The cardinal's musketeer

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.