The cardinal's musketeer

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.