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Other documents randomly have
different content
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.