The cardinal's musketeer

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.