The cardinal's musketeer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Madame, the messenger from Paris.”

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

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

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

Guyon looked sharply at the supposed messenger.

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

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

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

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

Her equerry was staring at Péron with an agitated face.

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

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

He understood mademoiselle’s trinket now, and for the moment wished it many leagues beneath the sea.

“I regret the intrusion, madame,” he replied calmly, “but I have not consciously worn any token which would lead to such an error.”

There was a pause, and both Marie de’ Medici and her attendant regarded him in surprise and perplexity. It was evident that neither of them knew what to do next. If he spoke the truth, they were in an awkward situation; if he was deceiving them, playing them false, their position was still more perilous. Péron understood their thoughts, and knew that his only chance of escape was immediate action.

“Madame,” he said, turning again to the queen and speaking courteously, “having made the mistake,—which I was led to do through this gentleman here, who seemed to recognize and expect me,—my best apology will be to withdraw at once;” and making her an obeisance, he withdrew so quickly that Guyon had no time to intercept him.

No sooner had the curtain fallen behind him, however, than he heard them engage in an altercation, but he did not pause to listen. He went swiftly across the hall and began to descend the stairs. As he did so, there was the sound of the opening of the street door, accompanied by some talk as if of fresh arrivals, and in a moment a party of gentlemen came to the foot of the staircase. Péron saw that he must meet them, and he quickened his steps in the hope of passing for a messenger hurrying upon his errand. They came crowding up the steps, three of them, all booted and spurred as if fresh from the saddle, and he divined that it was the expected message from Paris. They met midway on the stairs, and all three stared rudely at Péron, and he recognized, in a flash, the painted, foppish face of the youngest. It was the dandy of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, Sieur de Vesson. He stared as if unable to believe his senses, and stopped on the stairs with an oath, but Péron passed on rapidly and reached the street unmolested. It was not the time or the place for a quarrel, and he breathed more freely when he saw the lad still holding his horse.

“You did not tell me what to do,” the child said in an aggrieved tone, “and I did not know whether to take him to the stables here or not.”

Péron threw him some coins and sprang into the saddle, only too eager to be safely out of reach of the queen-mother. As he rode out of the street, he looked back and saw that two men had come out of the house bareheaded and were standing there looking after him. Evidently, he had got off in the nick of time, and they had intended to detain him.

With a lighter heart he made his way to the market-place and, finding the Maison du Roi once more, began his search for the house with the iron cross, a search made difficult by the darkness of nightfall. He rode twice up and down on that side of the square, not caring to risk an inquiry; the third time he found it, having passed it twice before in the gloom. The house answered the cardinal’s description: it was ancient-looking and Spanish in type, and below the balcony above the front door was a small black iron cross set in the stone. Doubtless it had been the property of a good Papist in the days of Alva; it might have been the one from which he witnessed the executions of Egmont and Hoorne. Ah, if houses might only tell their own stories!

Péron dismounted and knocked gently at the door of this forbidding dwelling, but he had to repeat the summons before it was opened by a tall, thin man wearing the black habit of a priest. He carried a taper in his hand, the flame flaring in the draught from the door and showing a white face with large dark eyes. He looked askance at his visitor until Péron held out his hand on which he had placed the cardinal’s ring. The priest recognized it at once, and opened the door wide enough to admit the traveller.

“Enter, my son,” he said, “and I will have your horse cared for; it is late and you will have to spend the night.”

Péron entered accordingly, and the priest fastened and bolted the door, after having first despatched a half-grown lad to take care of the horse.