laughing heartily at the Sieur de Vesson’s
discomfiture.

“Close up,” shouted the young commander, “and advance in the king’s
name.”

“Not so fast!” cried a man, who seemed to be a servant. “You have
assaulted the nephew of M. de Nançay. Gentlemen, I beseech you, aid me
in apprehending this insolent soldier.”

“Stand aside,” said Péron, harshly; “think twice before you offer an
affront to Cardinal de Richelieu!”

Monsignor’s name had a magical effect. The crowd parted, and Péron
led the way across the street toward the Hôtel de Nançay. But the
musketeers were not free of their followers. The Sieur de Vesson was
recovering from his fall, and his indignant exclamations urged on
his friends to resent the treatment that he had received. There were
angry mutterings against the soldiers, and those of the better sort,
even, were annoyed at the affront to a gentleman. Péron, meanwhile,
keenly regretted the unhappy episode, as it had drawn general attention
to his movements and made it impossible to keep secret the intended
raid on the house of the marquis. The crowd was at their heels as
the musketeers came to the entrance of the hôtel. It was a large and
imposing building, the main part being square and three stories high.
It was flanked by two wings, however, of only two stories, which
abutted on the garden in the rear. There was a flight of steps, four or
five, up to the main entrance, which was arched and bore the arms of
Nançay over the apex. The windows on the street, in the first story,
were ironed, but those above were open. On the left side a lane ran
down between this house and the next, and it was on this that the
garden gate was situated.

Péron took in, at a glance, the possibilities for the escape of the
inmates, and saw that he must divide his little party. It would take
eight men to guard the points of possible egress; only four would be
available to assist him in the search of the interior and to resist
possible interference. The crowd grew noisy, and no time could be lost;
he gave his orders rapidly but distinctly, and then ascended the steps
to the door, all the while conscious that a pair of eyes watched him
through the opening of the shutter overhead. He tried the latch, but
finding it fastened, he struck the door with the hilt of his sword. He
was on the topmost step, a conspicuous figure, and below him were the
four men he had selected to accompany him; behind these, the bystanders
and M. de Vesson’s friends had formed in a semicircle, held in check
by curiosity and amazement, but ready enough for mischief. To Péron’s
surprise, after a short delay, his summons brought the porter to the
door. The fellow opened it and peered out with a frightened face. He
had not intended to admit his visitors unquestioned, but he was not
prepared for the result of his movement. Péron’s one wish and aim was
to get into the house and secure it against the crowd while he executed
the cardinal’s orders, and no sooner was the door open than he thrust
his foot and shoulder into the space and threw the door back with such
force that he upset the lackey, who had been holding it. The musketeers
were quick to follow up this advantage, and in a moment all five stood
within the hall.

“Close the door and bolt it,” ordered Péron; then stirring the
frightened porter with his foot, he added, “Up, knave; you will get no
harm if you attempt no mischief. Tell us how many men are in the house.”

The man had recognized the cardinal’s uniform, and being greatly
alarmed at the unusual violence of the entrance, fancied that something
evil had happened, and, like all such creatures, was eager enough
to propitiate. He stumbled to his feet and stood rubbing his joints
stupidly and staring at the soldiers.

“There are no men in the house, your excellency,” he said, “but the
cook and the scullion. The others went out with M. de Nançay early this
morning and have not returned. There are only women here.”

This was better than Péron had had reason to expect, and he was
inclined to believe it, because of the ease with which he had obtained
entrance. He ordered the porter to stay where he was with one of the
men, who was to watch the door, and leaving the two to warm their
hands over the charcoal-pan which the porter had been feeding, Péron
despatched the other three by different directions to the kitchen
to secure the cook and close the rear doors. This left the task of
searching the house chiefly for his own portion, and after a hasty
examination of the lower rooms, which were empty and evidently for
more public use than those above, Péron turned to the main staircase.
By this time the female inmates of the house had taken alarm, and
more than one frightened face peeped at him from the gallery around
the upper hall and commanding the stairs. These were broad and had
two landings, for the ceilings were lofty and the flight was long. As
Péron ascended, he heard a woman’s voice raised in a tone of angry
excitement. The hall was dim, although it was still early in the
afternoon, but the sudden opening of a door cast a broad stream of
light across the space at the top. The musketeer had reached the third
step from the last when he was confronted by a young woman, who checked
his advance with an imperious gesture.

“What is your errand here, sir?” she demanded disdainfully, “and how
dare you thrust yourself into M. de Nançay’s house with such violence?”

At her first appearance Péron had saluted her with grave courtesy, and
he stood now, hat in hand, looking at her in surprise and amusement,
for she looked ready in her defiance to fight a regiment of musketeers.

“Mademoiselle,” he replied gently, “I come here with the king’s warrant
to secure certain papers. I can assure you that you will receive every
consideration at our hands.”

“You have made a strange mistake!” she exclaimed haughtily. “This is
the hôtel of the Marquis de Nançay; the king would send no one here on
such an errand.”

“I regret that I have not made a mistake, mademoiselle,” Péron said,
“but I can show you his majesty’s warrant.”

She looked at it and caught her breath. A horrible suspicion was taking
possession of her; for a moment or two she was silent, evidently trying
to collect her thoughts. Péron had come there with the bitterest
feelings toward M. de Nançay and his family, but, divining who this
young girl was, he looked at her with pity and admiration. She was not
tall, and her small but graceful figure was richly attired in pale
blue; her face was charming and would have been gentle and tender in
its style of beauty but for the straight dark brows and glowing dark
eyes. She had the white and red complexion of a blonde, however, and
her face was framed in a profusion of pale golden hair which rippled in
curls on her low brow, and fell, shading her cheeks, to her shoulders;
part of it was knotted loosely at the back of her head, but the
greater part of the rebellious curls had escaped and were playing
riotously about her neck. The sight of the king’s warrant baffled her
for a moment only; she rallied and glanced contemptuously at the bearer.

“Where is his majesty’s provost-marshal?” she asked sharply.

“This was committed to me, mademoiselle,” Péron replied.

“A grave mistake, sir,” she said with a forced laugh; “you cannot
compel M. de Nançay’s household to respect a warrant in the hands of a
nobody!”

Péron flushed scarlet and bit his lip. He had no wish to bandy words
with this young beauty, knowing he would be worsted without the means
of avenging himself, but he saw that it would be necessary to carry
matters with a high hand, and he heard too the increasing tumult in the
street. M. de Vesson was thirsting for revenge; no time could be lost.

“Mademoiselle,” he said sternly, “I come here by the order of the
cardinal, and I must do my duty, though I would gladly do it with all
respect to your feelings and your rights, if you will permit me.”

She gazed at him furiously, her head thrown back and her hands toying
nervously with a small dagger in her belt.

“Sir musketeer,” she said, “I will resist to the last!”

Péron smiled involuntarily. Her small figure seemed to him no more than
a feather in his way, but his chivalry was a mountain, and she was
quick to divine it, though his smile made her furious.

“I am sorry, mademoiselle,” he replied quietly. “My orders are to
search this house, and I shall execute them.”

“If you dare to do so,” she retorted passionately, “M. de Nançay will
have you sent to the Châtelet! Ay, sir, do you think we will endure
such insolence? Hark! there is an uproar at the door; ’tis time that
some one came to protect women from such intrusion.”

Péron heard the noise too, but he knew that it was only M. de Vesson
trying to gain admittance. Mademoiselle meanwhile stood like a young
fury, blocking the stairs. He determined to take strong measures.

“André,” he called to the guard at the door, “shoot the first man who
forces an entrance!”

Though he affected not to be looking at mademoiselle, he saw her face
blanch. She expected her father, not knowing where he was. Péron turned
to her with composure.

“Mademoiselle de Nançay,” he said, “if further resistance is offered to
the execution of his Majesty’s warrant, and the delay precipitates a
quarrel between my men and your father’s, the first man who enters this
house will be shot, without respect of persons.”

She drew a deep breath and looked at him with furious eyes.

“Sir,” she said scornfully, “you are no better than a house-breaker;
but go your way--search the house, and much good may it do you and
those who sent you!”

As she spoke, she turned and walked straight into a room at the head
of the stairs. Not knowing what else to do, and anxious to keep her in
sight, Péron followed. It was a large salon furnished with luxurious
magnificence, the tessellated floor covered with rugs of Flemish
carpet and the walls hung with tapestries of fine cloth of gold from
the famous workers of the Hôtel de la Maque. There were several inlaid
cabinets in the room, and to these Péron directed his attention,
finding them fairly well filled with papers and books. Mademoiselle
meanwhile had taken her position near the hearth, where a fire was
burning, and she was watching him with a glance of angry disdain. He
had searched two cabinets with small results, the documents being all
of an innocent nature, and he had just gone to the third, which took
him to the end of the room, farthest from her, when he heard a slight
noise and the apartment was suddenly illumined by the blaze in the
chimney. He turned quickly and saw Mademoiselle de Nançay holding some
papers on the logs with the tongs.

Péron sprang across the room, and taking the young girl lightly
around the waist set her aside as he would have lifted a child. Then
he thrust his hand into the flames; but it was too late: the charred
and blackened remnant bore no likeness to a manuscript and crumbled
to ashes in his fingers. Bitterly disappointed and mortified, he rose
to his feet and looked around at his quick-witted adversary. He was
astonished at the change in the haughty demoiselle; she was laughing
and clapping her hands with the wicked glee of a child who has won
a victory. He stood looking at her with a flushed face; it was not
anger that he felt: a sudden recollection had brought back to him the
flower-decked terraces and the laughing, beautiful face of little Renée
de Nançay.

At that moment he was not thinking of the cardinal or his own wrongs;
he only wondered if that bunch of faded violets still lay in the
cupboard on the Rue de la Ferronnerie.

Misunderstanding his pause and his confused silence, mademoiselle swept
him a mocking curtsey.

“Monsieur will continue his arduous labors,” she said triumphantly,
“without my assistance;” and she ran lightly from the room and left
Péron standing by the hearth, entirely routed.



CHAPTER XII

MADAME MICHEL’S STORY


HALF an hour later, Péron had completed his fruitless search. He had
expected no results from it, after mademoiselle’s manœuver, but had
faithfully executed his orders. She, meanwhile, had retreated to the
garden, where she sat under a lime-tree, her cloak muffled about her,
and refusing to budge until the intruders left the house. From the
other inmates Péron met with no opposition, neither was there any
further assault upon the door. It was indeed so quiet outside that he
was at a loss to understand it, and supposed that the Sieur de Vesson
had determined to wait for him in the street. But this was not the
case; in the midst of the tumult, when de Vesson and his friends were
boisterously demanding admittance, a messenger arrived on horseback.
This man called the others aside, and after a hurried and excited
conference they all withdrew, leaving the musketeers in undisputed
possession of the premises. The crowd, drawn by the disturbance, then
speedily diminished until only a handful remained staring at the
guards, who were posted at every entrance of the hôtel.

When the search was completed, Péron descended into the garden and
bowed gravely before mademoiselle, who only gazed at him defiantly over
the folds of her mantle.

“My orders are precise, Mademoiselle de Nançay,” he said, “and I am
forced to post my men around the house; but I shall leave none within
it, that your privacy may be uninterrupted.”

“Your consideration is appreciated, monsieur,” she replied, in a
mocking tone; “as long as I cannot leave my cage, I may do what I
please within it! But alas! I am sorry for your varlets when M. de
Nançay returns.”

Péron made no reply; he thought instead of the marquis in the hands of
Richelieu. He turned to leave the garden, but she was not yet done with
him.

“Did you look under the beds, monsieur?” she asked lightly, “and up the
kitchen chimney? Your occupation is noble, and you should neglect none
of the details!”

“Mademoiselle,” Péron replied gravely, “I got to the chimney too late.”

She understood him, and a gleam of mischief leaped into her dark
eyes; but she bit her lip and was silent. She would not jest with her
inferior.

He turned again toward the gate, but something in her last speech
stung him; he faced about once more.

“Mademoiselle,” he said haughtily, “when I came here, I did not know
that there were any women in the house. I was ordered to seize the
papers in the name of the king; I obeyed, but my duty has been odious
to me.”

She made no reply to this, but evidently it softened her mood, for she
stood a moment looking at him and then took a step forward.

“Sir musketeer, I would ask you one question,” she said. “Where is my
father?”

Péron was silent. He, who had come here full of hatred of M. de Nançay,
could not bear to strike this blow. She saw it, and, for the first
time, wavered in her defiance.

“I pray you speak,” she said hurriedly; “’tis better to know the worst
than to be deceived with false hopes.”

“He is in the Palais Cardinal,” Péron replied.

She was agitated now, but uncertain. She gave Péron a searching glance.

“Does he stay of his free will?” she demanded imperiously.

“Mademoiselle,” he replied gently, “I regret to tell you the truth; M.
de Nançay is a prisoner.”

“Mère de Dieu!” she cried softly, her face white to the lips.

But her emotion was only momentary. She drew herself up haughtily.

“I thank you for the truth, monsieur,” she said coldly, and turning her
back on Péron, she walked slowly into the house.

A strange transformation had taken place in his feelings since he
entered the front door, and he went out of the garden now with a
grave face. He even forgot that it was his own house that he was
leaving, but he remembered to give the guards specific instructions
about their duties in watching the place and about courtesy in their
treatment of the inmates. He was surprised but gratified to find so
few people in the street, and after making some inquiries about M. de
Vesson’s sudden departure, he took two of the men who had been in the
house with him, and proceeded directly to the Palais Cardinal. In the
absence of Richelieu, he made his report to Father Joseph, and was
ordered to wait on the cardinal that night for further instructions.
The interval of a few hours gave him the much desired opportunity to
visit the shop at the sign of Ste. Geneviève. His heart swelled with
gratitude at the thought of the fidelity of the clockmaker and his
wife, who had sheltered him at their own peril and reared the orphaned
and penniless boy at their own expense, and that too without prospect
of remuneration. As Péron proceeded from the palace to the shop by
the way of the Rue de l’Arbre Sec and St. Honoré, where his childish
feet had so often travelled, his thoughts were full of tenderness for
the guardians of his infancy and a new emotion which he could not yet
define in regard to his new position and prospects. He was not ignorant
of the cardinal’s intentions, and knew that he might shortly be
proclaimed Marquis de Nançay; yet his thoughts dwelt more on the sting
of mademoiselle’s defiance as she stood under the lime-tree in the
garden on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre. He thought more of her pain and
mortification at her father’s disgrace than he did of the wrongs which
he had to revenge.

When he reached the shop he saw that there were several visitors
conversing with the clockmaker, so he turned to the gate at the
side, and finding it unlatched, entered the courtyard. He saw Madame
Michel setting the table for supper, unconscious of his presence,
and he quietly ascended the stone steps on the outside of the house
and entered the workshop in the second story. Two apprentices were
putting away the day’s work and setting the place in order, and they
scarcely noticed him as he passed through the room to his own little
apartment, which remained exactly as it had been arranged for him as a
child. It was full of recollections for Péron, but he did not pause to
consider them. He went directly to the little cupboard, which Madame
Michel had left just as he had kept it. He opened it, and in a moment
found a package tied up with the elaborate care of childish fingers.
He undid it carefully, and there lay the piece of red glass which he
had hidden so long ago, and with it, in a folded paper, were the dried
and faded violets of Poissy. He smiled a little at the sight of them;
a strange destiny had again brought him face to face with Renée de
Nançay. The other relic he now examined by the light of a taper and
saw that the red glass of his childhood was a ruby, of unusual size,
bearing the arms of Nançay upon it. He needed no other confirmation of
the cardinal’s story; all through the day it had seemed possible that
Richelieu was mistaken in his identity, but now he was convinced. He
took the jewel in his hand and went down to the kitchen where madame
was alone, her sleeves rolled up and her broad brown face rosy from the
fire. She looked up at his entrance and greeted him with surprise and
pleasure.

“I did not look for you, Péron,” she said, “but you are always welcome.
How goes it at the Palais Cardinal, and how is Monsignor?”

Péron did not reply to this question; he held out his hand with the
jewel lying on the palm.

“Madame,” he said, “I think you know the history of this.”

She looked at it in amazement, and uttered an exclamation, her face
flushing.

“Where did you find it?” she cried. “For years I have searched for that
stone!”

Péron laughed. “Ah, good Madame Michel!” he said, “if you had told me
the truth you would have found my father’s jewel sooner.”

She looked at him in joyful surprise; this secret had been her torment
for more than twenty years. She clasped her hands, tears shining in her
eyes.

“How did you know?” she cried.

“Monsignor told me to-day,” Péron replied. “As for this jewel--I took
it the day you found me in the attic and rated me so soundly for
meddling with your chests.”

Before he could prevent it, she caught his hand and kissed it.

“M. le Marquis,” she exclaimed, joyful in the midst of her tears,
“praise be to the saints, you shall be recognized at last!”

“’Tis for me to kiss your hands, my mother,” Péron answered gently. “I
am too touched, too overwhelmed with my obligations to you to know how
to express my gratitude, but be assured that the boy you sheltered will
never forget his childhood in this shop at the sign of Ste. Geneviève.”

“M. le Marquis,” she began, “the--”

“To you I am Péron,” he said, interrupting her; “and I am not a
marquis at all, only Jehan de Calvisson, for my father’s estates were
confiscated to the king. For the time, at least, dear Madame Michel, I
am only Péron the musketeer.”

Plainly this did not satisfy her, but she held him in too much
affection and respect to dispute his wishes. She went on to tell him
that the three chests which she had so carefully guarded contained the
evidences of his birth and title. In the hasty flight from Nançay, she
had gathered his rich clothing together and packed it with some of the
silver and jewels of his mother, and the documents that would in the
future establish his identity beyond dispute.

“Ah, Monsieur Jehan,” she said, wiping a tear from her eyes, “it was
a dark time: your poor father was dead; they executed him at noon,
and Père Antoine was with him. Only Jacques and I and Archambault,
the cook, were at the château; the other servants had fled in fright,
treacherous too, because of your father’s misfortunes. Jacques was a
born retainer of Nançay, as his fathers had been before him; but for
a long time he had had this shop, being so expert a clockmaker that
the marquis--God rest his soul--set him up here many, many years ago.
But Jacques had been married to me, and I had been madame’s maid and
yours. In my arms were you laid when you were born; and a beautiful
baby you were, Péron; a fine, straight-limbed child, and so red that
the marquise was worried. But see how beautiful your skin is now!
Well, I was there that night with you and Jacques; we were up in the
Tour de l’Horloge looking for Archambault, for he had gone to Poissy
for tidings. It was moonlight, and presently we saw him. He was little
and fat, even then; we saw him running like mad across the fields,
and we knew that something was wrong. He came in gasping, his round
eyes starting from his head, and told us that M. de Marsou, who is now
called Marquis de Nançay, had sent a band of desperate men to Poissy,
and they were coming to Nançay; and Archambault had, too, a message
from Père Antoine telling us to save the child from his father’s enemy.
We had not a moment to lose, and we decided in a moment what to do.
Archambault was as famous then as a cook as he is now; there was a
full larder, for we three had not cared to eat, and the cellar was
full of wine. He said, M. de Marsou’s ruffians were drinking at Poissy
and might be late, thinking their prey certain; and down he went and
began to cook and set out a feast while Jacques carried up wine from
below, and I packed all I could into the three chests. We had one
good horse--it belonged to Jacques--yet in the stable and a cart; and
presently he and I carried out the three chests and put them into the
cart while Archambault cooked and cooked. Oh, what a night it was! We
dared not start right off, for we should surely meet them, and we had
no place to hide but in Paris, and they were between us and the city.
You were asleep, and we wrapped you in blankets and carried you out to
the cart, and then Jacques drove us off to the woods and hid us among
the thick trees and went back to help Archambault. I sat in the cart
with you on my lap and prayed. It was a long time, and I could just see
the château. By the sudden illumination, I knew they had come, and it
seemed to me that they must hear my heart beat in the woods. Mère de
Dieu, how afraid I was that you would wake up and cry! But you were an
angel, Monsieur Jehan, and you slept on, out there in the forest, poor,
fatherless baby, with no one but a weak woman to defend you. After a
long, long time--so long that I was cramped and weary, and the horse,
I think, was asleep--I heard some one coming through the underbrush
and I was half dead with fear; but it was Jacques, and without a word
he sprang into the cart and began to pick his way out of the woods. I
did not dare to speak, I only bent my head down on yours and prayed.
It was hard work to get down through the brush to the road, out of
sight of the house, and it was not until we were driving fast on the
highway to Poissy that Jacques spoke. ‘They are drunk,’ he said, ‘every
mother’s son of them, and filled with the feast, and Archambault is
watching them. We pretended to be false to the dead marquis, and that
we had prepared a feast for M. de Marsou. They think us traitors, and
that we have disposed of the child. Mon Dieu!’ he added after a minute,
‘Archambault has lied so this night that I was afraid of him; I thought
I smelled sulphur!’ Well, that is really all,” she said, smiling
tearfully as she looked at Péron’s grave and attentive face; “we drove
straight through Poissy, and at St. Germain-en-Laye Jacques spread the
report that the late M. de Nançay’s boy was dead. Père Antoine met us
on the road near Paris, and for two years we hid you, in constant fear
of M. de Marsou; but after a while, I think he really believed you
dead.”

After she ceased speaking Péron was silent for a moment, and then he
spoke with emotion:

“All that you have told me only increases my gratitude,” he said.

As he spoke Jacques des Horloges came in from the shop and his wife
told him that the cardinal had divined their carefully concealed
secret and revealed it to Péron. The clockmaker listened to the young
soldier’s earnest thanks with strong feeling showing in his rugged
face, but he made light of what he had done.

“Monsieur Jehan,” he said bluntly, “but for your family, mine might
have remained in the ditch. What I am I owe to the late marquis. I had
a plain duty to perform toward his child, nothing more. It has been on
my mind often, of late, to tell you the truth; but Père Antoine was
fearful that you might be tempted to commit some rash act and so fall
victim to the intrigues of Pilâtre de Nançay, as he is pleased to call
himself.”

They sat for a while longer talking of old times and of the future, the
clockmaker and his wife manifestly disappointed that the cardinal had
not immediately set up the new Marquis de Nançay. Péron forbore to tell
them of M. de Nançay’s arrest, keeping that as monsignor’s secret.

The time drew near for the young musketeer to report for instructions,
as directed by Father Joseph, and bidding his two humble friends an
affectionate adieu, he set out for the palace. But he did not go
directly there; he turned out of his way to the Rue de Bethisi and
climbed the stairs to the lodgings of Père Antoine. He knew that the
priest was at home, for he saw a light shining under his door. Péron
tapped on it three times, using the signal of his childhood, and
immediately Père Antoine opened it and stood with outstretched hands
on the threshold. His hair was snow white now and his gentle face was
lined with care. His figure looked tall and thin in the simple black
habit of his order, and he stooped a little more with the weight of
added years. Péron told him the story of the cardinal’s revelation, and
from him he did not withhold the news of M. de Nançay’s arrest. Père
Antoine listened with a grave face to the story of the clock and the
struggle.

“And you did not use your weapon?” he asked quickly.

“Nay, not with such advantage upon my side,” Péron replied.

“I am thankful,” said the priest, in a tone of relief; “I would have
you a brave man and no coward. I cannot imagine how M. de Nançay
permitted himself to be taken in the toils.”

“You have not been in the household of the cardinal, as I have been,
father,” Péron rejoined smiling. “Had you been, you would not have
been surprised. Richelieu’s arm is long, and he has all the adroit
diplomacy, the subtlety of the Italian. I have heard it said that a cat
will charm the bird it intends to devour; that the bird comes to it,
fluttering its wings in its desire to escape, yet drawn by irresistible
fascination. I know not whether this be true or not, but it is much
like this with monsignor. In the years I have been with him, I have
seen many an obstinate traitor tell his own secret. They say it was
thus Chalais was lost; and there have been many others--how many no one
knows but the guards of the cardinal and the keepers of the Châtelet.”

Père Antoine shook his head thoughtfully.

“The cardinal is a great man,” he said. “To you I will admit that I do
not like his methods, but I believe that the state is safe under his
guidance. His heart is single in its love of France. And I believe that
he loves justice well enough to see you righted; it has ever been my
prayer that I might be spared to see you in your father’s place.”

Péron did not immediately reply; he stood looking thoughtfully at
the floor, and Père Antoine was beside him, his hand resting on the
young man’s shoulder. After a moment’s pause Péron looked up into the
priest’s clear blue eyes.

“You were with my father at the last,” he said in a low voice; “did he
think of me at that hour, was there any message?”

“He spoke many times of his little boy,” Père Antoine answered gently,
“and at the last, when we walked hand in hand toward the scaffold, he
sent you his blessing and bade me bring you up a Christian and a brave
man, as your sainted mother would have wished. After that we said a
prayer together, and he ascended the scaffold, repeating the hundred
and twenty-ninth psalm:

“‘Du fond de l’abîme, Seigneur, je pousse des cris vers vous; Seigneur,
écoutez ma voix. Que vos oreilles soient attentives à la voix de ma
prière. Si vous tenez un compte exact des iniquités, Ô mon Dieu, qui
pourra, Seigneur, subsister devant vous?

“‘Mais vous êtes plein de miséricorde; et j’espère en vous, Seigneur, à
cause de votre loi. Mon âme attend l’effet de vos promesses, mon âme a
mis toute sa confiance dans le Seigneur.’”

There was a pause, and then Père Antoine added: “He was a handsome man
always, but on that morning I thought that his face wore more than
earthly beauty; he died with perfect fortitude and at peace with God
and man. The example of his life, clean and courageous, is before you,
Jehan de Calvisson, and, please God, you shall follow it.”



CHAPTER XIII

THE CARDINAL’S INSTRUCTIONS


IN the morning, Péron waited upon the cardinal for his instructions,
and they were not only unexpected but also unwelcome. Richelieu was
alone when he summoned his musketeer, and was walking up and down the
salon; his red robe and cape were edged with fur, and on his breast
he wore the broad ribbon and star of the order of Saint Esprit. His
face was very pale, but his eyes burned with the fire of his restless
spirit; he was in the mood to pursue a purpose with relentless energy.
His orders to Péron were distinct and brief.

“You will get three or four stout knaves,” he said; “I do not wish my
men employed, and you will not wear your uniform. There is a sufficient
sum on the table to pay the hire of half a dozen men-at-arms, if they
be needed. Take them, go to the Hôtel de Nançay, and give Mademoiselle
de Nançay this letter. When she has read it, she will probably go of
her own free will; if not, you will take her, and any female attendant
she may select, and ride to Poissy. I do not wish you to reach there
before nightfall. Once there you will readily find a house that stands
not two hundred yards from the Golden Pigeon; ’tis a tall house, and
over the door is the statue of the Virgin. The house is commonly called
the Image de Notre Dame. Here you will take mademoiselle and her woman,
but you will not permit them to go to either door or window. In the
upper story you will find a party of my men. Before ten o’clock there
will come to the door a company of not less than a dozen men, who
will use a password, ‘Dieu et le roi;’ admit them and detain all as
prisoners. There will be a fight, therefore take the precaution to put
the women out of danger before they come. The mission has its perils,
but I believe that you would prefer it to a more easy one.”

Richelieu paused and looked keenly at the young man, whose face had
flushed and paled alternately during the cardinal’s long speech.

“Monsignor,” he said, with hesitation, “I love an enterprise which is
perilous and honorable, but I fear I cannot induce Mademoiselle de
Nançay to go with me.”

“The letter will, I think, remove her objections,” the cardinal
replied; “if not, it is for you to find means to induce her to go of
her own will. Otherwise,” he added dryly, “I must find some one who
has not your scruples.”

Péron bowed gravely. “I will do my best to execute your orders,
monsignor,” he said.

“You have the purse and the letter,” continued the cardinal, “that is
all then; I trust that you will successfully fulfil your commission.”

Péron had almost reached the door, when monsignor recalled him.

“Sieur de Calvisson,” he said, “is it your wish to present a petition
to his Majesty for the restoration of your estates and title, in view
of the recent revelations?”

“No, monsignor,” Péron replied; “for the present I am content to bear
my father’s name without making any effort to obtain his estates. I
would not be known as a claimant to the title of Nançay.”

Richelieu gave him a searching look.

“This is strange,” he remarked. “Yesterday you were justly incensed
against the marquis; to-day you have on a coat of another color.”

The musketeer flushed. “My lord cardinal,” he said, “the sudden change
would entail much misery for others,--chiefly for the innocent,--and
I, who have been a musketeer so long, am content to wait awhile longer
until I see my way more plainly, though I am deeply grateful for the
interest your eminence has shown in my affairs.”

“Ah, I see,” said the cardinal, “the house on the Rue St. Thomas du
Louvre has a witchcraft of its own. Beware, M. de Calvisson, that you
do not fail in your duty for the sake of a fair face.”

With this warning, he dismissed the young soldier and went, with
something akin to a smile on his stern face, to give his morning
audience to an immense circle of fawning clients and courtiers, who
thronged the anterooms of the Palais Cardinal and overflowed into the
Rue St. Honoré.

Péron went out through the gardens and made his way slowly to the rear
entrance of Archambault’s pastry shop. He was in search of some men to
accompany him on his mission, and he knew that the pastry cook was well
acquainted with all sorts and conditions of society. Though bent on
fulfilling it faithfully, Péron did not like his mission. The cardinal
had given him no explanation of it, but he was not slow to divine the
purpose of mademoiselle’s ride to Poissy. She was to be used to entice
some of her father’s accomplices to the house called the Image de Notre
Dame. Of that there could be no doubt; her arrival was a signal for
a meeting of the conspirators, and from his brief acquaintance with
Renée de Nançay, Péron felt sure that she would not allow the cardinal
to use her as a means for the destruction of the friends of the
marquis. He would not have accepted the commission at all, preferring
to brave Richelieu’s displeasure, if it had not been for the cardinal’s
covert threat that if he did not undertake it some one else would who
would be less delicate toward mademoiselle’s feelings. But Péron would
rather have met the desperate men alone than have encountered the
merciless tongue of Renée de Nançay.

With these troubled and perplexing thoughts in his mind, the young
musketeer opened the kitchen door of the pastry shop and walked into
the midst of a scene similar to the one which he had witnessed in his
childish visit, when he had been the jest of the soldiers. It was the
busiest hour of the morning, and some of the cooks were roasting meat
and some were rolling pastry, while others were making marvellous
palaces and fantastic shapes of sugar. Here was the Palais Cardinal in
sugar on top of a fruit cake, and there was an angel with a harp, and
Noah’s dove with the olive branch. There was a mountain of rissoles on
one table and on another a royal pasty made of venison from the forest
of St. Germain.

Péron passed unheeded through the busy scene, and at the door of a
small office next the public room he met Archambault. The pastry cook
was stouter than ever, and the bald spot on the top of his head far
exceeded the proportions of a poached egg; but he wore a look of placid
content, and it was whispered that his fortune exceeded that of the
late Duc de Luynes. At the sight of Péron, his fat face beamed; Jacques
des Horloges had already told him of the cardinal’s revelation, and he
drew the young man into his private room, and shut the door.

“Sit down, M. le Marquis,” he said, pointing to the table, on which was
a bottle of wine, “and let us drink to your health and prosperity.”

“Nay, good Archambault,” replied Péron, smiling, “let the toast be your
famous run from Poissy to save my life.”

“Parbleu! it was a run,” said Archambault, laughing; “I thought I
should drop on the hill, Monsieur Jehan, but I made it, and the wine
that we gave the canaille to drink was as good as this in which I drink
your health, my marquis.”

“No marquis as yet, Archambault,” Péron replied; “only the Sieur de
Calvisson, nor would I have it known that I am really the son of the
late Marquis de Nançay.”

Archambault set down his empty glass with a look of perplexity on his
fat face.

“And wherefore not, Monsieur Jehan?” he asked; “surely monsignor--”

“Of that we will speak hereafter,” said the young soldier, shortly,
“and if I am ever marquis, I shall not forget your devotion to the
orphan boy; but of that another time. I am bound on an errand outside
of Paris, and I need four good men-at-arms. Do you think of any out of
employment now?”

“There is one in the public room at this moment,” Archambault replied
at once. “I can always tell men by what they put into their stomachs.
This man is a great fighter, by the way he eats. I have fed men for
forty years, and I know their appetites: the ambitious man eats
sparingly, his mind being elsewhere; the penurious man eats still less
when he pays himself; when another pays he is greedy, but he will
always have more than the worth of his money, and reviles you for a
denier. The soldier craves strong meat and drink, the epicure wants a
new dish, and the glutton cleans the platter. The man in yonder is a
great fighter, not only by his food but by his looks; you may see him
through the little window there from which I overlook my guests.”

He pointed as he spoke to a small curtained window in the side of
the room, and with some curiosity Péron looked out into the outer
apartment. As usual, it was full of guests, but Archambault showed him
the man of whom he spoke. Péron saw, with surprise and pleasure, the
broad shoulders, thick neck, great shock of grizzled black hair, and
the broad nose and small eyes of Choin, the fencing-master.

“The very man I need!” he exclaimed; and with a few words of thanks to
the pastry cook, he opened the door and entered the public dining-room.

Choin met him with equal pleasure. The maître d’armes had long since
forgiven his defeat in the tennis court, and entertained a kind of
rough affection for his former pupil. Choin was alone at a small table,
which gave Péron the opportunity he desired to explain to him the
nature of his errand, and ask him to accompany him. The old swordsman
was willing enough, for since the edict against duelling, such men
found life in Paris dull and profitless compared with the old days.
For, since the famous duel of M. de Bouteville and M. de Beuvron on
the Place Royale which had sent two noblemen to the scaffold, sword
practice had fallen out of favor in Paris.

“Pardieu!” said Choin, laying down his knife, “I will gladly go, Péron.
The chance of a fight is as good as meat to me, and I can get you three
other stout knaves and the horses, if you have the money to pay for
all.”

Péron took out the cardinal’s purse and counted out a sufficient sum.

“We must have two led horses besides,” he said, “for there will be two
women to go also.”

Choin gave him a quizzical look.

“What is this?” he asked bluntly, “an elopement as well as a possible
fight?”

“You are mistaken,” replied Péron, “I have been ordered to escort a
lady and her woman to Poissy, nothing more.”

His tone silenced Choin without entirely convincing him, but they
completed the business arrangements without further delay. There was
but little time to spare, and the fencing-master promised to meet Péron
at the corner of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre at the appointed hour.
Well satisfied with his transaction, the musketeer was making his way
to the public entrance when he was suddenly accosted by a young man,
very gayly attired and with a painted face. A second glance told Péron
that it was his acquaintance of the previous day, the Sieur de Vesson.

“Sir musketeer,” said the courtier, fiercely, “you escaped yesterday,
but later you and I will have a reckoning.”

“You may spin in a circle as often as you please, sir popinjay,”
replied Péron, with a shrug, “but wash the rouge off your cheeks and
eat strong meat before you try to fight with men.”

The dandy stared at him in violent rage.

“Your jest will be a sorry one when next we meet!” he exclaimed.

“By that time you may be old enough to grow a moustache, monsieur,”
retorted Péron with a laugh, as he walked on and left the young fellow
fuming in impotent fury.



CHAPTER XIV

THE HOUSE AT POISSY


WHEN Péron met Choin and his company at the corner of the Rue St.
Thomas du Louvre, he had discarded his uniform and wore a dress more
becoming to his actual station in life. It was a simple suit of dark
blue with a short velvet cloak, and sword, and a hat with plumes,
and his collar of rare Flemish lace was one which Madame Michel had
produced from the chests in the attic. The change in apparel made a
marked one in his appearance, and he looked the man of rank rather than
the soldier of fortune. Even Choin noticed it, and glanced keenly at
the well made figure and the handsome face of his quondam pupil. The
maître d’armes had faithfully executed his part of the bargain, and was
waiting with three rough and powerful-looking men-at-arms, who wore
the nondescript dress of mercenary soldiers and had the air of being
indifferent to the nature of their employment so long as it furnished
money for liquor. They had also the two led horses for the women; and
after a brief inspection of his party, Péron proceeded at once to the
Hôtel de Nançay, where his guards were still on duty. They reported
that all was quiet within and without, and that no one had made any
attempt either to enter or to leave the house.

It was with no very pleasant anticipations that Péron knocked at the
door, and he was not surprised at the delay which followed. He had
directed Choin and his men to ride into the lane to the garden gate,
that their errand might be less conspicuous, and he was alone on the
steps except for the sentinel who sat at the threshold, drowsy with
his continuous and unexciting vigil. Péron was forced to knock three
times, and was conscious that he was being scrutinized from the windows
above, as he had been on the day before. At last, the door was opened
reluctantly by a stout young woman with a plain face and sharp black
eyes, who looked at him with a frown of displeasure; evidently she had
been made to undo the latch against her own judgment.

“What do you want?” she demanded, in a sour tone, placing herself
squarely in the opening.

“I am the bearer of a letter for Mademoiselle de Nançay,” Péron replied
sternly, “and I must present it to her at once.”

“You take a high tone, monsieur,” exclaimed the woman, with a toss of
her head; “but you shall not see mademoiselle unless she wishes it,”
and she slammed the door in his face.

Péron drew back half angry and half amused, but seeing the covert smile
on the face of the soldier, he struck his sword peremptorily on the
door, determined to gain admittance in spite of the women. He had not
long to wait, however, and this time the young woman opened the door
wide enough for him to pass through. She was sullen and silent, and
only signed to him to follow up the stairs to the same salon where
mademoiselle had burned the papers. Here Péron found Renée. She was
standing by the window which overlooked the garden, and he saw that she
had been observing Choin and his party at the gate, for she commanded
a view of the lane. She was dressed in gray with a wide white linen
collar, and her golden hair was knotted back more closely than usual.
She was very pale, and looked as simple as a little nun; she evidently
felt the day and night of suspense, but she bore herself with perfect
composure. Her quick glance swept over her visitor, noting every detail
of his changed appearance, and there was a little surprise in her eyes.
He saluted her gravely, and without a word handed her the cardinal’s
letter. She inclined her head as she took it, her manner as grave as
his, but he observed that her hand trembled a little as she opened it.
She read it through, and Péron saw her anger rising as she read; her
eyes sparkled and a little spot of color came into each cheek, and once
she stamped her foot on the floor. When she had finished--and she read
it twice--she tore it in fragments and flung them on the ground. Péron
expected an outburst; thought that she would refuse to go, and began
to wonder what arguments he would use to persuade her. But he had no
conception of what was really passing in mademoiselle’s quick mind. She
had just read the king’s imperative orders for her to go to Poissy; her
refusal would--so the letter said--imperil her father’s life. She knew
well enough why she was to go to the house of the Image of Notre Dame,
and she was cudgelling her brains for a device to defeat monsignor. She
knew her adversary and she set all her woman’s wits to work. She had no
thought of refusing to go; the risk was too great while her father was
in the toils, but she intended to thwart his enemies. She stood for a
while looking out of the window, while Péron expected her refusal to
comply with the cardinal’s orders. To his surprise, she turned at last
to consent.

“I will go, monsieur,” she said haughtily; “a prisoner must obey her
jailor, but I will not go without my woman.”

“That is as you desire, mademoiselle,” Péron replied, much relieved;
“you will choose your own maid, and you will be treated with all due
consideration.”

She made him a mocking curtsey.

“I thank you humbly, monsieur,” she said, with a contemptuous curl of
her lip; “if you will permit me a half-hour, I will wait on you at the
garden gate, where I see you have already four cut-throats to attend
me.”

She walked past him, without waiting for a reply, and left Péron
standing alone in the great salon. He did not remain; his face was
scarlet with anger, and he went into the garden and sat down in the
rustic seat, under the lime-tree, to wait her pleasure. From his
reception, he could easily conjecture what the journey was likely to
be, and he set his teeth hard at the thought. After all, had he not
been foolish not to leave her to the mercy of some other soldier of the
cardinal? Manifestly, she was the same as she had been when a child
in the Château de Nançay, though it seemed that now she had lost the
softness which had made her run out to the terrace to tell him she was
sorry. He regretted his errand bitterly, and reproached himself for a
fool to have thrust himself into her way again. He was still occupied
with these unpleasant reflections, when the door at the rear of the
house opened and she came out with the insolent woman who had admitted
him. Both wore cloaks and hoods, and mademoiselle’s face was hidden by
a black mask which gave her a mysterious look. Neither spoke, and Péron
rose as they advanced, and preceding them to the gate, unfastened it.
Choin was there with the horses, and in silence he and Péron assisted
the two women to mount. When they were falling into position to begin
their journey, mademoiselle spoke for the first time.

“Ninon rides with me,” she said, as Péron would have assigned the maid
to a place behind her mistress.

No opposition was offered to this arrangement, which seemed to surprise
and disappoint mademoiselle, who was in the humor to pick a quarrel
over a nutshell. So they started two abreast, where the streets were
wide enough, and after they left the city limits, Péron rode on the
other side of Renée de Nançay, while Choin and his three men followed
close at their heels. They rode in silence, and nothing worth noting
occurred until they came within sight of Cours la Reine, where were
the iron gates which closed this end of the three alleys planted with
trees by the queen-mother for the pleasure of her court. As they passed
to the right to take the road to Poissy, Péron noticed a man standing
near the gates. He looked to be the retainer of some grandee and would
not have attracted the young man’s attention except for the pale blue
knot on the shoulder of his black cloak. The stranger was staring hard
at the party, and Péron gave mademoiselle a quick glance, but she made
no sign of seeing the fellow, except to put up her hand to adjust her
mask more closely, and Ninon was staring sullenly between her horse’s
ears. Péron watched the man narrowly, but he gave no indication of
intending to quit his station, and they passed on, leaving him as they
had found him.

For the first few leagues of their journey, mademoiselle was stubbornly
silent; the men in the rear conversed in low tones, but Péron did not
speak. Renée de Nançay, however, was busily engaged in meditating over
her own plans, and it was necessary for her to know more about the
young soldier riding beside her, and something of his intentions. After
awhile, therefore, he was surprised by hearing himself addressed by her.

“Will you stop at Ruel, monsieur?” she asked, turning her face toward
him, and he was conscious of the brilliance of her dark eyes looking
through the holes in her mask, which effectually concealed her
expression.

“Nay, mademoiselle,” he replied, “we shall push on to Poissy, which we
must reach to-night.”

“You are a hard taskmaster, monsieur,” she said; “’tis a long ride, and
Ninon and I have not been in the saddle since Christmas. Surely, you
will give us a breathing space upon the way.”

Péron hesitated. “Mademoiselle de Nançay,” he said, “my orders
are exacting, but it may be we can rest awhile this side of St.
Germain-en-Laye.”

“St. Germain-en-Laye!” repeated mademoiselle; “why, ’tis but a league
from Poissy, and it is five leagues and more from the Rue St. Thomas du
Louvre to St. Germain-en-Laye.”

“Yet after all, mademoiselle, six leagues is not a great matter,”
remarked Péron; “and I see that you are a fine horsewoman.”

“I will stop at Ruel,” she declared haughtily. “We shall reach Poissy
in better time than you will wish for,” she added with a bitter little
laugh, the meaning of which he was not slow to interpret.

“Mademoiselle,” he replied, “my instructions were especially directed
against a halt at Ruel.”

“But I wish to stop there,” she said, in a tone of surprise at his
daring to contradict her wishes.

Péron set his face sternly. “I am sorry,” he said calmly, “but we will
not stop at Ruel.”

“I am sorry too, monsieur--I do not know your name?” she added, pausing
for his reply.

He thought a moment and rightly conjectured that she would know nothing
of the manner of her father’s elevation.

“My name is Jehan de Calvisson,” he said quietly.

“I am sorry then, Monsieur de Calvisson,” she said, “but we will stop
at Ruel.”

Péron looked at the erect figure and the firm little chin showing below
the mask, and felt that it would be a struggle; but he was determined
to win. He did not reply but merely bowed gravely, and she was quick to
interpret it as an assent.

“We are near Ruel now, are we not?” she demanded. “I should know the
way.”

“We are within a league of it, mademoiselle,” he replied quietly, and
then turned back to give Choin a few directions; when he again rode up
to her side, his face wore a more composed expression.

“It is cold,” she complained, “and the wind blows; monsignor should
try the journeys he recommends for others.”

“’Tis certainly not so pleasant as in the summer,” Péron replied
dreamily; “I can remember my first ride from Paris on this road, when
the fields were green and the violets bloomed at Poissy.”

“You are familiar with this road then?” she remarked, giving him a keen
glance; “you know the way to Nançay?”

“It was to Nançay that I went, mademoiselle,” he replied, “with my
foster-father, the clockmaker of the Rue de la Ferronnerie.”

For a moment mademoiselle was silent, then she looked at him and
laughed a soft little laugh unlike the unmusical sounds with which she
had mocked him.

“I know you,” she said; “I was sure that I had seen you before; you are
little Péron.”

“Ay, mademoiselle,” he replied, with a smile, “and I have still the
bunch of violets from Nançay.”

He could not see her face behind her mask, but he saw a little flush of
color come across her chin and throat.

“The violets of Poissy, sir,” she said lightly. “I little thought that
you would be the one to take me there against my will; truly, the
tables are turned.”

His face flushed now and he was tempted to tell her that had he not
come she would have been in worse hands; but that would be an appeal to
her gratitude, and he held his peace.

“That is my misfortune, mademoiselle,” he said, “rather than my fault.”

“Sir, I think we have few misfortunes that are not our fault,” she
retorted sharply.

He smiled. “A few, mademoiselle,” he said; “for instance, to be born
poor and forced to seek a fortune with the sword or the spade.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “’Tis better to be born poor than born a
fool,” she retorted tartly.

“But worst of all to be born both poor and a fool,” he replied calmly.

They were riding through a long lane lined on either hand with trees,
and before them stood a cross which marked a certain turn in the road.
At the sight of it mademoiselle drew rein so suddenly that she threw
the little party into confusion. She wheeled in her saddle and looked
over her shoulder.

“This is the wrong road,” she said; “where is Ruel?”

“We have passed it, mademoiselle,” Péron replied, with a composed face,
but a smile lurked in his eyes.

She sat erect and motionless, but he knew that behind her mask she was
in a storm of passion, for he saw her hand grip the bridle fiercely.
She was debating in her mind whether to attempt to go back and risk
the opposition of the four stout men behind or to make the most of
defeat and go on with the best grace she could. Her temper, naturally
high, was fully roused, and to yield a point was bitter. Moreover, she
saw the amusement in Péron’s eyes. Her woman reminded her of their
situation.

“Come, mademoiselle,” she said bluntly, “you know we must go one way or
the other.”

Renée turned on her quickly. “Hush!” she said sharply, and striking her
horse briskly, she rode at a canter down the lane ahead of the party
toward Poissy.

She had surrendered the point, and her escort drew a sigh of relief as
he quickened his own pace to keep up with her, and all of them moved
at a better gait. As his horse came abreast of hers, she gave him a
sidelong glance.

“Manifestly, you were not born a fool, M. de Calvisson,” she said, “if
you were born poor.”

Péron smiled in spite of himself.

“It was only strategy, mademoiselle,” he said.

“I do not yet know how we passed Ruel,” she replied angrily, “though I
have travelled over this road a thousand times.”

“You did not observe the cross-roads when we reached them,” he replied
smiling; “there is this way by which Ruel can be entirely avoided.”

“I am dull,” she said; “I should have known that there are ever many
ways around the hole of a fox.”

Péron turned his face away to hide a smile at her covert thrust at
Richelieu’s house at Ruel.

After this they rode a long way in silence; she was obviously in an ill
humor and vouchsafed only monosyllables in reply to any remark of her
escort. As night approached it grew colder too and more unpleasant;
a thick mist settled on the more distant landscape, and the meadows
near at hand lay dark and deserted, while the trees loomed gigantic
by the way. The moon was in its first quarter and set early, leaving
a starry sky in which only a few light clouds drifted. There was no
sound but the even beat of their horses’ hoofs on the hard road. It was
already pitch dark when they passed through St. Germain-en-Laye, and
mademoiselle stubbornly refused to halt, having now veered around to
a steady desire to reach Poissy with all speed. They trotted down the
main street of the town, passing the inn, where the revellers were
in full sway, and were out on the highroad to Poissy again. Their way
now lay through thick forest, and Péron was not without uneasiness,
seeing her mood and not knowing the exact extent of the risk they ran
of defeat. He would infinitely have preferred the clash of swords to
this silent ride through unknown perils, with the responsibility of
controlling a wilful and quick-witted young woman who was bent on his
discomfiture.

It was with a sharp sense of relief that he saw the lights of Poissy
ahead, and he unconsciously quickened his horse’s gait, which brought
the others up at a trot. As they reached the gates of the town,
mademoiselle held out her hand to him.

“Will you wear this watch?” she said; “I am fearful of losing it, for
the chain has broken and I value it; it belonged to my mother. I pray
you keep it for me until to-morrow.”

Péron took it with surprise; he could not refuse, though he was
suspicious of her motive. He fastened it on a chain that he wore and
thrust it into the bosom of his doublet, not without misgivings. The
next moment they had entered the gates and he drew rein to make some
inquiries for the house he sought. She heard him and laughed.

“I can lead you, monsieur,” she said, and touched her horse with her
whip.

Péron followed, afraid to give her a chance to outride him; but as
they came near the Golden Pigeon, he caught sight of a tall house in
the distance and knew it to be their destination. To reach it without
passing the public house was easy, and Péron had no desire to attract
notice; he laid his hand on her horse’s rein.

“Not so fast, mademoiselle,” he said; “we can turn here and avoid the
inn.”

She shook her bridle free. “I will go my way here, M. de Calvisson,”
she replied haughtily; “this is not Ruel!” and she rode straight on
in full view of the loungers in the court of the Golden Pigeon. Péron
urged his horse to keep abreast of hers, but all the while he kept
a sharp lookout for possible signals; but he could observe nothing
unusual, and the tavern seemed less crowded than he had seen it on
previous occasions. Beyond the inn they turned down a narrow lane,
mademoiselle still leading, and came at last to a high, narrow house
which wore a black and forbidding aspect. The men with Choin were
provided with torches which they lighted now with difficulty in the
rising wind, and by their flaring light Péron saw the rude stone figure
over the door which gave the house its name; but its appearance was
so forbidding that he remained, for a few moments, motionless in his
saddle. It seemed a poor place at which to invite a delicately reared
young woman to dismount on a cold and gloomy night, and for such a
cause.



CHAPTER XV

THE SIGNAL


CHOIN had been too well instructed by Péron to express any surprise at
finding the door of the tall house unfastened, and he and one of his
men entered, and lighted some tapers they had brought with them, in two
of the lower rooms. But before he assisted mademoiselle to dismount,
Péron went into the house also, and finding his way to the stairs,
began the ascent; he could not be satisfied until he knew whether
Richelieu’s men were there or not. On this point, however, he was soon
reassured, for he had scarcely taken three steps up before he was
softly challenged, and giving the cardinal’s watchword, received the
reply. He found five of monsignor’s picked men sitting cross-legged on
the floor, around a rushlight, playing cards with perfect nonchalance.
The tightly shuttered windows hid this faint illumination from the
outside, and the soldiers played piquet in such absolute silence that
their presence was not easily detected even by any one on the lower
floor. Péron only stayed long enough to exchange a few words with
the leader, a quiet man of middle age, who understood his business.
Neither he nor Péron had any distinct idea of how large a party might
be expected to follow the appearance of Mademoiselle de Nançay; but the
advantage was with those in the house, and it seemed that they might
be equal to twice their numbers. After a brief exchange of views on
the best means of securing a large body of prisoners, Péron quietly
descended the stairs once more and went out to assist mademoiselle to
dismount. But he found that she and her woman were already standing on
the step, a broad, flat stone at the entrance, and she was in no very
good humor at being compelled to wait in the cold. He apologized for
the delay and invited her to enter the room at the rear, a small one,
which he had selected as being near enough to the stairs for him to be
able to get her to a place of safety in the event of a fight. But he
forgot her wayward temper; she would have none of the back room.

“I should die here!” she announced, shivering at the chill and the
bleak aspect of the place, for the house was only partially furnished,
and that with the plainest of furniture; “I will go into the front
room; there I can have a fire, and at least two tapers.”

“But, mademoiselle,” remonstrated Péron, “I chose this room for serious
reasons. I--”

“But, monsieur,” she retorted tartly, “I choose the other for serious
reasons. Sirrah, get some fagots and build me a fire,” she added
sharply, addressing one of Choin’s troopers who was lounging on a
settle in the larger room, which she had now entered.

The man roused himself at her words, and stumbled awkwardly to his
feet, but he looked to Péron for orders. Mademoiselle de Nançay stamped
her foot on the floor.

“I tell you I will have a fire,” she said angrily.

Choin had entered as she spoke, and her peremptory manner angered the
maître d’armes.

“Mademoiselle shall have a fire if our leader orders it; otherwise
not,” he said bluntly.

Renée stared at the stout Italian, her great eyes flashing in the
loopholes of her mask, but she was quick to recognize honest courage
even of the lower sort, and in her heart she forgave Choin for his
brusque manner. But before there was a clash between the two, Péron
interfered and ordered the soldier to build a fire if he could find
fuel enough in the house. Fortunately there was a small supply, the
place having been recently occupied, and mademoiselle sat down, still
cloaked and masked, to watch the building of the fire, while Péron
sent the horses away in the charge of another trooper to the stables
of the Golden Pigeon, to be fed and watered that they might be in
condition for future use. He then gave his thoughts to the disposition
of his men; Choin he posted at the rear entrance to the house, which he
had reconnoitered and found opened into a deserted garden surrounded
by a low wall. For the time being he allowed the other men to rest in
the room which mademoiselle had refused to occupy, and for himself
retained the place at the front door, which he believed to be the point
of danger. There was a small grille in the upper half of this door, and
through this he could dimly see the black outline of the houses across
the lane, and above, the far-off glimmer of the stars. It was too dark
to see twenty yards away, and the night was very still though it was
not yet eight o’clock. The man in command above stairs had told him
that the cardinal’s orders were that all shutters should remain tightly
closed and no light be shown. This being the case, Péron could not
divine how mademoiselle’s presence in the house could be discovered or
serve as a decoy for the conspirators. He was sorry that on this point
he had not asked for more precise instructions, but remembered that
she was not to appear at the window, and he could only suppose that
their spies had seen her arrival and would report it. But even on this
head he was not satisfied; he thought of her determination to pass in
full view of the Golden Pigeon, and he did not know what significance
might be attached to that, or if it had any beyond the wilfulness
of a spoiled beauty. He had, too, a quick sympathy for her in her
unpleasant situation,--her father in the hands of his worst enemy, and
she compelled to play the rôle of a traitress to her own party. He
could understand and even pardon the bitterness of her mood when he
remembered all that she had to undergo. What to do with her, and how
to protect her, was a problem which troubled him much; for to try to
control her motions was like trying to handle a thistle. He had every
expectation of a sharp affray, and it was hardly probable that any
number of desperate men would allow themselves to be entrapped without
much bloodshed, and he did not know how near or dear some of them might
be to Renée de Nançay. What she would do under such circumstances was
a perplexing problem. Unless he used force, he could scarcely hope to
keep her out of the reach of danger. He had no personal anxieties about
the result of the struggle, but what should he do with mademoiselle?
Her woman, too, he regarded as mischievous, and she belonged to that
heroic build of womanhood which can strike as stiff a blow as most men
and better than some. Her stubborn loyalty to her mistress recommended
her to him, but he recognized an additional danger in the fire of her
fierce black eyes. That she was equal to stabbing one or more of his
men in the back while they were engaged with her friends in front, he
did not doubt. Yet to lock Ninon and her mistress in a room overhead
was a measure which he could not view with favor. He had had no
previous dealings with women, and he had a profound dislike of using
strong measures toward the weaker sex.

While he was revolving all these matters in his mind, the man who had
taken the horses to the Golden Pigeon returned and reported that all
seemed quiet enough, though he had observed a number of men gathered
in the courtyard of the inn, and he had noticed that all wore knots
of pale blue ribbon somewhere about them, either on hat or cloak or
sword hilt. But for the rest there was nothing remarkable, and they
apparently took no heed of him, although he had noticed two knaves
stealing into the stable to stare at his horses. For the moment Péron
was uneasy with the thought that these might be stolen, but reflected
that the landlord of the Golden Pigeon was too prudent a man to take
any risk of having to make good the loss of seven horses with their
equipments.

Having disposed his sentinels to his satisfaction, Péron went to see
if all was well with his involuntary guests. He had no doubt of the
meaning of the pale blue ribbons now, and grew more alert and in better
spirits as the danger approached. He was a born fighter, and but for
the responsibility of mademoiselle’s presence, would have enjoyed the
prospect of a sharp skirmish; an adventure without peril was never to
his taste.

He found the two women alone in the room, where the fire was still
smoking, having been kindled with partially green wood. There was a
plain oaken settle in the room, and two or three stiff chairs; there
was no rug on the floor, but it was partly covered with rushes. It
was a bare enough place; and he noticed that they had extinguished
one of the tapers, leaving the other burning in a niche on the wall.
Ninon lay, half reclining, on the settle, her cloak rolled up into a
pillow under her head, while mademoiselle sat bolt upright in one of
the chairs by the fire, staring angrily into the flames. She had laid
aside cloak and mask and was revealed in her simple gray gown, her hair
disordered by the ride, lying in loose curls on her shoulders. She had
a brilliant color in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled with anger; yet
she looked unusually beautiful, the very picture of a wilful, spoiled
child of fortune. Péron, standing at the door, bowed to her gravely and
asked if he could do anything more to make her comfortable.

“Ay, sir,” she said haughtily; “send for my horse and let me go on to
the Château de Nançay.”

“I would gladly, but for my orders, mademoiselle,” he replied, with
truth.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I am tired of your orders, M. de
Calvisson,” she remarked. “If I were a man, I would take orders from no
one but my own conscience.”

“Mademoiselle, if you owed monsignor as much as I do,” he replied
dryly, “you would serve him from love and not from fear.”

She elevated her eyebrows with an air of incredulity.

“Ciel!” she exclaimed; “is it possible that you love Cardinal de
Richelieu?”

“I should be an ingrate if I did not,” he retorted boldly. “It is
always possible, mademoiselle, for a statesman to make enemies; M. le
Cardinal has made many, but had he no other friend, I would be one
still.”

She smiled scornfully. “I admire your devotion, monsieur,” she said;
“it is doubtless worth the hire.”

“Mademoiselle,” Péron exclaimed hoarsely, “you take advantage of your
sex!”

“You forget, M. de Calvisson,” she replied, “that a prisoner has no
resource but her tongue. However, I beg your pardon, I spoke in anger.”

He bowed gravely, too deeply incensed to reply, and remembering the
cardinal’s instructions about the shutters, he walked across the room
toward the nearest of the two windows and began to make the fastenings
more secure. As he did so, mademoiselle rose deliberately, and taking
the taper in her hand, walked to the other window.

“Is this also secure, monsieur?” she asked, in a tone of propitiation.
“’Tis well to fasten the bolts, for we two women need a little
undisturbed rest.”

As she spoke she laid her hand on the bolt, and Péron, deceived by her
manner, turned to examine that shutter with no unusual haste. So it
happened that before he suspected her intention, she had flung open
the blind, and in an instant tossed the burning taper out into the
darkness of the night. He sprang forward and fastened the shutter in
a moment, but he fancied that the mischief was already done, for she
stood laughing and looking at him with shining eyes, the same look
of triumph on her face that it had worn on the day when she burned
the papers. What manner of signal it was, though, he was at loss to
divine, but he saw that he must watch her as closely as a cat watches
a mouse, or she would defeat every plan of the cardinal’s as easily as
she routed him at every point. But he had no wish to subject himself to
the sharp cuts of her tongue, nor did he wish to intrude on the little
privacy she had. Fortunately, he was relieved of either necessity by
seeing a hammer and some nails in the corner by the door. He called one
of the men and briefly directed him to nail up the shutters as quickly
as possible. This was an easy task, and when it was done, he sent the
man away.

“Mademoiselle,” he said gravely, “I regret to take this extreme
measure, but there is no alternative.”

She was again sitting by the fire, and she looked up with a roguish
face.

“I thank you for the greater security, monsieur,” she replied with a
smile. “There is a proverb about fastening the door of a house after
the thieves have gone.”

Péron bowed gravely. “I understand you, mademoiselle,” he replied;
“’tis evident that--in spite of Ruel--I was born a fool.”

With this, he went out and closed the door that the two might be
undisturbed, and resumed his place at the grille, angry and mortified,
but determined to make amends for past blunders by redoubled vigilance.



CHAPTER XVI

THE CARDINAL’S SNARE


MORE than an hour had passed in this tedious watch; the stillness
without was scarcely greater than the stillness within. Mademoiselle
and her woman remained in their quarters, and the soldiers waited
indifferently for the outcome. From his post by the front door, Péron
again and again looked out at the grille and tried to search the
darkness with his anxious eyes, but without result; he was becoming
more and more convinced that Mademoiselle de Nançay had in some manner
defeated the cardinal’s plans. But his labor was not to be as fruitless
as he supposed, and Renée was, in one point, to meet with less success
than usual. Just when the situation seemed least promising, Péron heard
Choin coming on tiptoe toward him. The hall was lighted dimly by a
rushlight sitting on the floor, and he could not see the face of the
maître d’armes well enough to discern his expression. The Italian came
close to him before speaking.

“There is some one in the garden,” he whispered; “I heard the sound of
a horse’s hoofs on the road, and now I hear the brush crackling by the
wall on the east side.”

“Good!” ejaculated Péron, with relief; “I am tired of sitting, like a
rat in a trap. How many horses were there?”

He asked this as they walked swiftly to the rear entrance.

“Only one,” replied Choin, “and there was a long pause after he stopped
at the end of the wall.”

They had now reached the door, and Péron opened the grille softly
and looked out. At first he could see nothing in the darkness, but
after a moment he became accustomed to it and was able to discern
the dark outlines of a man coming cautiously toward the door. Péron
signed to Choin to be silent, and both waited in breathless suspense.
After another pause, evidently spent in reconnoitering, the stranger
advanced more carelessly. To the surprise of the watcher within, he
made straight for the door and tapped softly twice and loudly once. It
was undoubtedly a preconcerted signal, and Péron, by signs, told Choin
to withdraw from sight when the door should be opened; then he answered
with the password given him by the cardinal, which seemed to dispel the
visitor’s doubts.

“Open,” he said in a low tone, “’tis I, Gaston; why do you keep me so
long?”

Without replying, Péron flung the door open, standing well in the
shadow behind it as he did so.

But his caution was unnecessary; the stranger pushed in, seemingly
anxious to be within the house. In a moment the bolts slipped behind
him and he was a prisoner, but he had no suspicion, as yet, of the
trap into which he had fallen. He was a man of medium stature, closely
muffled in a dark cloak, the collar turned up about his face and his
plumed hat set low over his forehead. As he entered, Péron’s quick
eye caught the gleam of golden spurs on the heels of his high leather
boots. He carried his sheathed sword in his hand, as if he were
prepared for any misadventure. He took no heed of the way the door was
closed nor of Péron, and advanced to the middle of the hall before he
observed Choin, who had posted himself with his back against the main
entrance. The noise of his arrival had roused the soldiers in the room
to the left, and two of them came to the door and thrust out their
heads to stare at him. Something in the stillness of the house, in the
strange faces of the men, made him stop short and wheel around to look
at Péron; the light was too dim for him to see plainly, but he was
disturbed. This was not the reception that he had looked for in this
place.

“What is this?” he ejaculated in a high, peevish tone, a tone that
Péron seemed to recognize. “Where is M. de Nançay?”

“He has not come,” replied Péron, promptly, “but Mademoiselle de Nançay
is here.”

He spoke at random and by impulse, but he saw that his words had done
much to remove the stranger’s suspicions.

“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, “’tis strange to send only a girl--at such a
time. Where is she?”

“This way, monsieur,” Péron replied, curious to see the result of this
accident, and tempted, too, to confront mademoiselle with her friend.

Ninon opened the door in answer to his summons, and without a word
the stranger thrust past her into the room, cloaked and bonneted as
he was. Péron followed too quickly for Ninon to shut him out, for he
had no mind to leave this new-comer to talk privately with Renée de
Nançay. In spite of her woman’s angry glances, he closed the door
behind him and leaned against it, watching the other two. He was not
prepared, however, for the sequel. When they entered, mademoiselle was
sitting by the fire, with her back toward them, and she only glanced
up carelessly, expecting Péron. At the sight of the stranger, however,
she sprang to her feet, and as he dropped the edge of his cloak and
uncovered his head, she recoiled with a cry of terror.

“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, “why did you come here? I made the signal to
warn them away.”

“Mordieu!” he cried in a tone of consternation. “What is this? I was to
come here alone, I have seen no one else; into what trap have I fallen?”

“They must have sent a messenger to you,” Renée said, recovering her
composure; “you must have missed him on the road. Mère de Dieu!” she
added with fresh trepidation, “and they will think you in Paris; and
yonder,” she pointed at Péron, “is the cardinal’s musketeer!”

The stranger turned as she spoke, and, throwing his cloak partly over
his face, made a spring for the door. Péron drew his sword, and as he
did so, Renée shrieked aloud.

“Stop, in heaven’s name!” she cried; “do not touch him, M. de
Calvisson, it is Monsieur!”

Péron dropped the point of his sword, but stood firm.

“You cannot pass, monsieur,” he said. He was doubtful of the truth of
mademoiselle’s assertion, thinking she intended to deceive him; but at
his words the stranger let fall his cloak.

There could be no longer any doubt of his identity; there was the full
eye, the hooked nose, the full round chin of the Bourbons. The likeness
that Gaston d’Orléans bore to the king and to the queen-mother could
not be easily mistaken, even in the plain dress he wore as a disguise.
Péron had seen him many times before and knew him well; he saluted
gravely and stood irresolute; the cardinal’s orders had not mentioned
a prince of the blood, indeed he had told M. de Nançay that the Duke
of Orleans would make his terms with the king. Had Richelieu been
deceived, or had he duped the marquis? These were perplexing questions,
and they flashed in rapid succession through Péron’s mind, as he stood
looking at the flushed and angry face of the prince. Orleans was not
noted either for courage or fortitude in supreme moments. Finding
himself fairly checkmated, he had but one thought, and that was for his
own safety. He turned and began to upbraid mademoiselle.

“How came you here, girl?” he demanded peevishly. “Has that precious
father of yours turned coward and deserted his friends?”

Renée’s eye flashed. “Monsieur,” she said haughtily, “my father is no
traitor to his allies; he has never betrayed a man who perilled his
life and honor for him!”

The thrust went home; the fate of the unhappy and noble Montmorency
was not yet forgotten, and the prince gnawed his lip in silence. But
mademoiselle was not done.

“My father is now a prisoner,” she said, “in the hands of that man who
is alike pitiless and supreme, and I was sent here at the king’s orders
to decoy your friends to this house. I tried to prevent it--I made the
signal, and indeed I am sure that no one else will come; but monsignor
has certainly made one successful cast of his net to-night;” and she
smiled scornfully, as she looked at the handsome, vacillating face of
Gaston d’Orléans.

“Pardieu!” he muttered, “I am lost. The king’s orders! Your father in
the hands of the cardinal, and my mother in Brussels! I am lost! I am
lost!” and he paced up and down the room, wringing his hands like one
possessed. He who never decided anything was suddenly forced to face an
exigency which demanded decision.

It was a strange scene: Péron stood like a statue by the door, his
drawn sword in his hand, and near him Ninon was gazing wide-eyed at
the prince as he paced to and fro. By the fire, Renée stood erect, her
face pale but her eyes aglow with indignation, the most composed person
present.

Presently Monsieur halted in front of Péron.

“Put up your sword,” he said pettishly. “I am a prince of France, and
you dare not oppose me. I shall go out of this house as I came--alone!”

Péron had been revolving many thoughts in his mind during the brief
time since the discovery of his prisoner’s identity, and he had to come
to a decision.

“It is true that I might risk the king’s displeasure by opposing your
highness,” he said quietly, “but consider for one moment the situation.
I am not in supreme command in this house. There is here a capitaine de
quartier. I heard his voice on the stairs a moment since, and the place
is full of soldiers. If you step out into that hall--if you attempt to
go away--they will seize you, and it will be a public matter in five
minutes.”

“But, mon Dieu!” cried the prince, in a faint voice, “what can I do?
My brother will never forgive me. The cardinal will ruin me! They will
know I am here, if I stay! Where is the advantage?”

“If your highness will think a moment, you will see,” Péron answered
more calmly, as he saw the other’s absolute impotence in the face of
a crisis. “If you remain quiet, no one need know your identity but
Mademoiselle de Nançay and myself.”

Gaston peered at him eagerly; his face had grown pinched and not unlike
the king’s when Louis was suffering from one of his seasons of ill
health.

“How can I trust you, man?” he moaned fretfully. “I can trust no one;
every one betrays me and every one suspects me, even my own brother!”

“Because you betray every one,” was on Péron’s lip; but he restrained
himself, though, looking beyond Monsieur’s cowering figure, he saw the
contempt and hatred on mademoiselle’s proud young face.

“You may trust me, your highness,” Péron replied quietly. “I pledge my
honor that no man shall know you if you will stay in the room across
the hall until daybreak, and then ride with me to Paris.”

Monsieur’s face, already white, turned the color of ashes.

“To Paris!” he cried, collapsing into a chair. “To monsignor?”

“To monsignor, your highness,” said Péron, grimly. “My orders are
absolute.”

The prince covered his face with his hands, and there was a moment of
silence. In it Renée’s eyes met the young soldier’s with a sympathetic
flash of contempt for the crouching heap in the chair. Monsieur’s thick
curls fell disordered around his face, and his white hands trembled as
he held them over his eyes. Suddenly he rallied and sat up, looking
defiantly at Péron.

“You can prove nothing against me, sir musketeer,” he said. “I came
here, it is true--but how do you know my errand?”

“It is true that I do not know it, your highness,” he replied gravely,
“neither do the men without know you; there is your advantage.”

“Tush!” said Gaston, with rising courage, “’tis all a trap of
Richelieu’s; a clear evidence of his persecution of me. My brother
shall know it!”

He rose from his chair and felt in his pockets for a comb, which he
found, and began to arrange his curls.

“Your pardon, mademoiselle,” he said peevishly. “I could not see for
my disordered hair.” Then he turned to Péron. “Now, sir,” he added, “I
will go to your prison until daybreak, but you shall all suffer for
this!”

Péron laid his hand on the latch.

“I pray your highness to assume your disguise,” he said; “we must cross
the hall, and it is now full of soldiers.”

The prince resumed his cloak and hat with some muttered imprecations,
but he was careful to muffle his face before the door was opened. As
Péron had said, the entry was full of troopers, but at a sign from
him they all fell back and allowed the prince to cross the hall to a
room on the other side, which his captor took care should be secure
before he left him there to rest for the few hours that remained before
daybreak.

Meanwhile Péron found enough to do to make his arrangements and keep
his pledge to the Duke of Orleans. However, the others were tolerably
satisfied with the ease with which they had secured the prisoner, and
did not press the question of his identity, after their leader told
them that he was not at liberty to reveal it. Whatever their suspicions
were, they did not soar as high as the truth, and Péron felt confident
that all would go well, if there was no attempt at a rescue by the
other conspirators.

But all the while another matter troubled the mind of the young
soldier. Monsieur was a dangerous prisoner. He had been in numerous
plots against his brother and the cardinal, and in open rebellion
before, and never yet had offended beyond the king’s forgiveness.
What would be the result of carrying such a prize to Richelieu?
It was a question which no man could answer. And Monsieur had all
the spitefulness and ill temper of his mother. More than this, had
the cardinal purposely spread his net for this royal fish, or had
he believed one of d’Orléans’s numerous confessions? The last was
clearly impossible; monsignor knew the prince too well. Manifestly,
the declaration of Monsieur’s reconciliation had been made to entrap
de Nançay; and now the point remained--would the capture of Gaston be
welcomed, or would his captor suffer for it? Péron found it impossible
to decide, and set about his duty with a heavy heart; it seemed that
this fish might be large enough to break the meshes of his net or drag
him into the deep sea.



CHAPTER XVII

MONSIEUR AND MONSIGNOR


BEFORE daybreak, Péron was forced to provide a meal for Monsieur, who,
finding himself in an uncomfortable situation, was disposed to be as
peevish and refractory as possible. Without a single trait of his great
father, Henri Quatre, Gaston de Bourbon, Duke of Anjou and of Orleans,
inherited all the deceit, the petty ambition, and the vindictiveness of
his mother, Marie de’ Medici, lacking however her tenacity of purpose.
While the Thirteenth Louis inherited the sternness of the great Henri,
the younger brother was as unstable as water. Shut up, against his
will, in the house at Poissy, and knowing himself to be once more in
the clutches of the cardinal, whose distrust of him was only equalled
by his contempt, Monsieur had but one thought, and that was of the
safest way to desert his fellow-conspirators.

He demanded food and wine to keep up his failing spirits, and when
both were brought from the Golden Pigeon, he ate voraciously and drank
deeply, gaining in courage at every potation. He had no fear of the
king, his brother, Louis had always forgiven him, although it was
with the indifference of disdain; but of Richelieu he had a wholesome
dread, and he knew that monsignor, despising and suspecting him,
knowing him to have been many times guilty, desired above all else to
cut him off from the line of succession. The more wine he drank the
more determined he became to extricate himself from this difficulty,
as he had extricated himself from many others. To a man who had but
little shame, it mattered not how much had been revealed by M. de
Nançay or by others. Monsieur seldom stopped for a lie, and never for a
prevarication.

When they set out on their ride to Paris, he was in a humor to betray
his best friends, and he showed it by a peevish lack of courtesy toward
Mademoiselle de Nançay. He would not approach her, but insisted on
riding at the head of the party, kept under guard by Péron, however,
who was continually afraid he would try to give them the slip. The
prince had been provided with a mask, and, muffled in his cloak, was
not recognized by any of the party except the captain of the guard sent
by the cardinal. This man had ridden behind Monsieur but a little way
when he leaned over and spoke in a whisper to Péron.

“Pardieu!” he said with a grimace, “I see what bird we have caught. He
took but one trait of his father, and that is his seat in the saddle;
he rides like a Béarnese.”

Péron made a sign to him to keep silence, and the little troop moved
on; mademoiselle and her woman in the center, and Choin commanding the
men in the rear, for they were not without anticipation of a skirmish
in the forest between Poissy and St. Germain-en-Laye. They had set
out at daybreak from the house of the Image de Notre Dame, to avoid
any attempt at an early rescue of the Duke of Orleans, and now the
sun was just rising over a quiet landscape. In the east the sky was
golden; two great white clouds, touched with rose and amethyst, floated
upward before the sun, as though the morning spread its wings. The
first long shafts of sunlight made wide avenues of glory through the
forest, and there was the merry twittering of birds in every thicket.
Péron felt his spirits rise with the day; whatever the outcome of
his mission, he had steadily endeavored to do his duty, and he had
assuredly accomplished something of importance. Aware now of how
nearly Renée de Nançay had defeated his plans, he could not suppress a
feeling of curiosity to know how she regarded the turn of events. He
cast more than one searching glance at her erect figure, as she rode
in their midst, but he could make nothing of that mask, and she had
not vouchsafed him a word that morning. He had sent her a breakfast,
but had received no thanks; and when they were preparing to depart,
she had mounted before he could come to her assistance, being delayed
by Monsieur’s peevish assertions of authority. He remembered the look
of contempt she had given the prince, and he saw that she was as
anxious now to avoid Gaston as he was to avoid her. They made a strange
party. Good discipline and a recognition of the importance of their
errand kept the soldiers quiet and orderly, and the two women were as
speechless as mutes; while a little in advance rode Monsieur, masked
and muffled, and as fretful as a spoiled child caught in a naughty act.

Notwithstanding the anxieties of the leaders, the ride through the
forest was quiet enough, and they entered St. Germain-en-Laye at a
sharp canter, passing through the principal street and out again
without a pause; for in the towns was the greatest risk that the
identity of d’Orléans would be discovered. As the morning advanced,
they began to meet travellers on the highroad, and Monsieur sank yet
deeper into the folds of his cloak and grew more and more sullen. Once
Péron was certain that the prince was recognized. A party of horsemen
rode by, manifestly fresh from court and wearing the colors of Condé,
and more than one of them turned sharply to stare at the masked rider.
However, no one accosted them, and Péron breathed freer at the end of
each league. Their horses were fresh and covered the ground easily, and
it was not long before they came in sight of Ruel. As they drew near,
Péron, who was now at mademoiselle’s side, addressed her.

“This time we will go through Ruel, Mademoiselle de Nançay,” he said
with a smile.

“As you please,” she answered with a shrug of her shoulders; “this time
I gain nothing and lose nothing by it.”

“Forgive me for having duped you, mademoiselle,” he replied, “and
believe me that I respect such loyalty to your convictions.”

“It is I who should beg your pardon, M. de Calvisson,” she said
frankly; “I said sharp things to you last night, but I recall them.
Sir, I do not blame you for your attachment to the cardinal; he is, at
least, a man. As for that creature yonder,” she threw out her hand with
a gesture of contempt,--“St. Denis! he is not worthy a thought, much
less a drop of an honest man’s blood. That cowardly, treacherous boy
would sell the noblest men of France for the sake of his own miserable
comfort. Heaven forgive me, if I have ever furthered any cause of his;
I can never forgive myself!”

Her vehemence, the earnest tone of her voice, though she spoke so low,
gave Péron a glimpse of another Renée de Nançay,--not the spoiled,
haughty beauty, but an earnest, passionate woman. He glanced at
Monsieur’s unconscious figure and smiled; his own heart was lighter.

“It is a pity,” he answered, as low spoken as she, “that the brother of
his majesty should be--what he is!”

“’Tis a pity, monsieur,” Renée replied sharply, “that he was ever born.”

“At least he has served one useful purpose,” Péron said: “he has shown
Mademoiselle de Nançay that he is not worth the trouble that he has
made in this realm.”

“If I were the king,” she retorted, “I would soon end it; I would shut
Monsieur up in the Castle of Vincennes.”

“Ah, mademoiselle, you forget what the life of the king would be,” he
replied; “you forget the tears and intercessions of Madame la Mère.”

“Tears are easier shed than blood,” she said; then added suddenly,
“there is some unusual stir in Ruel; there is the cardinal’s livery.”

They were entering the town, and Péron, looking about for the first
time, saw that, as mademoiselle had said, there was an unusual
commotion. The courtyard of the inn was crowded, and there were,
too, the colors of Richelieu. Monsieur had perceived them and fallen
back, nearer to Renée than he had been the whole morning, and was
evidently uneasy and angry. Péron urged his horse past the others, and
approaching the inn inquired the meaning of the stir.

“The cardinal is here,” was the reply; “he came this morning.”

Further inquiry developed the fact that monsignor had reached his own
house at Ruel some hours earlier and was there then. This was better
fortune than Péron could have expected, and it lifted a load from his
heart. It was easier to get Monsieur to the cardinal’s house here
unnoticed than in Paris, where he was almost certain to be recognized
at once. But it was no easy matter to get the unhappy prince to see
the affair in the same light. To his mind it was no better to face
Richelieu at Ruel than at the Palais Cardinal. Monsieur had never been
able to meet an ordeal, and he was not any better prepared than usual.
At first he refused loudly to move an inch, holding his horse’s head
steadily toward Paris and declaring that he would see no one, go to no
one but the king.

“Your highness may be recognized if you speak so plainly,” Péron
reminded him, “and in that case I cannot answer for the results.”

“Mon Dieu!” cried Gaston, in alarm; “surely, man, they would not hurt
me! My brother would never forgive them if they dared to touch me.”

“Your highness is safe,” Péron replied dryly, “but you would be more
so with the cardinal. He is a wise man and will devise some way out of
this difficulty, I doubt not.”

Monsieur gasped; he was relieved, but he could not make up his mind.
Péron laid his hand on his bridle rein.

“M. le Prince,” he said bluntly, “yonder come some gay gentlemen;
if I mistake not, M. de Bassompierre is among them. If he sees your
highness, this matter will be the talk of the galleries of the Louvre
to-night, the gossip of the Marais, the tattle of the Port Antoine.”

“Parbleu!” ejaculated Monsieur, in a vexed tone, “you are right. Go on,
man, to the cardinal--or to the devil--it must be my unlucky star!”

Péron did not wait for another change; he gave his orders quickly,
and they all proceeded at a trot to the cardinal’s house. The court
was full of musketeers, and there was a guard at the door; but Péron
was recognized and easily gained admittance for himself, Monsieur,
and the two women. The others remained without, finding friends and
comrades among the guards. Péron sent a message to the cardinal, and in
a few moments received his orders to leave mademoiselle and her woman
in the anteroom below and to come to him with his prisoner, of whose
importance a hint had been conveyed. An usher led them up the broad
stairs, and opened the door for them to enter the cardinal’s presence.
The prince was still masked and muffled, and walked sullenly into the
room, which was a large one, richly furnished and with a bright fire
burning on the hearth. The hangings were of splendid tapestry, and
the floor was covered with fine rugs. Richelieu was better able to
gratify his taste for magnificence now than when the young Bishop of
Luçon bought the second-hand black velvet bed of his aunt, Madame de
Marconnay, and borrowed money to buy his first silver dishes.

Péron followed close on the heels of Monsieur and closed the door
behind them. They found the cardinal alone; he was standing with his
back to the fire, and he had the advantage, for the light fell full on
their faces, leaving his in the shadow. He was not a large man, thin
and of medium stature, yet in his red robes and with his coal-black
moustache and chin tuft and his white hair, he was at once an imposing
and remarkable figure. The restless genius of the man shone through
the immovable mask of his pale face, as the fire burns within an
alabaster lamp. Péron saw that he recognized Monsieur at a glance; he
did not show any surprise, however, but briefly ordered Péron to keep
the door against all comers; then he turned to the prince with a cold
smile on his thin lips.

“Will your highness be seated?” he said smoothly. “Had I known that
they would find you at Poissy, I should have prepared a more suitable
reception.”

Finding that he was known, the Duke of Orleans flung himself into a
chair by the fire and tore off his mask, disclosing a flushed and angry
but frightened face.

“As usual,” he said sullenly, “I have been treated with malice. I am
always persecuted, I tell you, monsignor; my brother shall hear my
version of this.”

Richelieu looked at him with fierce eyes.

“His majesty has already heard your highness many times,” he remarked
dryly. “The story is always much the same.”

“I have been badly used,” retorted Monsieur. “If anything goes wrong,
I am always the one to be blamed; if any man is a traitor, I am always
accused of being his accomplice, yet no brother could love the king
more dearly than I!”

“Your highness has a singular way of showing your affection,” Richelieu
rejoined calmly. “It should be remembered that the King of France is
the state, and he who fosters conspiracy against the state fosters it
against his majesty.”

“You are fond of giving me advice, monsignor,” d’Orléans said sullenly,
“but you cannot prove--this time--that I have singed my fingers.”

“Ah, M. le Prince, that is an old argument,” returned the cardinal,
“and you and I are old friends. Let us remember M. de Montmorency and
M. de Chalais, and a few more whom I might name, and then let us adjust
our thoughts to the matter in hand.”

Monsieur made no reply; he thrust his feet out before the fire and sank
deeper into his chair. Richelieu looked at him from head to foot, with
a glance that was full of the most profound contempt.

“I have talked with the king,” he said coldly, “and his majesty is
not disposed to let this matter pass without a public example. The
queen-mother and your highness cannot have equality with the king;
neither can we close our eyes to these intrigues, which not only
corrupt the loyalty of our great nobles but lay our affairs open to the
court at Madrid. This realm cannot be ruled by two factions; one must
fall. Naturally, his majesty is not disposed to be at the head of that
one.”

“I do not believe that my brother intends any evil against me!”
retorted the prince; but his face grew a shade paler, and his lynx-eyed
adversary noted the change.

“There always comes a time when a king must sacrifice his feelings as a
man,” he remarked dryly.

“Ah, yes--I remember that you made Louis do so in the case of
Mademoiselle de la Fayette,” Monsieur retorted spitefully.

“And this being a far more serious matter demands a more serious
remedy,” replied the cardinal, unmoved. “Is it natural, in making an
example, that the most important man in a faction--the one in whose
name all the treasonable correspondence is conducted--should be passed
over with forgiveness while the lesser ones suffer? In a sense, that
was the case when Henri de Montmorency lost his head, but your highness
knows that it is not my way. I shall feel it my duty to advise his
majesty to administer justice, and justice alone.”

The prince writhed under those pitiless black eyes.

“I have done nothing,” he said, weakening more and more; “it is all
the fault of the others; I only listened--I intended no harm! Madame,
my mother, is ever urging me to do something for her--to advance
her cause. I am a dutiful son and an affectionate brother. Pardieu!
monsignor, what can I do? Intercede for me with Louis, and I will
furnish all the information you may desire--and I can furnish much, for
they have been intriguing with Spain to compass your overthrow.”

There was a flash of triumph in Richelieu’s pale face, but he never
removed his glance from Monsieur, who lay now in a miserable heap in
his chair.

“It is possible that an arrangement can be made,” monsignor said
coldly, opening a parchment and placing it on his desk with a pen
beside it; “the king may again pardon your indiscretion if you sign
the agreement drawn up some time since. It is simple; in the event of
his majesty’s death--which God forbid--you will be cut off from the
succession and will have no share in the regency.”

“Pardieu!” cried Gaston, in a burst of temper, rising from his seat and
stamping his foot on the floor, “I will not sign it!”

“Ah! you refuse?” remarked the cardinal, looking at him unmoved; “then,
your highness, I must lay the evidence in my hands before the council,
and your only hope will be in the king’s clemency.”

There was a pause, and the two stood looking at each other. Richelieu
was as calm and cold as ever, while the prince was white with fury, and
terror was growing in his eyes.

“Morbleu, you are a devil!” he said, flinging himself into his chair
and bursting into tears.

Monsignor looked up at the clock.

“In half an hour,” he said, “his majesty’s provost-marshal will be here
from Paris. It is for your highness to decide whether you will return
with him or not.”

“You dare not!” cried Monsieur, with a snarl, “you have no warrant.”

Richelieu showed him a paper bearing the royal seal.

“This was signed yesterday in the Louvre, M. d’Orléans,” he said.

The prince stared at it, his lips parting and his breath coming short.

“I would not have believed it of Louis!” he exclaimed, wringing his
hands.

The cardinal said nothing more, but stood looking at the clock. In the
pause they heard the trampling of horses’ feet in the court.

“’Tis the provost-marshal,” Richelieu said calmly, “and ten minutes too
early.”

Monsieur rose to his feet and staggered to the desk, uttering a great
oath in his passion of shame and fear.

“Save me, M. le Cardinal,” he cried, “I cannot go with the
provost-marshal. Mon Dieu! I will sign anything rather than that.”



CHAPTER XVIII

MADEMOISELLE’S TRINKET


HALF an hour later, Péron had told the cardinal the whole story of the
ride to Poissy and of mademoiselle’s signal. He was too straightforward
to conceal even that which was to his disadvantage. Richelieu rebuked
him sharply.

“I took you for a man of some wit, M. de Calvisson, or I should not
have sent you on such an errand. Had I wanted only a good sword, there
are half a hundred at my service as good as yours. But it looks like a
fool, sir, to leave a woman to work her will; it might have cost you
dear. Happily, you captured the one prize most desired; otherwise”--the
cardinal looked fiercely into the young musketeer’s eyes,--“otherwise,
M. de Calvisson, you would have gone to the Châtelet.”

“The oversight was culpable, monsignor, I admit it,” Péron answered
proudly, “but it was not a wilful breach of duty; when I betray a
trust, I am ready to suffer imprisonment.”

“It is well,” Richelieu replied coldly, “for you would assuredly meet
your deserts. I spare no man, M. de Calvisson, I favor no man. I am
not the first to break off from an engagement, but when it is broken,
I will surely punish the offender. It is my purpose to employ you on
another and a dangerous mission, and I do not look for failure. Now,
mark me, you will take a good horse and go alone to Brussels. In the
great square at Brussels, a few yards from the Maison du Roi, in the
direction of St. Gudule, there is an old house, with a small iron cross
over the door. This ring will gain you admittance, and the master of
the house will give you a letter for me. You will then return at once
with this to Paris, and you will defend the secret with your life. If
you give up that message,” the cardinal paused, his face was pale and
cold, but his eyes burned like fire, “if it is wrung from you, I will
have your head, sir, ay, and expose it upon the gibbet by the Pont Neuf
where Maréchal d’Ancre hung by the heels!”

Péron looked him proudly in the eye.

“Monsignor,” he said, “I do not merit your threats nor do I fear them.
Were I a traitor, I might both deserve and dread them. As it is, I can
but do my duty and no more.”

“Do it, Sieur de Calvisson, and let no fair face beguile you. Here
is the ring;” and the cardinal gave him a small, plain ring with a
bishop’s miter engraved upon it; “beware of losing that, for it is a
sign which will admit you into the house at Brussels, and would do much
mischief in other hands.”

Péron took the ring and stood looking at it gravely.

“It is a long way to Brussels, monsignor,” he said, “and I go alone;
if I fall by the way, there will be none to tell the tale. Do me
the justice, therefore, to believe that I will surely fulfil your
instructions unless I meet my own destruction.”

“Have no fear, your fate will be known to me,” Richelieu replied
calmly. “One word more, monsieur, there is a lady now in Brussels,--a
great lady, mark you,--avoid her. I see you understand me. There is
money for the journey; spare no bribes that may be needed; and now
begone.”

Péron took two steps toward the door and then paused.

“What must I do with my charge, monsignor?” he asked. “Mademoiselle de
Nançay and her woman are still in this house.”

For the first time Richelieu smiled.

“You need feel no anxiety in regard to them, Sieur de Calvisson,” he
replied; “I will send mademoiselle to Paris with another escort, who
will be equally zealous but not so susceptible to the influence of
bright eyes.”

Péron saluted, with a flushed face, and withdrew. As he traversed the
gallery beyond the cardinal’s room, he put the ring into the bosom
of his doublet, and, in doing so, touched mademoiselle’s trinket
and remembered that it was to be returned to her. In the anxiety of
Monsieur’s capture and the subsequent events, he had forgotten it, and
now he hastened to seek its fair owner to restore her property. He was
not sorry for this excuse to explain his sudden withdrawal from the
little company; he was loath to have her think that the cardinal had
replaced him with another for any reason of displeasure. He knew where
to find her, and lost no time in asking her permission to speak with
her a moment. He sent the message by one of the pages of the household,
and in a short time was admitted to the room where mademoiselle sat
with her woman. She had laid aside mask and cloak, and looked pale
and disturbed, and responded to his salutation coldly; it seemed to
him that she had repented of her outburst of frankness in regard to
Monsieur.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, gravely holding out her watch, “I return your
trinket safe. I have been ordered to other duties, and I trust that you
will have no further cause for anxiety in regard to it.”

She took it with a sudden change of manner, her face flushing a little
as she did so. She held it in her hand, looking at it in silence, and
Péron could find no excuse for prolonging his stay.

“I bid you adieu, mademoiselle,” he said quietly, “and wish you a safe
and pleasant return to Paris.”

She did not reply, and he had his hand on the door before she stopped
his retreat.

“You go on some other mission, M. de Calvisson,” she said, giving him a
questioning glance.

“Ay, mademoiselle, on another and longer journey,” he replied; and as
she said no more, he withdrew.

As he left the cardinal’s house to begin his preparations for his hasty
journey, he was angry with himself that he should care so much for
Mademoiselle de Nançay’s moods. He did not yet admit to himself that
the fair face of Renée haunted him and was nearer his heart than the
cardinal’s instructions. She was the daughter of a man who had ruined
his father, she was removed from him by a hundred obstacles, yet, with
all her ill temper and her pride, she had a greater charm for him than
any of the many beauties he had seen since the day of their first
meeting at the Château de Nançay; and he had not left the courtyard of
Richelieu’s house before she gave him yet more cause to think of her.
He was almost at the gate when the woman Ninon came running after
him, having pushed her way through the guards at the door. She plucked
Péron’s cloak with one hand, in the other holding out the trinket he
had just returned to her mistress.

“Mademoiselle wishes you to keep this until your return to Paris,” she
said bluntly; “she says that you will then give it to the clockmaker on
the Rue de la Ferronnerie.”

Péron’s cheek burned; it was evident that to mademoiselle he was only
the clockmaker’s son.

“Tell your mistress that I might lose it,” he said haughtily; “she can
readily find a lackey to take it to the clockmaker’s shop.”

Ninon looked at him angrily, still holding out the watch.

“You are a fool, man!” she said harshly. “Mademoiselle means to help
you; ’tis a passport that may save your neck at Brussels.”

Péron looked at her in astonishment.

“I have the less desire to wear it,” he said; “mademoiselle and I do
not belong to the same party.”

But Ninon was not to be put off.

“I swear to you that there is no harm in the symbol,” she said boldly;
“mademoiselle is no traitress. Without this, you may meet with many a
mischance. Take it or leave it, as you will, but she will not soon
forgive you if you suspect her of evil intentions.”

He took it, not without reluctance, but he was not willing to appear
afraid of a bauble.

“Tell your mistress that I take it, for her sake,” he said, “and I
thank her for the thought of me; but it is ever my habit to trust to my
sword rather than to tokens for my safety.”

“I will take the message,” Ninon said, “but look well to the trinket;
if you lose it, you may lose your life;” and with that she turned her
back on him and returned to her mistress.

More disturbed than ever and greatly perplexed, Péron mounted his
horse and returned to Paris to make preparations for his journey and
to secure a fresh horse, that he might start before nightfall for the
French frontier. The errand, though a perilous one, was not without
its charms, and he had no greater responsibility now than his personal
safety. How mademoiselle and her woman had divined his destination, he
could not imagine. He felt sure that this errand was in some mysterious
manner connected with the events of the previous days. The presence of
the queen-mother at Brussels and the capture of Monsieur at Poissy,
pointed to some relation between the two errands, but all this did not
furnish him with a clew to the manner in which Renée de Nançay had
divined his mission. If it was as easily discovered by others, it was
likely to be fraught with many dangers; but this only increased his
relish for it.

As soon as he had the opportunity to do so unobserved, he examined
mademoiselle’s trinket with care and curiosity. It was an exceedingly
small, almond-shaped watch, dating from the Valois period; the case was
of gold and enamel, the face of gold and mother of pearl, but beyond
this he saw nothing about it to indicate any secret virtue. It was a
pretty bauble, nothing more, and he had seen a dozen such in the shop
at the sign of Ste. Geneviève and could not imagine its significance;
yet he felt sure that it had some meaning which did not show on the
surface. Remembering mademoiselle’s treatment of him on the Rue St.
Thomas du Louvre and at Poissy, he could not understand her change of
feeling, her apparent willingness to protect him from her father’s
friends. Yet she had surely sent him this trinket for that purpose,
unless the woman, Ninon, had deceived him, which seemed improbable.
However, he remembered the bunch of violets at Nançay, and thought it
possible that Renée still had her moods. But he had little time now to
give to these speculations, for he was under the necessity of hastening
his preparations for his expedition; and when he reached the city he
gave his thoughts entirely to this purpose.

He met with few delays; the cardinal’s purse being amply supplied,
he had no difficulty in equipping himself for the journey, and,
before sunset, he had again left Paris and taken the shortest road to
Flanders.



CHAPTER XIX

MADAME LA MÈRE


ON the lonely journey to Flanders, Péron had not only time, but food,
for reflection. He found himself in a singular position: his father
had been deeply wronged and he himself had been made penniless and
almost nameless by the machinations of a wicked man; that man was now
likely to meet his just reward and leave the way open to the lawful
heir, yet Péron found his ambition in that direction choked at birth.
To proclaim himself and petition for his property would be to deal a
crushing blow to the innocent daughter of his father’s enemy. It was
true that he was Jehan de Calvisson, the son of one of the grandees of
France, and she was the child of a man whose ancestors were unknown and
who had gained his place by artifice and treachery. But Péron thought
of his own humble childhood on the Rue de la Ferronnerie, of his simple
training, his long service in monsignor’s household with no better
friend than his sword, and he felt that to him rank and wealth were of
the less value, unless he achieved them by his own valor, as he had
always dreamed that he would. On the other hand, he remembered Renée
de Nançay’s education in the midst of luxury and adulation, her pride,
her probable ambition, her whole life of ease and pleasure among her
equals, and he felt that to bring such distress upon her would be cruel
and unjust; for was she not innocent? Péron was practically a penniless
adventurer, only a musketeer in the service of the cardinal; yet so
little was he envious of the wealth and exaltation of others that it
gave him a sharp pang to think of dispossessing this young girl of all
that she held in esteem. Père Antoine had not labored in vain, when
he and the orphan boy spelled out the Psalter together in that upper
room, on the Rue de Bethisi; the good priest had sown the seed against
this very day, when he foresaw that the outraged son might long to
avenge his own and his father’s wrongs. It is possible that without the
inspiration of Renée’s face and voice, Père Antoine might have failed,
but certainly his teachings were a salve now to Péron’s sore heart. It
was true that while she remained Mademoiselle de Nançay, and he the
cardinal’s musketeer, they were as widely sundered as the poles, yet
not more so than they would be if he were the Marquis de Nançay and she
the daughter of a perjurer and a traitor who had virtually both slain
and robbed the late marquis.

What a strange destiny it was that had brought these two together, and
put Jehan de Calvisson in the light of an inferior: yet in his present
mood he would gladly have saved mademoiselle from humiliation. But
behind all this was the reflection that it did not rest with him to
save her. M. de Nançay was at the mercy of Richelieu, and few had ever
found quarter with that inexorable man. All that Péron could do was to
refrain from claiming her name and her estates, if those were spared
to her, and to refrain also from appearing as her greatest enemy and
despoiler. As he rode along the highways through Normandy and Picardy
on to the Flemish frontier, he became more and more convinced that
he could not take part against Renée de Nançay,--that he had not the
heart to humiliate her innocent pride, to thrust her out as an outcast
upon the world, the penniless daughter of a rogue. She had used him
with little kindness; yet behind her hauteur and her mockery he had
caught glimpses of a genuinely brave and noble-minded woman, and he
was himself too noble to bear her ill-will on account of her father.
The more his mind dwelt on this decision, the more he was satisfied
with it. Yet he thought, with a smile, of the disappointment of the
honest clockmaker, and of the consternation that would overspread
the broad brown face of Madame Michel, and the surprise and disgust
of the pastry cook Archambault. There was only one face in which he
might hope to read approbation of such a course, and that was the
gentle and spiritual countenance of Père Antoine, whose own life, far
different from those of the worldly priests who everywhere gained
preferment and honor, had been one long sacrifice, and who yet believed
that insufficient to expiate his one sin, an unrequited love for the
beautiful Marquise de Nançay, the mother of Jehan. That was the simple
story of Père Antoine’s life, not without its pathos and its beauty,
and full of that long pain which brings forth not only faith but works.

Contrary to Péron’s own anticipations and to those of the cardinal,
he accomplished his journey without delay or mishap. Apparently, his
departure from Paris had been unnoticed and his errand unsuspected, for
no one followed, neither was he stopped by the way, and he reached his
destination as speedily as his good horse could cover the long distance
between that city and the old Flemish town.

It was in the early evening, and the glow of sunset was still in the
western sky, when Péron entered the gates of Brussels and rode slowly
through the streets. He had never seen the place before, and the long
rows of dark, Spanish-looking houses interested him, the people on
doorsteps and balconies diverted him, and he let his horse keep his own
gait as he went. When he had halted to have his passports examined at
the entrance to the town, he had asked and received directions to the
market-place, from whence he thought he could find his own way. He met
with no difficulty in obtaining information; he had picked up a little
Spanish in the household of the cardinal, and it stood him in good
stead. Unconsciously, too, he was attracting a good deal of attention;
his handsome face and figure did not pass unnoticed even in his plain
dress, which he had purposely adapted to that of a poor gentleman
travelling upon some private errand.

With occasional assistance from persons on the street, Péron found
himself approaching the Cathedral Church of St. Gudule, where the
bleeding body of Count Hoorne was carried after his execution. Thinking
of the fate of the two Flemish princes, and remembering his own
father’s, Péron was so absorbed in looking up at the old cathedral that
he scarcely noticed a man standing in the shadow of the parvis, until
he was accosted by the stranger, who spoke in good French.

“You have the time, monsieur?” he asked, approaching Péron.

Without pausing to reflect, Péron drew out mademoiselle’s watch and
opened it.

“It is six o’clock,” he said, “but I am from France.”

“From Paris?” remarked the other. “Ah, I see that I was not mistaken.
Well, comrade, you are late; I was sure of you, but I did not like to
speak until I saw the trinket. Let us lose no more time; follow me.”

Péron was taken by surprise; evidently he was expected, but why had
the cardinal neglected to tell him that some one would watch for him?
Yet was this the man he sought? Then the truth flashed upon him: it
was the trinket, mademoiselle’s watch. At last he seemed on the point
of learning its secret. He was too fond of adventure, too reckless
of personal danger, to hesitate. Without a word, he dismounted and,
leading his horse, followed the man, who seemed disposed to be as
silent as he. They walked at a brisk pace, but Péron had time to
examine his guide, who was undoubtedly a Frenchman. The stranger wore
a suit of black velvet, with a cloak and sword and a low Spanish hat.
There was nothing remarkable, however, in his swarthy face or his
general appearance. He made his way quietly across the great square,
where the cardinal had located the house with the iron cross, and
Péron, though interested in his guide and his unknown errand, did not
forget to look for it. He had no difficulty in locating the Maison
du Roi or the Brodhuys, which stood conspicuously enough in the
market-place; but it was not to the house of the iron cross but beyond
the square and down a long and narrow street that the stranger led the
young soldier. They passed through a crowd in the market-place, and
there were people in the street beyond, which perhaps accounted for
the silence of the guide, who walked a few paces in advance. The lane
they had entered--it was little more than a lane--was a cul-de-sac,
and at the end was a large square house; but it was the rear of this
house which opened on the lane, the front faced on another street.
The stranger made straight for this mansion, and, seeing that it was
their destination, Péron examined it curiously. It was singularly bald
of interest, a square Dutch house with no crossing with the Spanish
architecture. There was a row of windows on the second story, and a
door in the middle of the first, while the tiers of windows here were
shuttered. In one casement above, in the middle of the house, Péron saw
a light burning. As they approached, a little boy, dressed plainly as
a page, came out of the door and took the bridle of the traveller’s
horse, as if he was expected. Still much amazed, but full of a daring
curiosity, Péron followed the man in black velvet through the doorway
and across a square hall to the stairs. It was gloomy in the house in
spite of the tapers set in brackets on either side of the hall, and the
fire in the great chimney smoked dismally when the door was opened. On
the stairs they met another man, wearing the dress of a servant.

“You were long returning, monsieur,” he remarked, addressing Péron’s
guide.

“He was late,” was the reply; “the roads from Paris grow longer every
day.”

The servant laughed and stared curiously at Péron as he stood aside
to let them pass. At the head of the stairs the stranger stopped and
hesitated.

“You ought to have had time to arrange your dress,” he remarked,
with a dubious glance at Péron; “but you were late and she is always
impatient. Well, well, we cannot stop now; if you bring good news,
doubtless your boots will be forgiven.”

Péron made no reply; he was afraid that a mistake might destroy his
chance of fathoming mademoiselle’s mystery. Fortunately the other did
not wait for an answer, he crossed the hall and lifted a heavy curtain
of black velvet; as he did so, a flood of light shone into the hall and
for the moment dazzled Péron, who however heard him say, elevating his
voice,--

“Madame, the messenger from Paris.”

They were standing on the threshold of a moderately large room,
handsomely furnished and lighted by many tapers. As he spoke, there was
a rustle, and a woman rose from a chair by the fire and stood looking
eagerly toward the door. She was tall and fat, with a dark skin and
round, staring eyes, her expression at once vapid and forbidding.
She was dressed in black, and wore her clothes with such ill-grace
that she appeared even larger than nature had made her. Péron did not
need a second glance; he was rudely awakened from his idle spirit of
adventure, for he had no difficulty in recognizing the person whom he
least wished to see, Marie de’ Medici, the queen-mother of France.

He saluted her mechanically, but remained standing awkwardly at the
threshold. In his confusion he did not forget, however, to be thankful
that he bore no papers or anything to betray his errand but the
cardinal’s ring, and that he had concealed in the lining of his coat.
His silence and manifest embarrassment seemed to surprise not only his
guide but the queen. She was the first to speak.

“What ails the man, Guyon?” she demanded with impatience; “is he from
my son or from M. d’Épernon?”

Guyon looked sharply at the supposed messenger.

“Why do you stand like a fool?” he asked him in an undertone; “give her
majesty the packet.”

Péron bowed profoundly. “Madame,” he said, “some mistake has been made;
I am not the bearer of any message from Paris. I came to Brussels on my
own business.”

The queen retreated a few steps, an expression of dismay on her face.

“How came you here then, monsieur?” she asked haughtily; “this is an
unwarrantable intrusion! Guyon, what is the meaning of this?”

Her equerry was staring at Péron with an agitated face.

“I swear to you, madame, that he bears the token!” he cried in an
excited tone.

“How is this, monsieur?” the queen said angrily, addressing Péron; “you
deny your identity, but you bear the token?”

He understood mademoiselle’s trinket now, and for the moment wished it
many leagues beneath the sea.

“I regret the intrusion, madame,” he replied calmly, “but I have not
consciously worn any token which would lead to such an error.”

There was a pause, and both Marie de’ Medici and her attendant regarded
him in surprise and perplexity. It was evident that neither of them
knew what to do next. If he spoke the truth, they were in an awkward
situation; if he was deceiving them, playing them false, their position
was still more perilous. Péron understood their thoughts, and knew that
his only chance of escape was immediate action.

“Madame,” he said, turning again to the queen and speaking courteously,
“having made the mistake,--which I was led to do through this gentleman
here, who seemed to recognize and expect me,--my best apology will
be to withdraw at once;” and making her an obeisance, he withdrew so
quickly that Guyon had no time to intercept him.

No sooner had the curtain fallen behind him, however, than he heard
them engage in an altercation, but he did not pause to listen. He went
swiftly across the hall and began to descend the stairs. As he did so,
there was the sound of the opening of the street door, accompanied
by some talk as if of fresh arrivals, and in a moment a party of
gentlemen came to the foot of the staircase. Péron saw that he must
meet them, and he quickened his steps in the hope of passing for a
messenger hurrying upon his errand. They came crowding up the steps,
three of them, all booted and spurred as if fresh from the saddle, and
he divined that it was the expected message from Paris. They met midway
on the stairs, and all three stared rudely at Péron, and he recognized,
in a flash, the painted, foppish face of the youngest. It was the dandy
of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, Sieur de Vesson. He stared as if
unable to believe his senses, and stopped on the stairs with an oath,
but Péron passed on rapidly and reached the street unmolested. It was
not the time or the place for a quarrel, and he breathed more freely
when he saw the lad still holding his horse.

“You did not tell me what to do,” the child said in an aggrieved tone,
“and I did not know whether to take him to the stables here or not.”

Péron threw him some coins and sprang into the saddle, only too eager
to be safely out of reach of the queen-mother. As he rode out of the
street, he looked back and saw that two men had come out of the house
bareheaded and were standing there looking after him. Evidently, he
had got off in the nick of time, and they had intended to detain him.

With a lighter heart he made his way to the market-place and, finding
the Maison du Roi once more, began his search for the house with the
iron cross, a search made difficult by the darkness of nightfall. He
rode twice up and down on that side of the square, not caring to risk
an inquiry; the third time he found it, having passed it twice before
in the gloom. The house answered the cardinal’s description: it was
ancient-looking and Spanish in type, and below the balcony above the
front door was a small black iron cross set in the stone. Doubtless it
had been the property of a good Papist in the days of Alva; it might
have been the one from which he witnessed the executions of Egmont and
Hoorne. Ah, if houses might only tell their own stories!

Péron dismounted and knocked gently at the door of this forbidding
dwelling, but he had to repeat the summons before it was opened by a
tall, thin man wearing the black habit of a priest. He carried a taper
in his hand, the flame flaring in the draught from the door and showing
a white face with large dark eyes. He looked askance at his visitor
until Péron held out his hand on which he had placed the cardinal’s
ring. The priest recognized it at once, and opened the door wide
enough to admit the traveller.

“Enter, my son,” he said, “and I will have your horse cared for; it is
late and you will have to spend the night.”

Péron entered accordingly, and the priest fastened and bolted the door,
after having first despatched a half-grown lad to take care of the
horse.



CHAPTER XX

PÈRE MATTHIEU


HAVING secured the strong door of the house of the iron cross, the
priest lighted Péron through the hall and up the narrow stairs to the
second floor, where, in a front room, a table was laid for supper. It
was a bare, gloomy place, illumined by only one taper until the priest
set the one he carried beside the other on the table. By the window
was a young man dressed like a clerk, who rose respectfully as they
entered. After setting down his light, the elder man turned and scanned
Péron’s face and figure closely; he seemed to be satisfied with his
inspection, for his own expression relaxed.

“So you are the cardinal’s messenger?” he said, “a younger man than I
looked for; but monsignor makes few mistakes. I am Père Matthieu, and
this is my clerk, Paschal Luce. We expected you and have laid a place
for you at the table; therefore put aside your cloak and sit down,
for I have ever found that a soldier is less ready for business with
an empty stomach, and from your looks, monsieur, I take you for a
soldier.”

“I have been one of the cardinal’s musketeers ever since I was old
enough to bear arms,” Péron replied, “but I have seen less of service
in the field than I should have liked.”

“There is time enough for that,” Père Matthieu said grimly; “France is
like to need every strong arm she has to defend her, and that, too,
more against her secret foes than her open enemies. When a queen of
France is willing to plot with Spain to gratify her own malice, it is
time that every Frenchman looked to his sword.”

“That charge has been made openly against both queens in Paris,” Péron
remarked.

“Ay, and with truth,” retorted the priest, “could we have wrung the
evidence from the man Laporte; but Mademoiselle d’Hautefort was too
quick for even monsignor. But we have enough here in Brussels; the
queen-mother has never resigned herself to obscurity.”

“I saw her but now,” Péron said.

Père Matthieu started and gave him a searching look.

“You saw the queen-mother?” he repeated sharply, “where and wherefore?”

Péron smiled at the priest’s quick attitude of suspicion.

“By accident only, mon père,” he said, and went on to relate briefly
the story of the meeting near St. Gudule and the subsequent events.

“It was Guyon,” said Paschal Luce; “I have seen him twenty times,
pacing up and down in the parvis of the cathedral, but I never divined
his errand; hereafter, I will watch him.”

The priest had listened in silence, his face grave and thoughtful.

“You will have trouble,” he said to Péron; “it was ill timed and
reckless to follow the man. Queen Marie de’ Medici is the center of a
troublesome and dangerous hive, and she is plotting with Monsieur and
with Spain to overthrow the cardinal and to gain control of the king
and his affairs. The way is long from here to Paris, and these fellows
may yet do you a serious mischief. You have taken your own life in your
hand, and unhappily I cannot devise any means to protect you. You must
get out of Brussels before sunrise to-morrow; it may be that they have
not yet located you, and they will not expect you to leave so soon.”

“For my personal safety, I am not so concerned,” Péron replied calmly;
“while I have a sword and pistol, I can at least make a fair fight; but
I am sorry to have imperilled the safety of any packet I may bear.”

“I must find a way to fashion your message in such form that it can be
easily disposed of,” the priest said; “and then you must trust rather
to the speed of your horse than the strength of your sword. There are
spots enough between here and St. Denis where a man might be made away
with and no one be the wiser. Like enough, too, the men who came after
you into that house were from Paris and have been at your heels all the
time. When you have finished your supper, Paschal, go out and see if
the house is watched.”

Péron’s face flushed. “At least I may do that much to amend my own
carelessness,” he said.

“Nay, you will go to sleep,” Père Matthieu said sharply; “you will
need to be in the saddle early, and you have a stretch before you
which requires fresh strength and steady nerves. Moreover, Paschal
understands this work, and you are not built for it,” he added, with
a smile, measuring Péron’s strong figure and frank face; “you are a
better musketeer than a diplomat, monsieur.”

“I confess that I have no taste for intrigue,” Péron replied, with a
shrug.

“Nor I,” said the priest dryly, “yet without it more heads would be
broken. I see you have finished your supper, it is well; there is a
taper, and in the room beyond you will find a bed. Take what rest you
can, for you must leave at daybreak to-morrow to elude pursuit.”

“But my instructions,” Péron said; “had I not better receive them
to-night?”

The priest shook his head. “Nay,” he replied, “you will remember them
better in the morning, and they are simple. It is my work to-night to
prepare the message in a shape that may escape detection.”

Thus summarily dismissed, Péron had no excuse to remain, and obeyed
the priest’s directions. The bed in the next room was a mere pallet of
the hardest sort; but the traveller was weary, and he was not sorry to
stretch himself upon it. In spite of his anxieties and the prospect of
a dangerous journey on the morrow, he soon sank into a sound sleep,
disturbed only by confused dreams of the trinket and Renée de Nançay.

He was awakened before dawn by Paschal Luce, who stood by his bed
holding a taper in his hand.

“Wake up, sir musketeer!” he said brusquely, “you lie like a log. A
man could rap you over the head without risk for his pains. It is time
you were up and dressed; your horse is saddled and your breakfast is
waiting.”

Péron rose hastily and began to put on his clothing while Paschal was
speaking.

“Is the house watched?” he asked eagerly.

The clerk shook his head. “Nay,” he replied, “not that I can discover;
yet I cannot believe we shall elude them, for I think they have long
been suspicious of this house.”

“Do you go with me?” Péron asked, noticing the pronoun.

“Only a league beyond the gates,” the other rejoined; “then I return
over our tracks to see if I can discover aught of interest.”

By this time Péron was ready, and the two went into the next room,
where he speedily despatched the breakfast that had been prepared for
him. He had scarcely finished when Père Matthieu came in.

“Paschal,” he said, “go down and bring your mule and the horse to the
back door; you must start immediately.” Then as the clerk left the
room, he turned to Péron: “Here, sir, is this pellet which, I charge
you, guard with your life.”

Péron looked in amazement at a tiny ball of silver which the priest
held out to him; it was scarcely larger than a filbert and looked like
a solid ball of metal. Seeing his amazement, Père Matthieu smiled.

“That trinket holds a message for monsignor,” he said quietly; “it has
been cunningly devised for just such an emergency. Take it and carry it
as the most precious thing you have except your own soul; conceal it
from all, and if the hour come when you are close pressed, put it in
your mouth before you fight.”

“And if I find that I shall be overpowered,” said Péron, taking the
silver pellet and looking at it strangely, “what then?”

“Swallow it,” said the priest, sternly, “if it choke you to death.”

“In that case they could cut it from my throat.”

Père Matthieu shrugged his shoulders. “’Twould be better so than that
they took it while you were alive,” he returned grimly. “It is enough
to tell you that it contains the evidence of secret dealings with
Spain, the number of men that the French traitors ask to destroy their
own country, and it will materially aid monsignor in his efforts to
destroy these plots.”

Père Matthieu did not add that the message really contained evidence
against Cinq Mars, “the king’s rattle,” as the cardinal called the
grand equerry. It was the beginning of that plot which brought M. le
Grand to the block and involved Monsieur once more in an effort to
bring the Spaniards into France.

Péron asked no more questions, but rose and buckled on his sword and
pistols and partially concealed his hallecrèt with his cloak.

“Which way did you come?” asked the priest, as they descended the
stairs.

“By the way of Laon and Namur,” Péron replied.

“Then return by Arras and Amiens,” said Père Matthieu; “’tis better to
turn out of the way a little than to fall into a trap.”

At the rear door, they found Paschal Luce already mounted on a stout
mule and holding Péron’s horse. The priest shook hands with the young
musketeer and gave him his benediction.

“God speed you, my son,” he said less grimly than usual; “your life is
in His keeping.”

With these words still ringing in his ears Péron sprang into the saddle
and followed Paschal through the byways and lanes of Brussels to the
gates, in the gray light of dawn. At that hour, the city was quiet
enough: no one was abroad save those who, having no home, had slept in
the doorways and in vacant porches all night, and arose now and walked,
shivering in their rags, and having no hope of better comfort until the
sun arose. These wretched creatures, whom the rich passed indifferently
when they went to early mass, were the first upon whom God’s light
shone every day, but the last to whom man’s benefits extended. As Péron
passed, he threw some money among them, not that he had it to lavish,
but his heart was tender, and the stony face of poverty appeals most
sharply to those who have known trouble themselves; and his life had
had its trials. The gates were not yet opened, but Paschal Luce found
means to overcome this difficulty; after some parley in the guardhouse
he came out triumphant, and the two rode out of the city together. So
far all was well; they had no cause to suppose that they were followed,
and they proceeded along the highroad at a brisk gait with lighter
hearts. Three leagues out from the town, Luce bade Péron farewell and
returned to report to Père Matthieu.

Left to himself, with a clear road behind and with the hope that all
was well in front, Péron continued his journey with some satisfaction.
He had reached Brussels in safety, and accomplished his mission; he had
now only to return with equal good fortune and expedition to Paris,
and he seemed in a fair way to do so. He had examined girth and saddle
well before starting, his weapons were in good condition, his horse a
fine one, and there appeared to be no reason for him to fail. The sun
rose and dispelled the gloom in the woods by the wayside, and the scene
was at once cheerful and encouraging. Spring was coming; already the
green turf showed on the hillocks, and the trees were budding on every
side. As the day advanced, he began to pass parties of merchants and
other travellers bound for Brussels, as well as peasants carrying in
provender for the city. But no one appeared to excite either alarm
or suspicion; he made good progress before night, and his tired horse
compelled him to make a halt. His journey continued almost monotonously
uneventful to Arras, where he was delayed six hours by a heavy storm,
and afterwards he found the travel more difficult on account of the bad
roads.

As he drew nearer Paris, his thoughts again recurred to M. de
Nançay. What had been his fate? Knowing monsignor, he could imagine
but one result, and fell to musing over the probable consequences
to mademoiselle. Thus his thoughts turned on one pivot, and his
natural abhorrence of Pilâtre de Nançay was modified by pity for his
daughter. As to his own future, he could make no plans except that he
was unwilling to make his elevation to rank and fortune the cause of
another’s misery.

It was not until he was approaching the Somme that he saw anything
to arouse his suspicions, and then he thought he observed a party of
travellers in advance who acted strangely. However, he lost sight of
them at the ford of Blanche Tache, and he went on to Amiens without
again discovering them. He arrived at the town just at sundown and
had some difficulty in reaching the gates before they were closed.
Once in the city, Péron looked about sharply for his travellers, but
saw none resembling them. The place was crowded with visitors, and he
reflected that not only could they elude him but he could also avoid
them. So, with more assurance, he rode to an inn, the Rose Couronnée,
recommended by Paschal Luce; and there he found accommodation, although
the landlord at first protested that every apartment was filled and it
would cost a crown to sleep upon a table in the public room. At last,
however, he found a bed for the new arrival and sent his horse to the
stables, whither Péron followed to see that the beast received proper
care.



CHAPTER XXI

THE INN AT AMIENS


WHEN Péron returned from his errand to the stables, he found the
public room of the inn full to overflowing. There was a fair at the
horse-market, and it had crowded all the hostelries, chiefly with
country folk and traders from both sides of the Somme; but there were
also other guests, and some of distinction; and it was even whispered
that M. de Bouillon was there, in the private apartments above. This
caused no little undercurrent of gossip, for it was suspected that
there was some plotting between this duke and the queen-mother,
in which Monsieur was concerned. And this was really true; for a
little while afterwards when M. de Bouillon was sent by the king
to take command of the Italian army, he was drawn into the plot of
Monsieur and Cinq Mars, and pledged the town of Sedan--of which he
was prince-sovereign--as a refuge for the plotters in case of defeat.
More than once in the talk, Péron’s attentive ear caught the name of
M. le Grand, to his surprise, for he believed--with many others--that
“the king’s rattle” was also the cardinal’s tool. The idle talk
increased the young soldier’s uneasiness, and he ate his supper with
small appetite, thinking of M. de Bouillon and his party overhead and
wondering how directly their presence might concern him. Meanwhile,
the rattle of crockery, the jingle of glasses, and occasional snatches
of song filled the place with an almost deafening noise and commotion.
Every table was crowded and even the window-sills were doing service,
and Péron found himself squeezed in at the lower end of a long table,
between two men,--the one on the left a horse-dealer, and the one on
the right wearing the habit of a clerk of the Sorbonne. Both repelled
the young musketeer, the horse-dealer by his loud and half-intoxicated
talk, the clerk by his evil expression, having across his nose an
ugly scar which seemed to belie his calling. However, he was a civil,
smooth-spoken man, and Péron could find no excuse for turning his back
upon him, as his first impulse prompted. He began to talk as soon as
Péron was seated, opening his remarks by a reference to the storm and
the delays caused by the heavy roads. The musketeer replied shortly
and with indifference; however, this did not discourage the clerk,
who continued to converse in low tones, not always audible amidst the
bustle and noise of the place.

“You are going south, I presume,” he remarked cheerfully, in spite of
his neighbor’s coolness.

“In that direction, yes,” Péron retorted curtly, applying himself to
his supper with the intention of escaping so soon as it was despatched.

“To Paris, perhaps?” inquired the persistent stranger.

“Probably to Paris,” replied Péron.

“In that case, we may ride together,” remarked the clerk. “I go to
Sorbonne and shall be glad of company; in these unsettled times the
roads are not always safe for a solitary traveller, and you are, I take
it, a soldier by profession.”

Péron had registered a mental vow that the scarred clerk would not ride
with him, but he thought it best to dissemble.

“You live in Paris, sir?” he inquired, more courteously.

“Yes, since I have entered the Sorbonne,” the other replied; “and you?”

“I go there on private business,” Péron said.

“We will ride together,” said the stranger. “I proposed starting early
on the morrow, but I am not in haste, and I can make my time suit your
inclination.”

Péron took a moment for thought.

“I shall not leave until noon,” he rejoined; “I am a stranger in
Amiens, and I can occupy the morning with profit in looking about the
town.”

“Permit me to be your guide,” said the clerk, courteously; “I was born
here in Amiens--though I left it twenty years ago. My name is Guerin
Neff.”

Péron bowed gravely, but made no response. At the same moment he
received a nudge from the elbow of the tipsy horse-dealer, who had been
strangely quiet for the last few minutes.

“His name is Guerin Neff,” mumbled this worthy, thickly, “but look you,
comrade, he is the biggest rogue in Amiens, ay, on this side the Somme.”

In the confusion, the clerk did not catch the low-toned remark,
although he cast a suspicious glance at the horse-dealer, and Péron
smiled. Of the two, he felt more confidence in the drunkard; but
happily, having finished his meal he rose from the table, hoping
thus to escape both. However, he could not so easily shake off Neff,
who followed him across the crowded room to ask at what hour he
would go out in the morning. Inclined to believe the warning of the
horse-dealer, and deeply annoyed at the man’s persistence, Péron
was tempted to cut short the matter, and hesitated only because
of the extreme necessity for caution. If anything lay behind the
stranger’s pursuit of him, it was wisest to dupe him with a semblance
of complaisance; and so, much against his natural inclination, Péron
replied with courtesy, appointing an hour later than the time at which
he secretly intended to leave Amiens. This agreement seemed to satisfy
the stranger, but he still followed the musketeer out into the hall.
Opposite the public room were two smaller ones, and through the open
door of the first could be seen a group of travellers playing cards
at a table in the center and surrounded by a curious assemblage.
Hoping to shake off his troublesome acquaintance, Péron entered this
apartment and stood a moment on the edge of the circle, looking on.
Four men sat at the table deeply engaged in the game, all dressed
fashionably and like persons of wealth. Two looked like many of the
young men who usually dangled about the court, the other two were
masked. The black masks with only the round holes for the eyes and
covering all the face but the chin, presented a strange appearance in
the light of the tapers on the table, and gave a certain mysterious
interest to the game, especially as these two were partners. They
were all unusually silent, and their manner had its effect upon the
spectators; these looked on eagerly, for the contest was keen and the
stakes high, but they forbore to interrupt the solemn decorum of the
game. There was something fascinating in the masks and the profound
stillness, while the jewelled hands of the four players moved with
such wonderful celerity and skill. Péron became interested at once
in spite of himself, and drew nearer to the table, followed by the
officious clerk, who stood close at his side, looking on with interest
apparently as keen as any of the others. Not a word was said; there
was no sound but the light clip of the cards, except the noise which
came from the dining-room across the hall. The two masks were winning,
winning heavily, and the other two played desperately, as losing men
will. Suddenly there was a change of luck, one of the losers began
to win, and his opponents bore the reverse with less equanimity. The
taller of the masks flung down his card, the knave of clubs, with an
oath. As he did so, Péron’s watchful eyes caught the superscription,
and he started. A statute of Henri III. had laid down the law that all
master-cardmakers should thereafter inscribe their names, surnames,
signs, and devices on the knave of clubs; a statute unrepealed by Louis
XIII. But on this knave of clubs Péron saw the single word “Sedan,” and
he could not fail to attach a peculiar significance to it; for it was
the name of the stronghold of M. de Bouillon, whom men believed to be
involved both with Monsieur and the queen-mother against the cardinal.
Whether there was or was not a secret meaning to this game of cards,
Péron could not decide; but he needed no second warning; he determined
to withdraw quietly from this dangerous vicinity. However, this
resolution was more easily made than executed. In his first interest in
the game, he had unconsciously drawn nearer to the table and stood in
the front row of spectators; now he turned to retreat, but as he did so
the tallest mask sprang to his feet and seized him by one arm, just as
Guerin Neff grasped the other. Péron was powerful, and he put out his
full strength to shake them off, but in vain; each held him with a grip
of iron.

“Unhand me, villains!” he exclaimed, in impotent fury.

This sudden onset upon a quiet observer of the game so surprised
the other spectators that they fell back in open-mouthed amazement.
However, the matter could not pass unexplained, and the tall stranger
removed his mask, disclosing the handsome face of a man of middle age
whose looks and bearing were all in his favor. He had used his left
hand to undo his mask, but he was at once compelled to use both to hold
the angry young soldier, who shouted aloud for assistance.

“Help me to escape these villains!” he cried, appealing to the amazed
onlookers, who, however, did not budge, after the manner of people who
will not singe their own fingers for another.

“Gentlemen,” said the cardplayer who had removed his mask, “this is my
son--my poor, mad son who escaped from his keepers a fortnight since
and--”

“You lie!” said Péron, fiercely, struggling so furiously that his two
captors had to be reinforced by the other two players; “’tis a trick to
seize and rob an innocent man. I never saw your face before!”

The other looked gravely concerned and shook his head with a melancholy
air.

“He is ever thus in his paroxysms,” he said mournfully; “he is
apparently sane, gentlemen, but fearfully and cunningly mad.”

“You are a villain, and had I my sword free I would thrust the lie down
your throat,” said Péron. “I appeal to the inn-keeper, who saw me come
here sane; I appeal to these men, who have seen me stand here quiet and
sober. ’Tis a lie so monstrous that it is only absurd! No fool will
believe you!”

But unhappily, though he said this aloud and stoutly, Péron saw that
a doubt of his sanity was growing in the faces around him; he saw the
first expressions of incredulity and amazement giving way to that
terror which the ignorant and the timorous have of madness. He was held
tightly by his captors, though he had ceased his struggles, fearing to
increase their dread of his insanity; but he saw the circle widening
as they drew away, as if he had some pestilence, and he saw, too, the
triumph growing in the faces of the men who held him, and most of all
in the eyes of him who still wore the mask. At this moment the head of
the tavern-keeper appeared in the door, drawn by Péron’s outcry and the
reports of some strange occurrence. These reports had attracted the
curious and the idle, who were already filling both doors and windows.
Péron appealed at once to his host.

“You know me,” he cried angrily; “you dealt with me, and know me to be
sane. Call the watch and make these knaves unhand me, or I will make
you pay dearly for this wild jest.”

But the tavern-keeper did not move, he only stared blankly at the tall
man who had claimed Péron as his son. That personage spoke again with
sad dignity of manner.

“You know me, M. Felix,” he said to the host, “and therefore you can
understand how much I lament my poor, afflicted son’s vagaries.”

“Surely I know you, M. de Vesson,” the inn-keeper replied
obsequiously, “but had I not best send for a doctor for the unhappy
young gentleman?”

“I thank you, no,” replied the other, gravely; “but I pray your aid
to bind this poor boy in a litter that we may convey him safely home.
In these frenzies, he sometimes breaks out and commits murder: he has
slain five of his keepers.”

At this, the spectators fell back yet farther, and there seemed little
hope of a rescue. Péron knew now his peril; this was a Vesson, not the
painted fop of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, but doubtless one of the
same family. He saw, too, that his captors were believed and that he
was already an object of pity and disgust. He made one more appeal:
struggles were useless, it was four to one, and Guerin Neff had already
stripped off his weapons.

“I appeal to any honest man in this room,” Péron said, as calmly as
he could. “I am a sane man; my name is Jehan de Calvisson; I have
never seen any of these men before. They are conspirators, and they
determined to seize me for some reason,--what I know not. A hundred
crowns to any man who will go to a magistrate and get me assistance. A
hundred crowns, I say, and more, for these rogues mean to murder me!”

His words were met with open incredulity: the very liberality of his
offer laid it open to suspicion. Madness--how they feared it. Mon Dieu!
let loose a madman? Never! M. de Vesson saw that he had won; he bowed
his head gravely, looking mournfully at Péron, while his companions
pinioned the young man’s arms behind his back and bound his ankles
together, in spite of his renewed struggles and shouts for help.

“Alas!” M. de Vesson said, with evident grief, “he is at his worst, my
poor, poor boy! Gentlemen, this scene wrings a father’s heart.”

The hall was crowded now, and the courtyard without, and men climbed
on each other’s shoulders for the morbid pleasure of beholding the
lunatic; but no one stirred a finger to aid Péron. He was indeed
almost mad over the hopelessness of his situation. At first, he had
not dreamed that such a ruse could succeed, but, to his amazement,
it worked like a charm. In the crowded hostelry it furnished a much
needed excitement; it was more interesting than M. de Bouillon or Cinq
Mars. Once convinced of the captive’s insanity, they began to recollect
how strangely he had acted; one horseboy recounted his morbid visit
to the stable, another had heard him say the Pater Noster backwards
over his horse’s head. One of the servants, too, declared that he ate
like a crazy man and stared wildly at his knife. Stories flew from
mouth to mouth, and that indifference to a stranger’s fate, so common
and so cruel, kept the doubtful from giving the prisoner the benefit
of their doubts. No one offered either aid or comfort; and to his
surprise and indignation Péron found himself bound between two of M.
de Vesson’s retainers and thrust into a litter, while the whole party
of cardplayers mounted their horses. In half an hour after the first
warning, when the knave of clubs was thrown, they were all riding down
the streets of Amiens with the supposed lunatic in their litter and a
curious throng at their heels. Péron hoped that they would be compelled
to stay in town until sunrise, but he was mistaken. At the guardhouse,
where the party halted, Péron again raised an outcry for help, and
again he was defeated by M. de Vesson’s plausible explanation of his
son’s incurable malady; and after some parley the gates were opened,
and they rode out into the night, leaving the curious rabble from
the Rose Couronnée behind, and with it their captive’s last hope of
deliverance.



CHAPTER XXII

A GREENWOOD TRIBUNAL


PÉRON’S captors rode about three leagues beyond Amiens, on the road
to Beauvais, before they halted and loosed his bonds a trifle, that
he might lie more easily in the litter, while his two guards rode at
the sides of it, watching it too closely for any chance of rescue or
escape. Meanwhile, he lay quite still, endeavoring to collect his
thoughts and prepare himself to meet his possible fate. The thought
that a mistake might have been made did not enter his mind; he was
positive that these men had either followed him from Brussels or lain
in wait for his return. What they intended to do with him he could
only conjecture; what they wanted of him was sufficiently clear. That
they did not purpose to treat him with cruelty seemed apparent by the
loosening of his most uncomfortable bonds, which were relaxed more than
they intended, for after some industrious efforts, Péron succeeded in
freeing his left hand, and immediately took the silver ball, containing
the cardinal’s message, from his bosom and held it ready to put into
his mouth. He had no hope of being able to defend himself or his
charge, but he could at least follow Père Matthieu’s directions. He
knew that they had not searched him because that was impracticable in
the darkness, and they had not dared to do it at the inn at Amiens;
but he had no doubt that the search would be thorough when daylight
came. Meanwhile they believed him secure and were content to let that
operation await their leisure. He now devoted himself to endeavoring
to liberate his other hand or his feet, but here he was destined to
disappointment; they had done their work well, and even with one
arm partially free he could not succeed in breaking another bond or
reaching another knot, and he was without a knife to cut the thongs.
Weary at last with his exertions, he resigned himself to his fate, and
waited quietly but watchfully for the moment when he must hold the
cardinal’s pellet in his mouth. His reflections during the hours that
ensued were of the gloomiest, yet he had no reason to blame himself,
for no man could have foreseen the strange artifice which had ensnared
him. Nevertheless he cursed the advice of Paschal Luce which had led
him to the Rose Couronnée, however innocently it had been given. The
more he dwelt upon his situation, the less possibility there seemed of
escape, and he could only hope to defeat their purpose and keep the
secret missive from them.

They halted upon the road after some hours, and rested until morning,
taking turns in watching the litter; but Péron could not close his
eyes, for he was compelled to be prepared for any emergency and to
defend his trust. Never did a night drag more slowly, for he was
convinced that they only waited for light to examine their prisoner
here, in the forest, where there was less danger of interruption.
And he was right, as the event proved; for at dawn his captors were
up and stirring, some of the men preparing breakfast over a fire of
fagots, while M. de Vesson and his friends held a brief conference
and then ordered the prisoner from his litter. Guerin Neff--no
longer wearing the habit of a clerk, but in his proper character as
a ruffianly soldier--and another man succeeded in dragging Péron
before this tribunal. When they first approached the litter, he had
thrust the silver ball of Père Matthieu into his mouth and this made
speech impossible, so he decided to play the rôle of sullen endurance,
refusing either to speak or move at the order of his captors, a part
which they seemed to regard as only natural and not worth their
consideration. The two worthies brought him before M. de Vesson and
the two cardplayers of the inn. With them was the younger Vesson, the
fop of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, and Péron at once concluded that
he had been the other mask, which accounted for the gleam of triumph
in his eyes, the gratified malice of a small nature. The four men
stood on a little mound under a beech-tree away from the highroad, and
surrounded by their followers, numbering in all fifteen stout soldiers.
Péron, bound as he was, stood small chance of escape, but he understood
that a man of M. de Vesson’s rank and character intended no lawless
violence if he could accomplish his ends without it. He saw now that
the two Vessons were father and son, for there was a marked likeness,
although the elder man had a face of far more force and nobility. The
four noblemen wore the rich dresses suited to their condition, and were
in strange contrast to their bound and dishevelled captive, although
Péron measured them with a glance of proud contempt. There was a
significant silence for a few moments after the arrival of the prisoner
and his guards, and then the elder Vesson, who seemed to be not only
the senior but the leader of the party, spoke, addressing Péron in a
tone of haughty command.

“Young man,” he said, “you are known to be a spy and a go-between for
one you wot of. If you will make a full confession of the whole matter
and give up any papers or information which you have, without further
delay, you need fear no personal injury; but if you continue your
stubborn resistance, you must take the consequences.”

He paused, waiting for the prisoner’s reply; but Péron, by force,
was silent, and he assumed an air of sullen obstinacy to suit his
speechlessness. The cavaliers around M. de Vesson were manifestly
impatient and dissatisfied because any leniency was shown, and that
nobleman’s son interrupted the pause.

“He is a stubborn devil as well as a braggart and a bully,” he remarked
scornfully, the recollections of Péron’s treatment of him having left a
sting that rankled. “You will get nothing from him unless you break his
neck.”

Convinced that Péron did not intend to make terms by any act of
treachery, the elder Vesson made a sign to his guards.

“Search him, Guerin,” he said sharply, “and be thorough, for we deal
with one as cunning as a fox in his devices to obtain messages with
impunity.”

The two soldiers did not need his injunctions, and they did their
work so thoroughly that Péron feared that they would even find the
cardinal’s ring in its hiding-place in the lining of his coat, but
they did not; and more to their astonishment there were no papers, not
a scrap of writing on his person. They searched his stockings and his
boots, but in vain, and the noblemen looked on in evident disgust.

“He carries the message in his mind,” remarked M. de Vesson, in a tone
of sharp disappointment.

“Then it is best to make short work of his head and the message as
well,” replied one of the others, fiercely.

“Perhaps he can be bought,” suggested another, in an undertone.

Vesson shook his head. “Nay,” he rejoined in the same low voice, “trust
monsignor for knowing his man; and that young fellow is not made of the
stuff which is easily corrupted.”

“He claimed to be a Calvisson,” said the younger Vesson; “did you hear
him at the inn?”

“I did not heed him,” returned his father, and then added, after a
sharp look at Péron: “Pardieu! Can it be possible? I see a likeness
now--the likeness that has troubled me since I first saw the fellow.
Can it be?--after all these years?”

This conversation was held apart, but Péron saw the change in their
looks and gestures and marvelled at it. Meanwhile, Neff had made a
curious discovery which caused him to stare open-mouthed from the
prisoner to his own superiors.

“M. de Vesson, I have found the token on his person!” he cried, holding
up Renée’s watch in evident amazement.

There was an exclamation of surprise from all the others except M. de
Vesson, who received the statement calmly.

“Yes,” he said, “I remember; it was the token that led to the error at
St. Gudule.”

This speech was all that was needed to convince Péron that these men
were the same he had met in the house of Marie de’ Medici, and he kept
his lips resolutely closed although Père Matthieu’s ball pressed hard
into his tongue.

There was another low-voiced consultation between the leaders, the
three younger evidently urging a course of which M. de Vesson did not
approve, and after some dispute he prevailed.

“To horse!” he said. “A day’s journey without breakfast may do much to
moderate this fellow’s obstinacy. Forward therefore, gentlemen, without
delay.”

Following his instructions, they resumed their journey, Péron again
penned in his litter, like a sick woman, and not allowed speech with
any one. Thus they rode through Beauvais, without halting, and took
the way to St. Denis with all speed. At midday they halted to eat and
to bait their horses, and then it was that Péron was surprised by the
actions of Guerin Neff. Since the discovery of mademoiselle’s watch
the fellow had shown a certain awe and respect for his captive, and
now when he alone was on guard, he took the opportunity to thrust the
trinket into Péron’s hand.

“Take it,” he said gruffly. “I know not how you came by it, but I will
not meddle with it. I have seen more than one honest man lose his head
for meddling with the business of Madame la Mère; I will none of it.”

Péron took the trinket without reply; he had the cardinal’s message
again in his mouth and could not speak, if he would, and Neff
interpreted his silence as a mere continuance of his sullen mood.

After that, the prisoner was left undisturbed; only once was any food
thrust into the litter, and that also was given by Guerin Neff. It
was a weary journey, but Péron had cause to congratulate himself on
his success: no one as yet even suspected the cause of his persistent
silence, and but for the discomfort of the device, it seemed an easy
and simple means of duping the enemy. All things come to an end,
however, and he could not avoid some dreary speculations upon the
probable termination of his adventure. Shut in as he was, he could
not discover their road or where they intended to go, except that
the general direction was toward Paris; and he was aware that they
finally crossed the Seine not far from Rouen, which showed that they
had quitted the road to St. Denis, taking a more westerly course. He
had nothing to expect but imprisonment or death. He reflected that they
were not likely to let him escape to bear the tidings of his capture
to Cardinal Richelieu, and to give him the information which they had
failed to take from him. Cramped with his bonds, and weary from need of
sleep which he dared not take, he lay, at last, indifferent to fate and
merely awaiting the end.

It was night when the party finally halted before a château, and after
a brief delay Péron was roused from his despair by hearing the others
dismount and seeing the flare of torches about his litter. Evidently
they had reached their destination, and he rallied his drooping energy
to meet the climax. After some time he was taken from the litter and
unbound. He shook himself with almost the joy of an animal at feeling
his limbs free, and looked about him. They were in a courtyard at
the rear of a large house, and the place was quite lively and noisy
from the sudden arrival of so large a party. Two torches served to
partially dispel the gloom, and he saw that there were several grooms
and hostlers running about among the horses and that the light streamed
out from the open door of the château. Before he could observe more
he was taken by his two guardians and led up the steps into the house.
Here were the others, M. de Vesson, his son, and his friends, standing
in a group in the center of the hall, talking to a young and beautiful
woman, whose brilliant dress showed in the light of many tapers. Péron
caught his breath; to his amazement he recognized the proud face
and golden hair of Renée de Nançay. In a moment he understood the
détour around St Denis; they had come to Nançay, being relatives and
fellow-conspirators of the marquis. After the first shock of surprise
Péron fixed his eyes on mademoiselle, wondering what would be the
outcome of the strange trick of destiny which made him now virtually
her prisoner. But Renée made no sign; she was no longer the defiant
girl of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, or the plucky little conspirator
who had defied him at the house of the Image de Notre Dame. She was the
haughty demoiselle, the great lady of the château; she looked at him
without recognition, with cold hauteur and indifference. He heard her
reply to M. de Vesson’s request for some place to bestow the prisoner.

“Certainly, monsieur,” she said in a clear voice, without another
glance at the young musketeer; “the cell in the west wing, near the
north tower, is the strongest; my steward will direct your men where
to bestow him according to your pleasure.”

Her back was toward Péron now, nor did she turn her head when he was
led away to go through long halls and down two flights of stairs and to
be locked at last a prisoner in a cell in his father’s house. Thus he
was securely locked and bolted in the narrow room and left to reflect
upon the strange trick of fate which made him a captive where he should
have ruled as master.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE DUNGEON OF THE CHÂTEAU


THE room in which the prisoner was confined was a small one in the
cellar of the Château de Nançay, and was strong enough to resist his
greatest efforts to effect an escape. That had been his first thought,
and, as soon as the bolts were shot and his guards departed, he devoted
himself to an exhaustive but unprofitable examination of the place.
He was provided with a rushlight, and was thus enabled to make his
observations with comparative ease. However, a few moments sufficed
to convince him that it was fruitless to look for a possible means of
egress. There was but one door, that by which he had entered, and which
was sufficiently secure to resist twenty men as well as one, unprovided
as he was with any lever to force the bolts and bars; and the only
window, situated too high for him to look out of, was two feet long by
ten inches in height and barred. Through it an occasional gust of night
air chilled the room and made the rushlight flicker. He noticed with
some surprise--and strange thoughts of mademoiselle’s charity--that
there was only a bench in the cell, and that too short and narrow for a
man to lie on. If he slept to-night it must be on the floor; and he was
already almost overcome with physical exhaustion from his unremitting
watchfulness. A pitcher of water and a bowl of soup had been put upon
the bench, and he ate the pottage with good appetite, for his fast had
been almost unbroken since he left Amiens. He experienced a sensation
of relief, at escaping the vigilance which had tormented him, and being
secure of a few hours in which to rest without holding that hard ball
between the roof of his mouth and his tongue. He wasted no further time
in speculations as to the morrow; he ate his food and drank from his
pitcher of water, and then, having hidden Père Matthieu’s message as
securely as he could in his clothing, he made a pillow of his cloak
and stretched himself on the hard stone floor with a sigh of comfort.
There is no sleep sweeter than that which comes to the weary, and
he had earned a right to unbroken slumber. However, unconsciousness
did not come so quickly as he had expected; he lay for a long while
thinking of Mademoiselle de Nançay’s manifest indifference to his
fate, and the ease with which she consigned a political enemy to a
comfortless dungeon. He could not reconcile this apparent cruelty with
the kindness that had given him a token which, in all probability, had
saved his life. He was visited, too, by other thoughts and with the
recollection of Madame Michel’s description of the manner in which he
had been saved, when a helpless infant, from his father’s enemy. He
thought, too, of his visit, when a boy, to the château with Jacques des
Horloges, of his prayer in his dead mother’s room, of Renée and her
bunch of violets on the terrace. As he lay there on the dungeon floor
he fancied that he could hear the bell of the great jacquemart, which
Michel regulated, ringing for eleven o’clock, and from that his mind
went back to the chimes in the little shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie
and of his childhood and M. de Turenne. At this his thoughts trailed
off into unconsciousness, and the exhausted musketeer slept the sleep
of the tired and the innocent.

He did not know how long he had slumbered, but it seemed scarcely an
hour, when he was awakened by the opening of the door of his cell.
The bolts were rusty, and they slipped back with a grating sound
which roused him at once. His rushlight had gone out, but the persons
who opened his door bore a taper which served to reveal them to his
startled eyes. He had expected Guerin Neff or one of the retainers
of Nançay, but instead of these he saw two women: one, short and
thick, held the taper which shone in her face--it was Ninon; the
other, smaller and slighter, he recognized with surprise as Renée de
Nançay. At the first sound he had started to his feet, and he stood now
regarding them in much perplexity, but without uneasiness in regard to
his trust; of two women he had no need to be afraid. Mademoiselle’s
treatment of him in the hall had been such that he gravely waited for
her to speak. They came in, however, without a word, and closed the
door behind them; then he saw that Renée held a sword and a pistol in
her hands as well as a mask. All these things she laid upon the bench
before she spoke. She was evidently surprised at her reception, and her
face flushed deeply as she turned to address him.

“Sieur de Calvisson,” she said haughtily, “yonder are weapons and a
mask: assume them and prepare to follow Ninon, who will let you out
of the château. I would have you know, monsieur, that it was no petty
spirit of revenge which made me send you to this comfortless den. I
chose it because, forsooth, I could the more easily release you.”

“Mademoiselle, you but increase my gratitude,” Péron replied, in a low
voice. “Your trinket saved me, as I believe, upon the road, and now you
are my liberator; your justice to the messenger will doubtless have
its weight with monsignor.”

She turned upon him with sparkling eyes.

“Monsieur,” she said proudly, “I do not care a jot for M. le Cardinal;
I would not move my finger to serve him or his cause, but no man shall
suffer wrong in the Château de Nançay while Renée is mistress here. I
pray you take your weapons and begone, for I cannot promise protection
should my relatives overtake you in your flight.”

“Mademoiselle, I thank you for the warning; but with my sword and
pistol in the open I trust to shift for myself,” he replied, not
without feeling; but he obeyed her, knowing himself to be an unwelcome
guest.

She watched him in silence while he assumed the weapons and his cloak
and mask, and something in the expression of his face softened her
mood. When he was ready she signed to Ninon to open the door, and then
she turned for her last words to him.

“Ninon will guide you, monsieur,” she said, not unkindly, “and you will
find your own horse, saddled and bridled, by the wall on the highroad.
They brought it from Amiens, the better to carry out the farce they
acted at the Rose Couronnée. One of my own trusted grooms holds the
horse now against your coming. Mount him and make good speed to Paris,
for at morning they will be looking for you. That is all--except,
monsieur, beware of the Golden Pigeon at Poissy; some of the party may
be there to-night.”

She lighted her taper at Ninon’s and started as if to leave them; but,
before she could prevent it, Péron knelt on one knee at her feet and
kissed her hand.

“Mademoiselle de Nançay,” he said softly, “believe that I am not
ungrateful--or ignorant of the risk you take to aid me.”

“Monsieur,” she replied, and for the first time her voice faltered, “I
have done nothing but that which my father’s honor demanded.”

She spoke with dignity; but Péron saw the tears shining in her dark
eyes, and moved by an impulse he pressed her hand to his lips again as
he rose to his feet. She drew it away with a deep blush.

“Go, monsieur,” she said shortly; “there is not a moment to lose, it is
nearly two o’clock.” And with these words she left them.

Ninon lost no time in fulfilling her mistress’ instructions. She
signed to Péron to follow her, and in silence they went through the
winding labyrinth of the cellars until they came to a postern, which
she opened cautiously; after looking out to see if all was quiet, she
extinguished her taper and led the way into the rose garden of the
château. The night was intensely dark, and Péron stumbled more than
once in making his way among the thorny bushes; but at last they came
to a terrace, and descending it found themselves by a low stone wall.
As they reached this spot Péron heard a horse neigh and Ninon paused.

“Climb the wall, monsieur,” she said curtly, “and on the other side is
your horse.--Adieu!”

She left him without waiting to listen to his thanks; and he did not
linger, but vaulting over the low wall found his horse held by a groom,
as Renée had said. In the darkness he could not see the man’s features,
but he was expected.

“From Mademoiselle de Nançay?” asked the servant.

Péron replied in the affirmative and in a moment more was in the
saddle, a free man again with his sword by his side. He took one last
look at the dark outlines of the château, in which one light shone
from the western tower, and then he set his face toward Paris, with a
lighter heart than he had carried in his bosom since he left Brussels.

He made good progress, although he had to make a détour at Poissy to
avoid the Golden Pigeon, and he did not halt until he reached Ruel,
where he stopped only long enough to ascertain that the cardinal was in
Paris. The ride was uneventful; and it was evident that mademoiselle
had deluded his captors, for there were no signs of pursuit, and he
rode down the Rue St. Honoré at last, with the message from Brussels
safe in his bosom.

He did not pause even to arrange his disordered dress, but went at
once to Richelieu to discharge his trust. The cardinal listened to his
account with a grim smile.

“You erred in following--from idle motives--the stranger at St.
Gudule,” he said calmly; “from that probably arose your troubles,
which were a just and legitimate retribution. Otherwise you have done
well and deserve well at my hands. You have to-day placed in my hands
evidence that will convict the enemies of the state, that will open the
eyes of the king to the peril in which we have stood, and show him whom
he can trust. M. de Calvisson, there are two ways for a man to die: in
doing his duty, or for betraying it--always choose the former.”

Two hours later Péron had again assumed the scarlet uniform of the
cardinal’s musketeers and was making his way to the shop at the sign
of Ste. Geneviève with a light heart, having successfully executed
his commission and conscious that he stood well with Richelieu, who
was ever chary of his praise, though quick to censure neglect and
unforgiving of disobedience.

It was the fête of St. Barnabas, and the shop on the Rue de la
Ferronnerie was empty when Péron entered it, but at the sound of his
footsteps Jacques des Horloges came out of the inner room followed
by Madame Michel. In both their honest, kindly faces Péron read
disappointment and surprise as they saw him in his old uniform; these
simple folk longed to hail him by his proper title, to see him in his
father’s place, and they could not understand what seemed to them his
lack of ambition. However, they greeted him with their accustomed
cordiality and affection, and the shop being vacant, the three sat down
amid the tall clocks and the short clocks, which stood in the same
close tiers as in the days of Péron’s childhood; and as the cat, a gray
one too, came out from behind the jacquemart and rubbed himself against
them, it seemed to the musketeer that the years had not been, and that
he was still the clockmaker’s adopted child, with his speculations
about the mysterious attic and his legends of the many clocks; and his
eyes rested dreamily on the cross-shaped watch of M. de Guise. He was
not permitted to enjoy this revery; for they had a hundred questions
to ask, and he strove to answer them to their satisfaction, for his
heart was warm with grateful affection for this faithful couple. They
heard all that he felt at liberty to tell them of his journey,--its
perils and its happy termination. Madame listened between tears and
smiles, clasping her hands and murmuring an occasional thanksgiving
as she heard of his narrow escape. Jacques was differently affected.
He had been reared a soldier, and the account of such adventures
stirred his blood; there was a gleam in his eye, a tightening of the
lips that told, more plainly than words, how he wished he had been
there to strike a good blow at the opportune moment. The scene in the
old shop was full of homely interest, the beautiful and quaint clocks
forming a picturesque setting for the three figures,--the stalwart
clockmaker leaning on the counter, his gray head a little bent as he
listened, Madame Michel sitting in a low chair, her hands clasped and
her broad, brown face illumined with affection and amazement under the
white wings of her wide cap, and opposite the graceful figure in its
scarlet uniform and the handsome face of the musketeer, who held the
gray cat on his knee absently caressing it as he talked. When he told
of mademoiselle’s trinket, Jacques immediately showed a new interest
and asked to see it; he held it a moment in his hand, looking at it
attentively, and then he smiled.

“I know this watch well,” he said; “I made it myself.”

“I thought I knew something of watches,” Péron remarked, “and I took
that for one of the Valois period.”

“That shows my skill,” replied the clockmaker, in an amused tone. “It
is a copy of a Valois watch belonging to the queen-mother. I made
twenty of these, though I only dimly divined their purpose, and all
have this secret spring.” As he spoke he pressed the side of the watch
and it opened to reveal a miniature. With a smile he held it out to
Péron, “You know its secret virtue now,” he said.

The miniature, though exceedingly small, was an excellent
representation of the Italian features and round eyes of Marie de’
Medici.

“I should never have made this discovery,” Péron said, “nor do I think
that Guerin Neff opened it.”

“There was no need,” rejoined Jacques, pointing to the cover; “they all
bear that tiny fleur-de-lis upon them, and are all of exactly the same
size and shape.”

The trinket had to be handed to Madame Michel to examine, and while she
was marvelling at her husband’s skill, he went on to speak of other
things.

“M. de Vesson is a half-brother of Pilâtre de Nançay,” he said, “and
like enough to be up to the elbows in the same business. ’Tis strange
that monsignor let that rogue go.”

“What rogue?” asked Péron quickly.

Both Jacques and his wife looked up in surprise.

“Did you not know that M. de Nançay had been set at liberty?” asked the
clockmaker. “I saw him yesterday on the Rue St. Martin with an escort
of gay gentlemen. There was much gossip, so says Archambault, about the
arrest and the release; ’tis thought that monsignor but baits his trap
for larger game.”

Péron was silent, perplexed and uneasy at this turn of events. It was
impossible, however, for any man to probe the cardinal’s purposes; it
was not unusual for him to let a victim apparently escape from his
toils for the sole purpose of more deeply involving him. It might be
so with M. de Nançay; it had been so with Chalais; but Péron could not
understand, and it presented matters in a new light: it bore directly
on his own future.

“I cannot forgive him for letting the rascal go,” Madame Michel
remarked, breaking in on the thread of his meditations; “if a man ever
deserved to lose his head it is Pilâtre de Marsou, sometimes called
Marquis de Nançay. Mère de Dieu! I wonder that his flesh does not creep
at the name, for verily ’twas he who murdered your father and would
have murdered you. Ah, I have not forgotten that night in the woods,
and how I prayed and wept with the poor fatherless baby in my arms.
I know that the bon Dieu will reward him according to his merits. I
recollect how I said over and over the words of the psalm: ‘Qu’une
ruine imprévue accable mon enemi; qu’il le prenne au piège qu’il a
dressé lui-même, et qu’il tombe dans les embûches qu’il m’a préparées.’
And I believe that it will be so, for even Père Antoine, who is an
angel of forgiveness, says that retribution comes surely upon the
wicked--either at seedtime or harvest.”



CHAPTER XXIV

THE CARDINAL’S RING


IN the Rue des Bons Enfans, behind the gardens of the Palais Cardinal,
Péron had his lodgings. He had long since outgrown the proportions of
his little room over the clockmaker’s shop; the old house at the sign
of Ste. Geneviève was too small to accommodate the three grown people
and the apprentices, and he had taken up his quarters near the scene of
his daily employment. He had two upper rooms in a house but a little
way from the rear of Archambault’s pastry shop; his means were limited
and his requirements few and simple, so the apartments were plainly
and neatly furnished. He had left the little room on the Rue de la
Ferronnerie untouched; it was to him full of tender recollections of
his childhood, and he knew it was dear to the motherly heart of good
Madame Michel, who looked upon him almost as her own son.

It was in these rooms on the Rue des Bons Enfans that he made a
discovery which amazed and alarmed him. He had been twenty-four hours
in Paris before he recollected the cardinal’s ring, which he had hidden
in the lining of his coat, and when he went to look for it, to his
surprise, it was not to be found. He remembered that it had escaped
the vigilance of M. de Vesson’s searchers, and he could not account
for the loss. In his anxiety, he cut the lining entirely away from his
coat, but revealed nothing. It was dusk when he made this discovery of
his mishap, and he lighted a taper and kneeled on the floor, searching
with patience and exhaustive scrutiny every corner and crevice of the
room. The furniture was scanty, and the light shone into the most
remote spots, but showed nothing. He was convinced that the ring was in
the coat when he took it off to assume his uniform, nor could it get
out of its own accord. He had dressed hastily to attend the cardinal
to mass at his parish church of St. Nicholas des Champs, and in his
hurry he had forgotten the ring. No one had entered the rooms in his
absence, for the doors were both secure and the keys in his pocket.
Then he recollected the windows. There were three; the two in the
front room overlooked the street and were inaccessible, but the one in
the inner room opened within three feet of the slanting roof of the
adjoining house, which, however, appeared to be unoccupied. If any
one had entered his rooms, it must have been through that window, but
he saw no signs of it. It was possible for a man to walk along on the
roofs of the other buildings and come down on the roof opposite his
quarters, but why should any one suspect him of carrying the ring, and
know where to find it? If the men of Vesson’s party had seen it, they
surely would not have hesitated to take it. What had become of the
circlet? It could not effect its own escape, that was certain, and he
could not imagine that it had fallen from its place, so securely had
he fastened it. Moreover, he was not alone confronted with anxiety
at the loss; he was liable to be called upon to produce it at any
moment by Richelieu, who had for the time overlooked it, but who never
forgot. His ceaseless vigilance noted all things, small and great, with
the same untiring energy and patience. It was with profound anxiety,
therefore, that Péron continued his search, and it was only when he
was absolutely certain of its fruitlessness that he ceased to look in
every possible spot where the precious ring could have been mislaid. At
last, he was compelled to go on duty again to attend the cardinal to
the Louvre, whither he went like a man in a dream. He was too full of
his own perplexities to observe the gay scenes in the galleries of the
palace, where M. le Grand was at the height of his power and arrogance,
unconscious that Richelieu’s web was already about him. Père Matthieu
had sent from Brussels evidence of M. le Grand’s correspondence with
the Vicomte de Fontrailles, who had already been selected as the
messenger that the conspirators were to send to Madrid to conclude a
treaty in the name of Monsieur. For Péron had aided in the first steps
to expose the plot of Cinq Mars, which was already partially woven.
In the Louvre, too, Péron came face to face with his old patron, the
Prince de Condé, who greeted him kindly, recalling with a smile the
victory over Choin in the tennis court and saying that monsignor had
spoken highly of the musketeer’s courage and address. The prince’s
condescension and his mention of the cardinal’s commendation suggested
to Péron the possibility that his real station in life was already
known among a few, and that M. de Nançay’s strange liberation had some
secret meaning. But all these thoughts did not allay his anxiety over
his loss, which might be attended with such serious results, the bearer
of that ring being able to gain easy access to the house of the iron
cross, and perhaps to fool even Père Matthieu. Yet a vision rising
before him of the stern-faced, keen-eyed priest afforded him some
reassurance, for it would be difficult indeed to outwit him.

It was midnight when Péron was at last at liberty to return to his
lodgings. He was weary and abstracted, and made his way through the
gardens of the Palais Cardinal to the Rue des Bons Enfans. At his own
door he found a little ragged boy of the street sitting on the stone
step, and thought the child had selected this spot to sleep; but at his
approach the small figure rose. It was too dark for either one of them
to distinguish the features of the other, and only the lantern which
hung above the door revealed the ragged outline of the boy. He peered
through the darkness at Péron as he came up.

“Are you M. de Calvisson?” he asked.

“I am,” replied Péron, surprised at the recognition. “What do you want
of me at this hour, child?”

“I have a letter for you,” he replied, thrusting a note into Péron’s
hands and turning away at once.

“Not so fast,” exclaimed the musketeer, intending to detain the
messenger; but the boy was fleet of foot and had fled away in the
darkness, without pausing to hear what Péron had to say.

Annoyed and amused by the little vagabond’s manner of delivering
missives, Péron had no resource but to enter the house and get a
light by which he could read the letter so strangely sent to him. The
contents startled him more than the manner in which he had received it.
The writing was delicate, like that of a woman, and he recognized the
seal. The note was brief and to the point; it ran:--

  “M. DE CALVISSON,--If you will meet the writer at the stone bridge by
  the Cours la Reine, you will receive the ring which was lately stolen
  from you. If you come not by nine o’clock on Thursday morning, you
  will lose the opportunity forever--and the ring.

                                                               R. DE N.”

The seal and the initials were those of Renée de Nançay; yet Péron was
not only perplexed, but doubtful. He had never seen mademoiselle’s
writing, but something in the letter raised his doubts; he suspected a
trap. This was Tuesday; he had therefore one day in which to endeavor
to fathom this mystery, and he resolved to use it. Of one thing he
was no longer uncertain: the ring had been stolen. As it was already
past midnight and he could accomplish nothing for the next few hours,
he wisely spent those in an effort to rest; but he slept little, for
now, in addition to his anxiety in regard to the cardinal’s ring, was
the fresh perplexity of the note, which might and might not be from
mademoiselle. Péron did not misunderstand her; he knew that what she
did was prompted rather by her disgust at the treachery that she saw
about her than from any kindness toward him, though once or twice he
had thought that with all her hauteur Renée was not wholly indifferent
to his fate. He knew that in her eyes there was a great gulf fixed
between them, which not even her love or his could span. Mademoiselle,
the daughter of a marquis, one of the grand demoiselles of France,
could scarcely afford to lose her heart to the cardinal’s musketeer.
Péron, conscious of his own noble birth, watched the young girl’s
proud defiance with a pang at the thought that the revelation of his
rank would but widen the breach. As for the note, the appointment at
the lonely spot was unlike a woman. On one side of the Cours la Reine,
the road to the king’s hunting-lodge at Versailles divided it from the
Seine; on the other were ditches which ran between the promenade and a
barren plain; and across these ditches was, at one place, a small stone
bridge. A spot more lonely at that hour of the morning could scarcely
be found, and it seemed wholly unsuited to a visit from a young woman,
yet it had the one advantage of being isolated and little visited
by those who would be likely to recognize Mademoiselle de Nançay.
Whichever way Péron regarded the matter, he found it perplexing, but
he never thought of failing to keep the tryst. There was no risk save
to himself, and he was not one to hesitate because of personal danger.
It lent a zest to every adventure, and he would have lamented its
absence.

He devoted some time the following day to a fruitless endeavor to
probe the mystery. It was of course impossible to discover the bearer
of the letter, and he found it equally difficult to obtain any other
information beyond the bare fact that Mademoiselle de Nançay had
been in Paris the previous day, at her father’s house on the Rue St.
Thomas du Louvre. This lent a color of possibility to the incident.
Further than this, Péron was unable to push his investigations, and
at nightfall on Wednesday he knew as little as ever, but he had fully
determined to go to the stone bridge on the following morning, taking
only the precaution to wear his hallecrèt and to go well armed and
prepared for any emergency.

He supped with Madame Michel at the clockmaker’s shop,--a custom to
which he always adhered unless on duty at the Palais Cardinal,--but he
returned early to his rooms on the Rue des Bons Enfans. He had kept a
persistent watch there since the loss of the ring, having some fancies
about the window, which he still suspected as the way by which his
quarters had been entered. It was after nightfall, and he had lighted
his tapers and sat down at his table to read; for Père Antoine’s early
training had cultivated his taste for books. It was while he was thus
quietly engaged that he became aware of light footsteps on the stairs
outside his door, and the rustle of a woman’s garments. He stopped in
surprise and listened, his eyes upon the door. In a moment he heard a
whispered consultation, and then something brushed against the panels.
He said nothing, waiting to see the sequel or to hear it. Presently
there was a timid knock, followed by the low murmur of voices. He
waited no longer, for his curiosity was fully roused, and undoing
the latch he threw open the door, revealing two cloaked and masked
women on the other side. Without hesitation, the smaller of the two
entered the room, followed by the other, and signed to him to close the
door. He did so in surprise and bewilderment, and was not sure of his
recognition until Mademoiselle de Nançay removed her mask. She was very
pale, but her eyes sparkled with excitement and resolution, and she
scarcely heeded Péron’s salutation.

“M. de Calvisson,” she said, with quiet dignity of manner, “you must
think it strange indeed for me to come here--and in this manner--but I
learned only an hour since of the snare that had been set for you; that
my name had been used for a cruel deception, and I could not rest until
I set it right. Monsieur, you received a note purporting to come from
me and summoning you to keep a tryst at the stone bridge by the Cours
la Reine. That letter was a tissue of falsehood.”

Péron bowed gravely. “Mademoiselle,” he said quietly, “I never believed
that the letter was yours, but I should have kept the appointment.”

“Mon Dieu!” she cried with sudden emotion, “you would have kept it to
your death--and I should have been the means of it!”

She pressed her hands before her face, shaken by an emotion too deep
to conceal. Péron watched her with a strange confusion of feeling, his
heart beating high with sudden hope.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, too low for any ears but hers, “if my death
would cause you regret, it would be robbed of much bitterness.”

She looked at him with startled eyes, a beautiful blush mounting to her
fair hair, and then she drew back haughtily.

“I came here from a sense of duty, monsieur,” she murmured in a strange
voice. “I could do no less--I know not what you think of me!”

“That you are an angel, mademoiselle,” he replied, “too noble and too
just to let a man’s life be sacrificed by the use of your name.”

She gave him a questioning glance, as though she doubted the sincerity
of his words and feared that he misunderstood her motives. Her pride
was up in arms and she put on her mask, securing it with trembling
fingers.

“There is no more to tell, monsieur,” she said coldly; “if you go to
the Cours la Reine, you will meet your death--and I did not write that
letter--that is all. Come, Ninon, we must away.”

Péron could not delay her, but he picked up his sword.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “permit me at least to attend you through the
streets.”

She halted at the door, confused; her woman had gone out upon the
stairs, and the two stood face to face.

“You cannot go, monsieur,” she said, with a falter in her voice; “your
attendance upon me would lead to worse trouble for you--and for me!”

“If it touches you, mademoiselle, I will not stir,” he replied;
“otherwise, I pray you not to deny me the small privilege of attending
one who has thrice saved my life.”

“It would be my peril, Sieur de Calvisson,” she said softly. “Adieu!”

She hesitated on the threshold, her mask hiding her face; then she held
out her hand and he took it in both his.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, very low, “I would cheerfully give my life to
defend yours, and the time may come when I pray you to remember that I
will accept no benefit which shall be to your detriment.”

He thought he saw surprise in her eyes; but he pressed her hand to his
lips, and in a moment she was gone and he heard her light footfall
on the stairs. Flushed with emotion, and with a hundred conflicting
thoughts, he moved to the window to watch her leave the house; but as
he saw her come out on the step below, he heard some one in the hall,
and looking up, saw Ninon on the threshold.

“Mademoiselle dropped her handkerchief, I think,” she said, pretending
to search upon the floor.

Péron took the taper from the table to aid her, and the two stooping
down to look beneath the table came very near together. It was then
that the woman found her opportunity.

“Be wary, monsieur,” she whispered, giving up the pretended search;
“they know who you are--and I do, though mademoiselle does not--and
they mean mischief.”

In a flash the truth burst upon him, the Nançay faction knew whose son
he was.

“Ninon,” he said earnestly, “I pray you not to tell mademoiselle!”

She was at the door again, and she gave him a strange look.

“Do not be a fool, monsieur,” she said with blunt kindness;
“mademoiselle has been betrothed to M. de Bièvre for a twelvemonth; and
her father--ah, M. le Marquis is a devil!”

With these words Ninon hurried from the room and ran down the stairs
after her mistress, leaving Péron standing in the middle of the room,
like a man turned to stone.



CHAPTER XXV

ARCHAMBAULT’S INFORMATION


NINON’S announcement, coming with unexpected force and with
truthfulness, dashed Péron’s new-born hopes to the ground.
Mademoiselle’s flashes of tenderness and emotion were but the whims of
a coquette, who found amusement and flattery even in the admiration
of an inferior. The Renée that he knew, with her varying moods of
anger and disdain interspiced with glimpses of soft-heartedness, was
doubtless very different from the fiancée of M. de Bièvre. Péron tried
to recall what he knew of the man, a cousin, he thought, of the Prince
de Condé, and a man of some wealth and pretensions,--not an unsuitable
match for mademoiselle in family and rank, but by repute a brainless
young courtier and something of a roué. Yet, after all, that was
Renée’s affair, not Péron’s. He thought that he had seen him once or
twice at the Palais Cardinal or the Louvre, and that he bore a strong
likeness in dress and manner to the younger de Vesson. Doubtless she
was accustomed to men of this stamp and preferred them to a soldier of
fortune--a musketeer.

In the half-hour after mademoiselle left, Péron had these thoughts
and many others more bitter, and called himself a fool many times
for having yielded to the charm of a fair face and two bright eyes.
He had known from the first of a barrier between them that should
be impassable, yet he had let a tenderness grow in his heart, and
deserved punishment for his folly. So completely did mademoiselle’s
betrothal fill his mind that he forgot the cardinal’s ring, forgot his
surroundings, the taper burning low on the table, forgot the unbolted
door, until he heard a step on the stairs and rose to fasten his latch.
He was too late; before he reached it the door was opened softly and
the round face of the pastry cook was thrust into the space. Seeing
that Péron was alone, Archambault came in, and shutting the door behind
him with his shoulder, advanced to the table, where he set down a large
frosted cake with an air of satisfaction.

“Pardieu!” he said, rubbing his hands, “I had to have an errand, and I
brought you one of the cakes that you used to love. You would run all
the way from the Rue de la Ferronnerie for one of these when you were
eight years old; ay, when you were a big boy of fourteen and with M.
de Condé, you had still an affection for my cakes.”

“I thank you, Archambault, not only for the present but for the old
times,” Péron replied smiling, though he wondered what had brought the
fat pastry cook up all those steps for so flippant an errand.

“You are welcome enough, M. Jehan,” Archambault said; “but give me a
chair, I am marvellously short of breath of late, and I hurried, having
something of weight to say.”

When he was seated he clasped his fat little hands on his knee and
waited placidly while his host lighted another taper and closed the
shutters on the street. When Péron sat down at last, his guest was
smiling and complacent, the same round little man who for forty years
had catered for and flattered the wealthy coterie of the Marais, and
was one of the most famous cooks of Paris. It was said, in the next
reign, that Vatel learned his trade from him, as he had learned it of
Zamet. His dress was far richer than the young nobleman’s. Péron wore
the uniform of monsignor’s guards; the cook wore a suit of black velvet
with ruffles of Flemish lace, a chain of gold around his neck, buckles
that were gemmed with jewels at his knees and on his shoes. He cast a
glance not unseasoned with pity at the bare room.

“Mon Dieu!” he said, “what a place for a marquis.”

The exclamation was so genuine and involuntary that Péron laughed
outright.

“My tastes are more simple than yours, Archambault,” he said.

The pastry cook shrugged his shoulders.

“It makes my heart ache, M. Jehan,” he replied heartily, “for I
remember who you are and what is your due. But ’tis the vulgar who gain
nowadays; monsignor has no love for the grandees. However, that is not
here nor there; I came for another matter. You have lost a ring?”

Péron looked at him in amazement.

“By St. Denis!” he said, “there is witchcraft in it. Yes, I have lost a
ring. What more?”

Archambault looked at him placidly, his round eyes showing neither
amazement nor curiosity.

“The ring is in the hands of M. de Nançay,” he said calmly.

Péron rose from his chair with a sharp exclamation.

“I fear I am ruined!” he cried; “tell me all you know, Archambault.”

The pastry cook rubbed his hands together with a certain unctuous
enjoyment of the situation.

“They were at my shop,” he said, with a deliberation that tormented
his auditor; “M. de Nançay, M. de Vesson, and another, a relative,
I take it, of M. de Bouillon. They had a private room, and--” he
stopped, looking a little abashed under Péron’s searching eyes. “Well,
monsieur,” he went on with a shrug, “what would you? I have found
it useful to keep an eye on my guests; I have known many things. In
that same room I heard the challenge discussed of the famous duel
on the Place Royale, for which M. de Bouteville and M. de Chapelles
suffered,--monsignor’s example to enforce his edict. I--”

“Ciel, Archambault, go on!” cried Péron in despair.

“I am going on,” the pastry cook replied aggrieved. “I have a
peep-hole--un œil-de-bœuf--concealed in the partition, you understand,
M. Jehan, and there I overheard the story of the cardinal’s ring. They
sent a man into your rooms here through some window--” the narrator
stopped again to look for it--“Ah, bah! do you not see that roof?
He found the ring in your coat and they have it. There is mischief
brewing; they would ruin you with the cardinal,--for I think they
suspect your identity,--and they would ruin the cardinal’s schemes.
They start to-morrow with that ring for Brussels; doubtless you know
more of what they can do with it than I do.”

He stopped, gazing at Péron eager for enlightenment, but he received
none. His host was on his feet in a moment looking at sword and pistols
and gathering some necessaries together. Archambault looked on in
aggrieved amazement; he had that natural love for gossip that belongs
to his class and character.

“What will you do, M. Jehan?” he asked blankly.

“If they go to Brussels to-morrow I go to-night,” Péron replied
decisively; “and look you, Archambault, I will give you a letter to
Père Antoine, he must go for me to monsignor; I cannot lose an hour,
nay, not a minute.”

“You cannot go alone!” Archambault cried, with agitation. “Mère de
Dieu! there will be four or six of them--you are mad.”

“So much the better--one can more easily outstrip four or six in a race
for Flanders,” Péron replied, changing his uniform for a dark suit and
a hallecrèt, while he talked.

“Ah, I see, you would be first in Brussels,” Archambault exclaimed;
“but it will not do--one man cannot outwit them.”

He fell into meditation, sitting cross-legged on the high wooden stool;
with all his flippancy and selfish greed, the pastry cook had still
something of manhood left, and no little wit of a low order but keen
enough to serve his ends.

“I have it,” he said, looking up and waving his hands. “Choin is at my
place, a little tipsy, I believe, but in the morning he will be on his
feet. The great hulk was asleep on the kitchen floor, and but for my
haste to come here I would have had him thrown into monsignor’s gardens
to cool; but, parbleu! he is the very man.”

“The man, if sober,” Péron replied, smiling, “but drunk--he is as
useless as the figures on Maître Jacques’s great jacquemart!”

“He will be sober in the morning, and so will Matthieu and Jeannot,”
said the pastry cook; “by your leave, therefore, M. Jehan, I will send
them after you post-haste.”

“A useless trouble, good Archambault,” Péron replied, picking up his
cloak and sword, being now fully equipped for his journey; “they would
scarcely overtake me, and would doubtless get into a drunken brawl by
the way.”

The cook shook his head. “Nay,” he said, “I have noticed that Choin
does not drink when he has work; you used him before, and you may use
him again. I can send him at daybreak, for I will set my fellows to
work upon him with cold water enough to drown the fires out of his
brain and belly.”

Péron was not untouched by the honest man’s anxiety.

“I thank you, friend,” he said, shaking the other’s hand, “but it is
useless; I can make shift with a good horse to outstrip these plotters
on the road, and I am off at once. There is the letter for Père
Antoine; and for the cake--why, keep it against my return.”

“Which road do you take, M. Jehan?” persisted the pastry cook, as they
went down the narrow stairs together.

“By the way of Amiens, though I shall avoid the town,” Péron replied;
“but I shall cross the Somme at the Blanche Tache.”

No more was said; Péron believed that he had discouraged the cook’s
well-meant scheme, and hastened to the stables for his horse, knowing
well that every hour counted and that he must reach Brussels before the
conspirators, or all would be lost. The stable-boys were asleep and he
saddled and bridled his own horse, thinking once or twice that he heard
something stir in the straw in the next stall, but putting it down to
the credit of the rats.

It had been an eventful evening; at nightfall mademoiselle came to warn
him, later Archambault told his story, and at midnight he was riding
along the Rue St. Denis on his way to Flanders. His future, and perhaps
his life, depended upon the four feet of his horse and his own wit. In
spite of the stirring occurrences of the last few weeks, in spite of
his disappointment at the tidings of mademoiselle’s betrothal, he was
calm and alert as he went out on his dangerous and uncertain errand.
He not only wished to save his own honor, but he believed that there
was peril to France in the plotting of these conspirators. He knew
that on a little thing hangs sometimes the fate of an empire, and he
understood something of the web that the cardinal was ever weaving with
the patience and the skill of a spider. Yet with all these reflections,
with the weight of this anxiety upon him, he longed greatly to settle
an account with M. de Bièvre, and the face of mademoiselle haunted him.
He thought with a smile, however, of the party waiting with fruitless
patience at the stone bridge of the Cours la Reine.



CHAPTER XXVI

IN THE FOREST OF CHANTILLY


IT was one o’clock when Péron rode through St. Denis, and a light
spring rain was falling; through the mist he saw the blurred lights
of the guardhouse and he heard the tolling of the abbey bell. It was
dreary enough, and so were his meditations; at the very moment when
he seemed to have succeeded, misfortune again assailed him. He had
staked his honor and his life upon the mission to Brussels, and he had
executed it only to lose all that he had gained by this last trick of
fate. It seemed as if peril, conspiracy, and murder had tracked his
footsteps ever since the night when good Madame Michel had held him in
her arms in the woods of Nançay, praying and weeping by turns over the
bereaved infant. His peaceful childhood on the Rue de la Ferronnerie,
the happiness of his boyhood with Condé, were after all but intervals
in the drama of his eventful life. The hour, the rain, the lonely road,
all depressed his usually buoyant spirits and chilled his blood; he
recalled a story which Jacques des Horloges was fond of reciting--of a
noble family in which every male died a violent death. It required an
effort to shake off his lethargy, to direct his attention to his horse,
which stumbled more than once in the mire, and to concentrate his mind
upon his errand. If Archambault’s story was true, he had seven or eight
hours the start of the conspirators, and it would go hard with him if
he did not defeat them; in any event, there was a hope left, and that a
strong one, that Père Matthieu would never be outwitted.

With all this, fate beset Péron on every side. He had been willing to
sacrifice himself for Renée de Nançay, to endure an injustice rather
than crush her with the shame of her father’s villainy, but was he
prepared to do the same for Madame de Bièvre? And why not? Had he
ever dreamed of wedding mademoiselle? Surely not; to wed her he must
proclaim his rank; and if he proclaimed it, they would be separated
forever. Then, he argued, if he could not marry her, doubtless she
would have married in any case, and why should he find it hard to
shield her as a wife? Ah, but he did! The difference was there, and
sharp enough to make him wince.

In the midst of these reflections there came a more common-place
anxiety. His horse stumbled again and went lame. He had saddled the
beast in the dark, without making any examination of him, and he
now realized his error; for if anything went wrong with the horse,
he would meet with disastrous delays. He dismounted and tried to
discover the trouble, but in vain; he was without means of making a
light, and could not see. There was no alternative therefore but to
resume his seat in the saddle and go on with caution until daybreak;
but he no longer dared to keep up the pace at which he had started,
no matter how much he chafed under the delay. To change horses on
the road was no part of his design, especially since the horse left
behind would prove an excellent clew by which he could be tracked.
This compelled him to spare the animal, and he was further impeded by
the soft condition of the roads, still muddy from the heavy weather;
so he made but poor progress, and was still a league from Chantilly
when the black rain-clouds lifted in the east showing a keen line of
silver, like the edge of a naked sword, where dawn cut the night in
twain. Before him the woods of Chantilly took fantastic shapes through
the mist, and around him the meadows were undulated like the gray
billows of the ocean. The estate of Chantilly, once the property of the
house of Montmorency, had been forfeited by the rebellion of the last
unfortunate duke and was now in the hands of the Princesse de Condé, a
gift from the king.

As soon as the light was sufficient, Péron found that his horse was
suffering from a loose shoe on one of his forefeet, and that the animal
must be attended to before he could proceed on his journey to Flanders.
This made it imperative for him to stop at the town in search of a
smith, much against his own wishes; for he would be readily recognized
if he came across any of the retainers of Condé, who were all more or
less acquainted with the former protégé of the prince. However, there
was no help for it, and making the best of a bad business he turned
his horse’s head toward the spot where he remembered that there used
to be a smithy. He had no difficulty in finding the forge, but there
was no fire; and the blacksmith was evidently asleep over his shop,
for the place was quiet. Péron knocked so loudly, however, that he
finally succeeded in rousing the inmates, and the smith came down with
reluctance to answer his summons, having no wish to go to work so early.

“No horses will be shod here for two good hours,” he said bluntly,
eying his visitor from head to foot with a scowl of disapproval.

He was a big, brawny fellow; a Gascon from his tongue, and the smut on
his face added to his natural ugliness; but Péron remembered him as a
not ill-natured retainer of Condé. A delay of two hours would be fatal
to the musketeer’s interests, and he did not hesitate to use every
argument at his command.

“Do you not know me, Ferré?” he said; “you taught me once to shoe a
horse, and it was from you that I first learned to strike a straight
blow from the shoulder.”

“Pardieu, ’tis monseigneur’s boy!” exclaimed the smith, with a change
of expression. “I did not know you, Péron, in your black cloak, and
with the air you have of a great gentleman. So, ’tis you that cannot
shoe your horse? You have forgotten some useful lessons, and I am
minded to let you wait for your pains; I have had no breakfast, and I
am not the man to work on an empty stomach.”

“Yet do me this favor, good Ferré, for old times’ sake,” Péron urged;
“I am bound on a pressing errand, and if I delay there may be bad
results--for me.”

The smith still hesitated, looking from the musketeer to his horse.

“Leave the beast with me,” he said gruffly, “and get a new horse at the
inn; you dress like a man with a purse.”

“But it does not suit me to change horses,” Péron replied; “and though
I am not the rich man you take me for, I will pay well for this piece
of work.”

Ferré gave him a sharp look. “I see,” he said bluntly, “you are either
in mischief or some one else is--good, then, I will shoe the horse. But
I care nothing for your money; I do this for old friendship.”

“So you do it, I will not quarrel,” Péron replied, relieved at his
success; for Ferré was noted for his stubborn independence, and, at
first, it seemed likely that he would do nothing until he was ready to
begin his day’s work.

The conciliation of the blacksmith was not the end of the trouble,
however, for the fire must be built and the anvil prepared for the
task. This meant no little delay, and while Ferré set about his
business Péron decided to go to the inn and get something to eat, that
there might be no further need of halting until noon. He had little
apprehension of attracting any notice at the public house at that hour,
and repaired thither at once. He was met with the same difficulty which
had assailed him at the smithy; but here his purse prevailed, and in a
little while he had procured a simple meal and eaten it in the solitude
which he coveted. The delay had been sufficient to permit Ferré to make
good progress, and when Péron returned, the big blacksmith was putting
the finishing touches to his work.

“There,” he said, looking up as the young musketeer approached, “’tis
well done, and the animal can travel now without discomfort; your city
smiths make a poor show, if this was a sample.”

“Not many men could hope to equal you, Ferré,” Péron retorted, smiling;
“I remember that M. de Condé thought no man could shoe a horse like
you.”

The blacksmith’s face relaxed a little; he stood with his great arms
folded while Péron mounted, and he would accept no pay.

“Keep your money,” he said, with a shrug, “I fancy you are not so rich
as I am, for all your fine clothes. I remember you, too, as a little
lad in a blue taffety jacket well worn at the elbows; it would shame
me to take a guerdon from you, boy.” He paused, glancing down the road
toward the château. “You have had a friend here looking for you,” he
added, “or a foe, I know not which.”

Péron started. “What do you mean?” he asked sharply.

“A man has been here in your absence,” the smith replied, “and he
seemed to know your horse; he asked where you were, but I would not
tell him, and he took the road to the château.”

“What sort of a man?” Péron asked, with a momentary thought of Choin
which was destroyed by the answer.

“A man of middle size, fair, and, I think, a soldier,” replied Ferré,
“though he wore the dress of a merchant rather than a man-at-arms; and
he was muffled in a green cloak and rode a dun-colored mare.”

“I do not recognize the man as a friend,” Péron remarked thoughtfully.

“A foe, most likely,” retorted Ferré, with a shrug.

His auditor was absorbed in thought.

“Can I take a short cut from here to the highroad, and avoid the way by
the château?” he asked at last.

“And so outstrip the green cloak?” asked Ferré, with a grim smile. “Ay,
take yonder cut through the brushwood and ride into the forest. The way
is easy enough, but you must ford the Thève.”

Péron thanked him heartily and rode off at once, convinced now that the
delay that had been forced upon him might be far more serious in its
consequences than he had at first supposed. He did not recognize the
description of the green-cloaked rider, but he felt certain that it was
not a friend, and that his best chance was in an effort to outstrip
the stranger on the road or to overtake him; he trusted that he could
easily dispose of a single antagonist. He took the path pointed out by
Ferré and was soon in the depths of the forest of Chantilly, where once
a year the festival of St. Hubert was celebrated. The heavy rain-clouds
were dispersing, and by the time he had reached the Thève the sun was
shining. In the peaceful depths of the forest it seemed impossible
to look for conspirators; the new greens of spring clothed it with
beautiful verdure, and on the mossy banks the violets were blooming,
recalling to Péron the violets of Nançay and the little golden-haired
girl who had tossed him a cluster. Here and there through green arcades
he caught glimpses of the lakes of Commelle, and in the distance was
the Château de la Loge, built by the mother of St. Louis. The sweet
perfumes of the woodland were in the air, the moss was soft beneath his
horse’s feet, and overhead a bird’s song cleft the stillness with a
clear, sweet note of joy.

He avoided the village of Commelle, and came out upon the highroad at
a spot where there were woods on either side and much brush and growth
of vines which made a thicket. He cast a sharp glance at the mass of
feathery trailing green and overhanging boughs, for it seemed the very
place for an ambuscade; but he saw nothing, and looking back down the
road toward Chantilly there was no green cloak, and he believed that
he had outwitted his pursuer. Congratulating himself on his success,
he took the road between the thickets, only using the precaution of
loosening his sword in its scabbard and drawing his pistol; but nothing
stirred. He rode forward briskly, and had reached the turn where two
paths met before anything occurred. Then there was a sudden crackling
of boughs and underbrush, and in a moment he was surrounded,--one
masked horseman on either side and one in front. In a moment or two
they were joined by the man with the green cloak, whom Péron observed
just as its wearer called to him to surrender. For reply the young
soldier fired at the stranger, and so excellent was his aim that the
man reeled in his saddle and the next moment lay on the ground, while
his horse galloped off into the woods. A space was clear, and Péron
urged his own horse forward, trusting to escape.

“Take the fool or kill him!” shouted one of his other assailants; and a
bullet whistled close to his ear. Péron turned in his saddle and fired
again, but missed, and his enemies were now all three close upon him.

His fate seemed sealed, and would have been but for a sudden
diversion,--an assault from the rear which compelled the three masks
to defend themselves. There was a shout, a clash of swords, and Péron
recognized Choin. Thankful now for Archambault’s quick wit, Péron
turned back to aid his rescuers and saw Choin shoot down the tall
man who seemed to be the leader. For five minutes the fight was hot,
but there were now but two to four, for the Italian had brought two
comrades. Two of the miscreants lay dead or unconscious and the other
two were readily secured. When the fight was over the fencing-master
wiped his forehead.

“Pardieu!” he said, “we were in the nick of time. I have not had such
fun since the cardinal made duelling a capital offence. What carrion
have you there?” he added, seeing Péron examining the fallen men.

“’Tis a stranger to me,” he replied, unmasking him of the green cloak.
“I owe you my life, Choin. How came you so soon?”

“Archambault got us off two hours after you left,” said the Italian;
“and in sooth you do owe me your life, for I shot that tall ruffian
yonder just as he was about to put a bullet through you. Who is the
villain?”

Péron did not reply; he had just unfastened the dead man’s mask and was
looking, with mingled surprise and horror, on the dark, handsome face
that he could not forget, that he had seen last in the Palais Cardinal,
the face of M. de Nançay. And on the dead man was the cardinal’s ring.

“Mère de Dieu!” he said softly to himself, “my enemy--and her father!”

Choin had dismounted now and stood looking in the face of his victim,
his own ruddy countenance growing paler as he gazed.

“Santa Maria purissima!” he exclaimed, relapsing into his mother
tongue, “’tis that devil of a marquis whom monsignor let loose but now,
and I am undone!”

Péron signed to him to speak lower and to keep his men away. When the
two were alone with the body, he drew the fatal ring from the finger of
Richelieu’s foe, then he turned to the anxious Italian.

“This is a bad business, Choin,” he said gravely, “and we must hide it
until the story is told to the cardinal.”

“Mon Dieu!” cried Choin, “the cardinal is the very devil when a man
offends him; I would a thousand times rather face King Louis.”

Péron had been thinking hard; his perplexities increased at every turn,
but he had only one sharp anxiety and that was for mademoiselle.

“Choin,” he said, “I must stay here with the body; take therefore
your two prisoners and your men and go to Ferré, the blacksmith at
Chantilly; he will help you to hide the prisoners there, for my sake,
and he will come with you to take these two bodies. One can lie at
Chantilly, but the other must go to Paris.”

The Italian was too alarmed and worried to gainsay the younger man,
and he seemed glad to escape, even for a while, the presence of the
dead men. He and his men helped to drag the two bodies out of sight
and caught the horses; then, with their prisoners, they rode off to
Chantilly, leaving Péron on guard with the dead and tormented with his
own anxieties.

Never did two hours seem longer than the two which elapsed before he
saw Choin and Ferré coming again with two litters for the corpses,
borne, as he soon learned, by the big blacksmith’s trusted apprentices;
for Choin’s two men had stayed to guard the prisoners. The dead marquis
and his servant were taken secretly through the forest and concealed
in a shed behind the blacksmith’s forge until nightfall, when they
could be brought quietly to Paris. But Péron did not wait for this; he
left them in charge of Choin, and spurred on to the city to tell his
story to the cardinal. That was not the first thing he did, however;
instead, he rode to the church of St. Nicholas de Champs, where he
found Père Antoine and told him of Nançay’s death, begging him to go
at once to the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre to break the heavy tidings to
mademoiselle. Archambault had already carried Péron’s letter, and the
story was not wholly a surprise to the priest; but he listened without
comment. When the young musketeer concluded with his appeal for the
orphan girl, Père Antoine’s blue eyes were suddenly lifted from the
ground and looked searchingly into his face.

“My son,” he said gently, “it is well that this man’s death does not
seem to have filled your heart with the satisfied lust of vengeance,
and that at such an hour your thoughts are of mercy and peace.”

Péron’s honest face flamed scarlet and he looked back steadfastly into
the priest’s kind eyes.

“Mon père,” he said, with the ingenuous frankness of a boy, “I fear
that it is not altogether Christian mercy which has changed my heart.”

Père Antoine smiled.

“Jehan,” he said softly, “love entering into a man’s heart is either
its crucifixion or its crown, and sometimes it is both. I will go
this hour to Mademoiselle de Nançay, and I am deeply thankful that it
was Choin who killed him; it might have been--” He crossed himself,
murmuring a prayer of thanksgiving, to which Péron said amen with a
lighter heart.



CHAPTER XXVII

AN ACT OF JUSTICE


AFTER leaving Père Antoine, Péron stopped only long enough at his
lodgings to remove the stains of travel, and still wearing his plain
suit of dark blue taffety, he bent his steps toward the Palais
Cardinal. His perplexities and adventures had been so numerous in the
last few hours that he tried to keep his thoughts from them that his
mind might be clear to deal with his exacting patron. He could not
conjecture what would be Richelieu’s reception of the tidings, but he
anticipated a sharp reprimand for the loss of the ring even though
it was recovered. As for M. de Nançay’s death, he suspected that it
would not be unwelcome to monsignor, for he was not wholly blind to
the natural results which the wily Italian must have expected on the
day on which he posted Péron in Catharine de’ Medici’s clock, after
revealing the secret of his father’s execution. Nor did he fear any
trouble for Choin; he knew the cardinal to be just, if remorselessly
stern. However, the prospect of the interview was far from pleasing,
and he walked slowly through the gardens behind the palace, noting
the lime-trees and wondering which one had shaded M. de Nançay and
M. de Vesson at their conference which monsignor’s eavesdropper had
overheard. Péron only partially divined the extent of the plot which he
had helped to reveal; he did not know that it was but the forerunner
of a greater one which would bring M. le Grand to the block, and that
Monsieur, the queen-mother, and M. de Bouillon were but hatching
another conspiracy on the wreck of the lesser one.

Péron entered the palace by a back staircase and found his way to
Father Joseph la Tremblaye. To him he briefly recited the whole matter,
keeping nothing back and saying nothing to extenuate his own fault in
failing to deliver the ring immediately on his return from Brussels.
Father Joseph listened without comment, merely bidding the young
musketeer await the cardinal’s pleasure where he was, and giving no
indication of what he might expect.

Péron waited a long time after the priest retired, and he walked to
and fro in the small room--which was Father Joseph’s closet--trying to
conjecture what would happen next. The situation was so peculiar, the
policy of the court so fluctuating, that he knew not what might be the
end. M. de Nançay was dead, and Father Joseph had the ring,--but what
might not be the results of such a web of conspiracy? Well did he know
that there would be a scapegoat, and why should it not be he? There
was no one to interfere, and it might be the most convenient way in
which to hush up a great scandal. He was therefore in a gloomy frame
of mind when one of the cardinal’s ushers, clad in the livery worn at
the levées, came to summon him to attend upon monsignor. He noticed the
man’s elaborate dress with surprise; but as the man was a new member
of the household, he asked no questions, but followed him in silence.
As they passed rapidly through the apartments which led to the eastern
gallery where Richelieu most frequently received his visitors, Péron
noticed that the guards were all on duty, and that there was an unusual
stir in the palace. He could not imagine why he should be summoned to
this public place for a private interview, nor could he account for the
deferential manner of his conductor. At the door of the salon stood two
of his comrades, the cardinal’s musketeers, and both saluted at his
approach. The usher opened the door and Péron entered the great gallery
alone. He halted at the threshold, convinced that there was some
mistake,--that he was not wanted here. The long apartment, furnished
with the magnificence of royalty, was thronged with noblemen and
princes and great ladies of the court. Péron stepped back in confusion,
and addressed the usher.

“Friend, you have blundered,” he said; “the cardinal does not send for
his musketeer at such a time as this.”

The usher shook his head, standing before the door that Péron might not
escape.

“My orders are precise, monsieur,” he replied; “you are to await
monsignor’s pleasure here.”

“You must be in error,” Péron persisted angrily, for he felt many
curious eyes upon him.

“You are M. Jehan de Calvisson, are you not?” asked the usher quietly.

“Ay, blockhead!” retorted Péron with impatience, “but I am only the
cardinal’s musketeer, and here are half the grandees of France.”

“My orders are precise,” said the other stubbornly, “and by St. Denis
you shall not leave until monsignor comes.”

Péron shrugged his shoulders. “On your own head be it!” he said; “’tis
a stupid blunder.”

The usher shut his lips tightly and stood his ground, so that there was
no alternative for Péron. He could not engage in a brawl with a servant
in such an assembly, and was forced to stand there in his plain dress,
amidst the gay throng, where every man wore satin or velvet, and the
women were as gayly attired as the roses in a June garden. He looked
down the long gallery, observing the scene with curiosity and frequent
surprises, as he noted first one and then another of the guests.
There was M. de Soissons, known to be unfavorable to Richelieu, and
Madame d’Effiat, the mother of Cinq Mars, and yonder was the Prince de
Condé, and M. de Montbazon. In a throng in the center of the room was
Monsieur, clad in white satin, his breast covered with jewels and his
long curls falling on his shoulders. Péron looked at him with strange
recollections of the adventurer in the house at Poissy, of the poltroon
who had been ready to sacrifice all his friends at Ruel, to save
himself. Monsieur, however, was calm and smiling, the picture of his
true self,--selfish, indolent, and unstable, with nothing of his father
in him.

All these great personages whispered and laughed and made merry,
awaiting the entrance of the cardinal, who, rumor said, was ill and not
likely to be better, though the indomitable spirit would not yield.
There were many there who heard this talk not only without regret but
with much secret joy. They hated him as heartily as they feared him,
and would have come to his funeral with greater joy than to his levées.
Yet on every side there were expressions of anxiety for monsignor’s
health and of almost tender regard at its delicate condition; for it is
the world’s profession to lie, and to lie gracefully.

The atmosphere of the crowded place, the murmur of ceaseless talk, the
gay indifference of these creatures, who courted power for the love
of it, all oppressed Péron. His simple childhood, his hardy training,
had made him dislike such scenes and feel their mockery, knowing as he
did how often the cardinal had been deserted when he seemed tottering
to his fall, how quickly he would be deserted now if the king’s favor
failed him. He recollected hearing Madame Michel tell of the death of
the gay favorite, Albert de Luynes, and how for one day or more his
body lay neglected, and his grooms played cards upon his bier.

Suddenly the door at the other end of the gallery opened, and an usher
cried loudly: “The cardinal! the cardinal!”

There was a stir, necks were craned, skirts rustled, fans swayed;
great dignitaries jostled one another to see if this man was indeed
near death. The gay throng parted in the middle, leaving a long aisle
down which monsignor slowly walked, leaning heavily on Father Joseph.
Richelieu, was ill indeed, and his step was heavy, like that of a man
who bore a burden, but the indomitable spirit was unquenched; his
face showed white as a corpse in contrast to his blood-red robes, but
his dark eyes glowed with wonderful brilliancy, as though the fires
of his soul burned brighter as the body weakened. To look at the
great minister was to be convinced that while the flesh was mortal,
the soul was indeed immortal. He came slowly, pausing to speak first
to one and then another, but without a smile, his cold, proud manner
losing nothing of its hauteur by momentary intercourse with others.
He who trusted no man, and knew and manipulated hundreds, had only
a deep suspicion and disdain for the sycophants who fawned upon his
feet at one hour and were ready to cut his throat the next. The great
cardinal,--the Huguenot cardinal as he has been called, because he was
great enough to be at once liberal and far-sighted,--who loved France
as he also loved power, knew the men with whom he had to deal.

He came so slowly down the gallery that it seemed a long time to Péron
before those dark eyes lighted upon him; but no sooner did the cardinal
see his musketeer than he beckoned to him. Then facing around, he
looked back at the gay throng, laying his hand on the young musketeer’s
shoulder. There was a pause, every eye turning toward these two
standing together, in strange contrast, before the crowded room. It
was very still when Richelieu spoke in a clear voice that penetrated
every corner of the gallery and was heard by the guards at the doors.

“My friends,” he said, leaning heavily on Péron, “but lately I told
you of a great wrong done to a noble gentleman. It is now my duty to
announce to you his majesty’s pleasure in regard to the son. I present
to you, therefore, Jehan François de Calvisson, Marquis de Nançay.”



CHAPTER XXVIII

A CHANGE OF FORTUNE


IT was the evening of the day following that on which Péron was
proclaimed Marquis de Nançay, and he sat at a small table in the pastry
shop on the Rue des Petits Champs. He was waiting for Père Antoine, who
had promised to meet him there with tidings of mademoiselle. Pilâtre
de Marsou, the late M. de Nançay, had been privately buried from the
Church of St. Nicholas des Champs, no one following his corpse to the
cemetery but his daughter and M. de Vesson--so easily is a fallen man
deserted, even at the last hour. Péron was anxious to hear of Renée,
to know how she had received the tidings of the fearful change in her
rank and condition, and to be assured that she fully understood that
he was innocent of her father’s death. All these things Père Antoine
had undertaken, promising to comfort mademoiselle in her affliction,
and to clear the new marquis of blame. With all his confidence in the
good father, Péron was uneasy and perplexed. He would gladly have gone
to Renée in her trouble had not delicacy forbidden an intrusion, but
he had sent one message to her by Père Antoine, and that was to assure
her that both the Château de Nançay and the house on the Rue St. Thomas
du Louvre, though properly his, were at her service for an indefinite
period, and that her possession would not be disturbed. However, he
knew mademoiselle well enough to expect only a proud defiance of his
kindness, though his heart ached for the houseless and penniless orphan
whom the grim justice of the cardinal had put in the place that he had
occupied when a poor boy on the Rue de la Ferronnerie, dependent on the
charity of Jacques des Horloges.

Certainly a great change had come over his own circumstances since
the announcement in the gallery of the Palais Cardinal. He had been
received with flattering demonstrations of friendship; princes and
great ladies, noblemen and courtiers, had crowded around him with
effusive cordiality. The unknown musketeer of monsignor’s guard was the
lion of the Marais. All the morning he had been beset with pages and
serving-men bearing invitations. M. le Marquis was wanted to dine, to
sup, to dance, to play cards, to hunt; the cardinal had presented him
to the king; the queen had given him her hand to kiss; M. le Grand had
greeted him as a long-lost friend; Monsieur had smiled, forgetful of
the house in Poissy; and the Prince de Condé had shown genuine pleasure
in his former protégé’s good fortune. It was overwhelming and a little
bewildering; but none of it pleased the new marquis so much as the
tearful joy of good Madame Michel, the honest delight of Jacques des
Horloges and Archambault, and above all the blessing of Père Antoine.

Archambault received him that evening with open arms, setting forth
his best wine and most choice dishes for his old patron’s son; but
Péron discouraged all display, pleading his desire to be for a while
unobserved. He wore his plain suit of clothes,--the same which he had
bought for his journey to Flanders,--and being still but little known
among the gay set frequenting the pastry shop, he was allowed an hour
of quiet, sitting unobserved in a corner of the public room where he
could most easily watch for Père Antoine. As the evening advanced
the place filled rapidly, and in the bustle and confusion he escaped
notice. It was a meeting-place of fashion, and on every side the new
marquis was surrounded with his future associates and with the train
of sycophants and little people who follow and imitate the leaders.
Sitting in his quiet corner he observed the scene with more interest
than usual. Was he indeed now one of these? It did not seem possible.
He had none of the characteristics of these darlings of fortune; here
were faces as carefully painted and powdered as women, curled and
scented hair, white jewelled hands, and dress of the most flashy as
well as the most elegant fashion of the day. The musketeer looked down
at his own broad, brown hands and the mighty strength of his arm, and
smiled; he was certainly no match for the curled and painted fops of
the Louvre. The room was full now; M. de Condé was yonder with M. de
Soissons; there, too, was M. de Bassompierre, and Montbazon, and fifty
more. Near Péron were three young exquisites, dining together, and his
attention was first drawn to them by hearing his own name. They were
discussing the scene at the Palais Cardinal, which was the gossip of
the hour, and Péron would have closed his ears had he not caught a
sentence which riveted his attention.

“’Tis a strange trick of fortune,” remarked one of the group; “what
think you of it, M. de Bièvre?”

“That it is a bit of cursed ill-luck,” he retorted curtly, “and that I
wish Pilâtre de Nançay had shot the varlet at Chantilly.”

This, then, was Renée’s fiancée. Péron looked at him curiously, and
saw only a slightly made man with good features and a cold expression,
with long curls falling about his face, and with a dress in the height
of fashion, ruffles of rich lace at throat and wrists and knees, and
his fingers glittering with jewels. He looked in a sullen mood and
scowled at his companions, who seemed bent on teasing him.

“Ah, the shoe pinches!” said the first speaker, laughing. “Mademoiselle
loses not only her father but her name and her fortune. Did you know
how he came to his title?”

“No,” replied de Bièvre angrily; “I may be a fool, but I am not a
rogue; I would have let him alone had I suspected. Monsignor keeps
these secrets to spring them to our torment. Curse him, had I known
he was no marquis, de Nançay might have rotted ere I gave him any
promises. You were the man who introduced me, M. d’Étienne, and I do
not thank you.”

“I did not know the facts,” M. d’Étienne hastened to say. He was
the third one of the party, and he had not spoken before. “’Tis
unfortunate, but Pilâtre was a clever man and brave, and his daughter’s
beauty may, in a measure, compensate you for her father’s sins.”

“St. Denis! do you take me for a fool?” asked de Bièvre, with a sneer.

“You do not care for the beauty without the rank and fortune, then?”
suggested the younger man.

“I do not care a jot for the fortune,” M. de Bièvre said loudly, for he
was angry; “but do you take me to be fool enough to marry Mademoiselle
de Nançay--the daughter of a rogue, and like enough taking her father’s
faults? Mon Dieu! I told the girl yesterday that I would never wed the
beggarly child of a villain!”

Péron rose from his chair and suddenly stood towering above the
speaker, his face ablaze with passion.

“M. de Bièvre,” he said, “a word with you.”

The nobleman surveyed him from head to foot with a scornful glance,
taking in every detail of the musketeer’s plain dress and almost shabby
appearance compared with the others there.

“I am M. de Bièvre,” he drawled indifferently; “and what is that to
you?”

Péron’s cheek flushed scarlet under the other’s insolent stare.

“I am Jehan de Calvisson,” he said haughtily, “and I heard you but now
speak lightly of a young lady in this public place. Monsieur, you will
either apologize as publicly, or you will answer for it to me.”

It was evident that de Bièvre and his party were taken by surprise;
but the former only sneered.

“And who are you?” he demanded tauntingly!--“a poor knave with whom my
late fiancée has doubtless amused herself in her leisure moments--”

He said no more, for Péron had him by the collar, lifting him easily
from his chair. Bièvre struggled, but it was too late; Péron had him
about the waist now and flung him over the table, and he lay like a log.

His friends sprang up with a great outcry, and the crowded room was
in a tumult, but no man laid a finger on Péron. He stood where he
had seized his antagonist, his own face deeply flushed and his eyes
sparkling with anger.

“Seize him,” cried M. de Étienne; “he has injured M. de Bièvre--he is a
ruffian!”

But something in Péron’s face and his appearance of great strength kept
the eager crowd at bay. In the farther corners they sprang upon the
tables and on window-sills to gaze at him and at the unconscious form
of the nobleman, but no one attempted to arrest him.

“I am the Marquis de Nançay,” he said in a firm voice, looking about
him at the ring of curious faces, “and I threw that man over the table
for speaking lightly of a noble lady. Any man who wishes to take his
part, let him come on, and I will pitch him after his friend.”

There was silence for a moment and then a sudden burst of applause.

“Bien!” cried Condé, “throw them all, Péron, it reminds me of Choin’s
defeat in the tennis court. Pardieu! I will see that you have fair
play.”

“And I!” cried M. de Bassompierre loudly, “for yonder fellow was at
best a cowardly fop. But for the cardinal you might have settled it on
the Place Royale; monsignor has left us no appeal save to our fists.”

“I am Soissons,” said the prince, advancing, “and by St. Denis! it was
the cleverest throw that I have seen. There is my hand on it, M. de
Nançay.”

“’Twas not so clever as I intended,” Péron replied dryly, “it should
have broken his neck.”

Following the lead of the Prince de Condé, M. de Soissons, and M. de
Bassompierre, the throng of courtiers were eager to honor the new
marquis.

“Monsieur is a famous wrestler,” cried one, edging closer to Péron.

“You have the arm of Goliath, M. le Marquis,” remarked another, a
little man, who smiled above great ruffles of lace.

“I thank you, monsieur,” Péron replied, with a smile; “I am content to
be Goliath as long as you do not prove to be a David.”

“Your wit is keen and your arm is long, M. de Nançay!” cried another
admirer, while two or three thrust themselves forward with invitations.

“Monsieur will dine with me to-morrow?”

“Sup with me, M. le marquis?”

“Nay, with me, for I sent a note this morning, M. de Nançay.”

“Mon Dieu!” Péron ejaculated, with impatience. “Gentlemen, you
overwhelm me. But yesterday I was a poor musketeer, dining where I
could best afford it. Give me a fortnight, messieurs, to get the
stomach of a grandee!”

He pressed through the crowd to the door, putting aside a dozen
flatterers upon the way, and in the street he was stopped again by a
little man who was dressed in the excess of fashion and who bowed with
profound respect.

“M. le marquis,” he said humbly but with a confidential manner, “I am
Louis le Gros, the famous tailor of the Marais. I serve the king and
Monsieur and M. le Grand. I pray you let me set you out as becomes
your station, sir; and, pardon me--but the fit of your coat is very
bad--very bad indeed!”

For the first time Péron laughed.

“Good, M. le Gros,” he said, “you shall make me a suit; and make it
large, for verily I shall gain in flesh now that I have gained in rank.
I thank you for being the first man to tell me the truth in twenty-four
hours!”



CHAPTER XXIX

MADEMOISELLE’S DISAPPEARANCE


PÈRE ANTOINE did not keep his appointment; in fact he was in sore
perplexity between mademoiselle and Péron. Knowing the thoughts and
impulses of both and pledged not to betray either, the good father
found his situation full of pitfalls. He was bound to keep Renée’s
secrets, although he thought that he could serve her best by revealing
them, partially at least. He reproached himself too, with deception,
when he went to his rooms on the Rue de Bethisi and left Péron to
wait for him in vain. But what could he do? Not betray mademoiselle
certainly, and he had promised to give her time. The priest, whose
heart was as simple as a child’s with all his wisdom, crept up the
stairs to his study with the air of a guilty man. He lighted only one
taper and drew a heavy curtain before the window, the more completely
to deceive any observer. He sat down there among his books and looked
about him with dreamy eyes. His thoughts were back in the old days
when he was a young man, and when between him and more serious things
shone the brown eyes of the Marquise de Nançay, then Françoise de la
Douane. He remembered the tenderness of it all, the sweetness and
the pain--which had lingered with him through long years, until the
wound no longer ached and there was only the scar. If it had been more
of earth and less spiritual there would have been an end of it long
before; but Père Antoine was one of those who can suffer so keenly that
no pain ever comes to them blunted, and when their cup of sorrow fills,
it runs over. It is not the flesh but the spirit that grieves.

He sat with his beautiful hands crossed on his knee and the light of
the taper shining softly on his white hair and into his large blue
eyes. He thought not only of Françoise de la Douane but of her son,
the orphan boy whom he had watched over and trained in all those years
on the Rue de la Ferronnerie; he remembered the days of anxiety when
he and the three faithful servants had all dreaded Pilâtre de Marsou;
he remembered the cardinal’s sharp cross-examination when the boy was
taken into his household, and his own doubts and fears; and now it was
all over and the heir happily restored to title and estates. It was
certainly a cause for happiness and triumph, and yet Père Antoine’s
heart was freshly touched by sympathy. He had seen the reverse side
of the picture; he had been the bearer of the evil tidings to Renée
de Nançay; he had stood beside the bier of the forsaken and disgraced
marquis. A strange fate had called the same man who had walked to the
scaffold with the true Marquis de Nançay, to render the last services
also to the usurper of the same title and place. He had buried both
the victim and his false accuser, and now he stood in the office of
counsellor and friend to the son of one and the daughter of the other.
It spoke clearly for the man’s honesty, his piety, his tenderness, that
he could do these things without betraying any one.

He was not to escape Péron that night however. The episode at
Archambault’s pastry shop sent the new marquis out in quest of Père
Antoine, and failing to find him at other places, he went, at last, to
the Rue de Bethisi. And just as the priest thought he had evaded him,
he heard his step on the stairs. He knew that step well, for he had
listened for it often and found a comfort in looking at the likeness
that he saw in the boy’s face, which did not depart even with manhood.
He did not stir from his chair, but waited quietly for the door to
open, and Péron uttered an exclamation of surprise when he saw him
sitting there.

“I thought you were coming to Archambault’s?” he said. “Have you seen
mademoiselle?”

Père Antoine hesitated a moment before he replied.

“I have not seen her since last night,” he said quietly; “she has left
the house on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre.”

“Has she gone to Nançay?” Péron asked quickly.

The priest shook his head, avoiding the eager eyes of his interrogator.

Péron sat down opposite, looking at him searchingly, the truth dawning
upon him.

“Surely, mon père,” he said, “you have not allowed her to leave her old
home like this?”

“My son, I could not prevent it,” the priest replied simply, “nor do
I see how it could have been prevented; mademoiselle could not be a
pensioner upon your bounty.”

“Nay, but to turn her out for me!” cried Péron, rising and walking to
and fro. “St. Denis! I feel like a ruffian and a thief.”

“And yet, Jehan, you must remember that mademoiselle might have
encountered worse treatment,” Père Antoine replied. “Monsignor
had Pilâtre de Marcon in his toils; he let him go, only as he has
let others go, that there might be stronger evidence against him.
Independently of his action in regard to your father, Marsou would have
been ruined and possibly beheaded. Renée realizes this herself; she
bears you no ill-will, and appreciated your intended kindness.”

“Ah, mon père, you do not know how it is,” Péron said; “for you reason
is sufficient, for me there must be something more!”

Père Antoine smiled sadly. “Young people fall readily into the error of
thinking their case exceptional,” he said gently, “yet there is nothing
new under the sun.”

Péron, who had been pacing the room, suddenly halted in front of him.

“Tell me,” he said, “where is she?”

Père Antoine averted his eyes. “My son,” he replied, “I am not at
liberty to tell you.”

The younger man frowned. “Come, come!” he said with impatience, “surely
there is no need for concealment; it is not possible that she fears me.”

“She has retired into a privacy not unjustified by her mourning and
her position,” the priest answered. “I cannot tell you more without
violating my word.”

“Am I so hateful to her that she does not wish to see me?” exclaimed
the other, in a pained tone.

Père Antoine smiled involuntarily as he shook his head.

“Nay,” he said, “but the wound is new, and the lightest touch hurts.
You do not know, nor I, what she has had to bear.”

“One thing I do know,” Péron said, “she is free of a rogue;” and he
told the priest of M. de Bièvre’s talk at Archambault’s.

“And you threw him over the table?” Père Antoine said slowly. “Well,
my son, violence is not good; and yet you could do no less. He lied
too, for mademoiselle herself set him free at the first tidings of her
changed fortunes. It was a match of her father’s making, not hers, and
I think that her deliverance from it is one bright spot in the dark
clouds of trouble.”

“Yet you will not tell me where she is?” Péron said.

“I cannot,” the priest replied, with a smile.

“But I will find her, for all that,” the young musketeer declared
firmly. “I will find her, if I have to scour Paris, from one end to the
other; ay, if I have to scour all France!”

“From that I cannot deter you,” Père Antoine replied quietly; “I am
bound by my promise not to tell you where she has gone, but I can
assure you that she is safe.”

“Never mind, mon père,” Péron replied; “I will find her in spite of
you.”

But he found this no easy task, although he set about it with much
zeal. Mademoiselle had disappeared completely; she had left no trace
behind her at either house, and the servants of the late marquis had
deserted their places at the first tidings of his fall, as rats leave
a sinking ship. No one knew and no one seemed to care where the orphan
daughter had gone; some corner of Paris had engulfed her and showed
no sign. Believing that the woman Ninon would be faithful to her
mistress, Péron searched for her, but in vain; she also had disappeared
completely, leaving no trace behind. Not only did he search for her,
but he enlisted the interest of Jacques des Horloges, whose apprentices
went into nearly every house of any importance in the city. He set
inquiries afoot at Archambault’s; he went from one quarter to another,
but no one knew where she had gone.

Days passed into weeks, weeks into months; St. Thomas’s day had come
and he had not found her. He was now overwhelmed with courtesies;
he was wanted at one fête and another. The new marquis who had been
a musketeer was the lion of the hour; the story of his courage and
address and his romantic life was whispered in the Louvre and at the
Palais Cardinal; great lords and princes greeted him as an equal, great
ladies stopped their carriages to speak to him in the street. The king
was gracious to him, the cardinal made a favorite of him. Gossip told
with unction of the occurrence at Archambault’s cook-shop and how M.
de Bièvre was thrown over a table like a sack of salt.

Péron had laid aside the uniform of a musketeer and assumed a dress
befitting his rank, and Madame Michel would not permit any one else to
do up his lace collar and ruffles or to keep his fine clothes in order.
Her broad, brown face beamed with pride at the sight of the handsome
marquis, and nothing could exceed her happiness when he came to sup
with them in the room behind the shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie. She
made great preparations as for a prince, and on the table was a plate
of rissoles, such as he had loved in the old days, when it was one of
his privileges to go to the pastry shop.

But all these things did not bring mademoiselle any nearer, nor could
he wring her secret from Père Antoine, though he was a constant visitor
at the Rue de Bethisi and often accompanied the priest on his walks
through Paris. But with all his persuasion and persistence he gained
nothing; Père Antoine made no sign to guide him, and Péron was, at
last, almost in despair. M. de Nançay had been killed at Chantilly in
the spring; summer had passed and autumn; it lacked but two days of
Christmas and he had not yet found Renée, nor did he seem likely to
find her.



CHAPTER XXX

THE HOUSE ON THE RUE DE PARADIS


THERE was one thing that Péron noticed in his walks with Père
Antoine--whom he had followed like a shadow--and that was that they
passed so frequently through the Rue du Chaume, although it was not
always the shortest way to their destination. It was indeed more
often out of their way, yet the priest would walk slowly through that
street from the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes to the Rue de Paradis,
though he had to turn back to the church of St. François d’Assisi.
This peculiarity in Père Antoine’s conduct finally aroused Péron’s
suspicions; he said nothing to the priest, but he too walked through
this quarter, scanning the houses. On the corner of the Rue du Chaume
and the Rue de Paradis was the Hôtel de Guise, built originally for
the Connétable de Clisson, a great house with gardens which reached
the Rue Charlot in the rear. Across from this, on the other corner of
the Rue de Paradis, was a smaller and plainer building with a turret
which commanded the Rue du Chaume. On either side of the street were
houses, some grim and some gracious, but all inscrutable to Péron; nor
could he discover any reason for Père Antoine’s predilection. After a
careful examination of the exteriors, he made some inquiries about the
inmates, but none were satisfactory. He had not relaxed his efforts to
find mademoiselle, but he was disheartened; he had heard a rumor at
Archambault’s that she had gone to an aunt in Languedoc, and he began
to believe that there was truth in this report. He tried to devour his
chagrin in silence, and told himself constantly that he must be odious
in her eyes, as the man who had first been almost a jailer, and had
carried her against her will to Poissy, and now took possession of her
name and estate.

It was the day before Christmas, and Péron had been with Père Antoine
to the church of St. François d’Assisi. They were coming away when he
saw a familiar figure among the crowd leaving the church; he could not
be mistaken in the walk and dress of the woman; it was Ninon. Without a
word, he left Père Antoine and hurried after her. His first impulse was
to accost her, but remembering her uncertain temper, he determined to
follow her, convinced that she would show him the way to mademoiselle.
The woman had no suspicion of being followed; she was alone and walking
rapidly, evidently in haste to reach her destination. Péron suited
his pace to hers, keeping on the opposite side of the street and some
distance in the rear. She made straight for the Rue de Quatre Fils, and
Péron’s spirits rose as he saw her turn into the Rue du Chaume. She
kept close to the wall of the gardens of the Hôtel de Guise and walked
rapidly along to the other corner of the Rue de Paradis. Here she
paused and looked sharply up and down the street but apparently without
observing him, and then she entered the house with the turret.

Péron did not hesitate, but quickening his steps was at the door a few
moments after she had disappeared. As luck would have it, she had left
it ajar, and pushing it open he walked boldly into a narrow hall with
stairs ascending directly in front of him. Here he paused to listen for
a possible indication of her whereabouts, and hearing a door overhead
open and close, he no longer hesitated, but ascended the stairs. At the
top were two doors, one to the right and one to the left, and he stood
again in doubt, but only for a moment. A slight noise as of some one
moving in the room to the left decided him; he tapped smartly on the
door, and a woman’s voice bade him “Come in.” He opened the door gently
and saw a small, plain room lighted by one window, near which stood
Renée de Nançay alone. Mademoiselle, in a plain black robe, her golden
hair coiled loosely at the nape of her neck and her face as white as a
lily, looked at him in intense surprise.

“At last I have found you!” he cried, forgetting all but his joy at the
sight of her.

“You must pardon me, M. le Marquis,” she said, sweeping him a curtsey,
“I did not look for visitors.”

The formality of her tone and her proud manner, reminding him of their
first encounter on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, chilled him. He
reflected that it was possible that she was not only not glad to see
him but actually displeased. The thought that he had thrust himself
upon her covered him with confusion.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I sent a message to you through Père Antoine
and I was deeply pained that you thought it best to quit your house on
my account.”

“Not my house, monsieur, but yours,” she answered with proud calm.

“Yours,” he said softly, “for I have never set foot in either since you
left them, Mademoiselle de Nançay.”

“You give me a false name,” she said, and there was a break in her
voice; “I am Renée de Marsou. It is you who are a de Nançay.”

“I am Péron the musketeer,” he answered gently, “for I will never bear
the title save under one condition.”

There was a pause; she stood proudly, her golden head erect and her
eyes upon the ground, while he looked at her with a flushed face,
embarrassed and uncertain; the old gulf seemed to have yawned between
them. He did not realize his own exaltation and her mortification; she
seemed to him still the great demoiselle and he the soldier of fortune.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “it pains me to think how you must interpret
my conduct. It seems as if I came to your house on the Rue St. Thomas
du Louvre--”

“To your house, M. le Marquis,” she corrected him quickly.

“Nay, to yours,” he went on, “with the intention of driving you out
of your own, that I must have seemed a ruffian when I escorted you to
Poissy, that you must look upon me as one who planned your misfortune.”

She gave him a quick glance from under her long dark lashes and then
looked down again demurely.

“You are mistaken, monsieur,” she said, “the cardinal himself told
me that you did not wish to claim your own. It is I who should feel
reproach though I am innocent; but Mère de Dieu! my father--”

She broke off, covering her face with her hands. Péron looked at her
with shining eyes.

“Mademoiselle,” he said softly, “there is only one thing that makes me
rejoice in my rank.”

She looked up through her tears. “There is usually much cause for joy
in such a case,” she said.

“But not in mine,” he answered softly. “When we first met at Nançay I
was the clockmaker’s boy, and there seemed a great gulf fixed between
the mistress of Nançay and a poor orphan; and ever since that day it
has remained until now, mademoiselle, when I also can claim noble
birth.”

He paused, and she did not reply, but the color of a rose glowed
faintly in her pale face.

“Mademoiselle,” he said very low, “can you forgive me? Can you let
me speak the truth? The clockmaker’s boy, the musketeer, and the
marquis--all three are one in their love for you.”

“M. le Marquis,” she said proudly, “you say this to me because you
pity my condition. I am a friendless orphan, the child of a disgraced
father, with only a stained name to bear; I am no longer Renée de
Nançay.”

“I told you but now,” he said, “that I would never bear my title except
on one condition, and that, mademoiselle, is that you bear it too.
Unless you will be the Marquise de Nançay, I will be still Péron the
musketeer.”

She stood looking at him, her face turning from red to white and her
lips trembling.

“M. le Marquis,” she cried, with a sudden outburst of passionate
emotion, “you pity me!”

He caught her hands and covered them with kisses.

“Renée,” he said, “I love you! Have you no love for me?”

She hung her head. “Monsieur,” she said, “you forget my father and
yours!”

“Renée,” he answered tenderly, “I love you, and that suffices.” He
drew her toward him, trying to look into her face. “My darling,” he
whispered, “do you scorn the marquis too?”

She looked up into his face, her own aglow despite the tears in her
eyes.

“It was not a marquis I loved,” she answered very low, “but--the
cardinal’s musketeer!”

He caught her in his arms and kissed her, and in their happiness they
did not hear a step without nor see the door open gently as Père
Antoine looked in. They were standing in the middle of the room, and
the sunshine touched her golden hair and illuminated Péron’s glowing
face.

Père Antoine hastily closed the door and went down the stairs. He was
smiling, and there was a tender light in his blue eyes. It was not
until he reached the street door that he wiped a tear from his cheek
and crossed himself. He had had a gentle vision of Françoise de Nançay,
as he saw her last, with little Jehan in her arms, and the old wound
ached; but then he looked up and saw the sun shining and remembered
that to-morrow was Christmas.


THE END.



FOOTNOTE:

[1] Watches striking the hour and moving symbolic figures were
manufactured as early as the sixteenth century.



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    perusal of the story is sure to satisfy. A more charming story of
    the educated and refined circles of the Irish people it would be
    hard to imagine, and the reader is strongly impressed with the
    belief that the heroine is most appropriately named in the title.

It has delightful bits of character, quaint pictures of places and
people, the true Irish atmosphere of sunny innocence and quick
mirthfulness, the social ease and insouciance, the ready wit which
is not to be analyzed--all the characteristics we look for are
there.--_The World_, London, Eng.

This book is written with delicate literary taste.--_The Outlook_, New
York.

Reflects the fresh, buoyant atmosphere of the emerald isle.--_Boston
Times._

A tale that American girl readers will heartily enjoy.--_The Living
Age_, Boston.


SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY

12mo. $1.50.

  Those who read with pleasure a love story where there is plenty of
    delightful mirth to qualify the sentiment, exquisite nature touches,
    and interest in the tale which never flags, will thank Miss Tynan
    for the new treat she affords them in this book.

Charming as are all this delightful author’s pictures of Irish life,
she has never produced a more beautiful story than the present.--_The
Courier_, Manchester, Eng.

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed on receipt of price, by

A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers

CHICAGO



TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.




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