The cardinal's musketeer

THE room in which the prisoner was confined was a small one in the cellar of the Château de Nançay, and was strong enough to resist his greatest efforts to effect an escape. That had been his first thought, and, as soon as the bolts were shot and his guards departed, he devoted himself to an exhaustive but unprofitable examination of the place. He was provided with a rushlight, and was thus enabled to make his observations with comparative ease. However, a few moments sufficed to convince him that it was fruitless to look for a possible means of egress. There was but one door, that by which he had entered, and which was sufficiently secure to resist twenty men as well as one, unprovided as he was with any lever to force the bolts and bars; and the only window, situated too high for him to look out of, was two feet long by ten inches in height and barred. Through it an occasional gust of night air chilled the room and made the rushlight flicker. He noticed with some surprise—and strange thoughts of mademoiselle’s charity—that there was only a bench in the cell, and that too short and narrow for a man to lie on. If he slept to-night it must be on the floor; and he was already almost overcome with physical exhaustion from his unremitting watchfulness. A pitcher of water and a bowl of soup had been put upon the bench, and he ate the pottage with good appetite, for his fast had been almost unbroken since he left Amiens. He experienced a sensation of relief, at escaping the vigilance which had tormented him, and being secure of a few hours in which to rest without holding that hard ball between the roof of his mouth and his tongue. He wasted no further time in speculations as to the morrow; he ate his food and drank from his pitcher of water, and then, having hidden Père Matthieu’s message as securely as he could in his clothing, he made a pillow of his cloak and stretched himself on the hard stone floor with a sigh of comfort. There is no sleep sweeter than that which comes to the weary, and he had earned a right to unbroken slumber. However, unconsciousness did not come so quickly as he had expected; he lay for a long while thinking of Mademoiselle de Nançay’s manifest indifference to his fate, and the ease with which she consigned a political enemy to a comfortless dungeon. He could not reconcile this apparent cruelty with the kindness that had given him a token which, in all probability, had saved his life. He was visited, too, by other thoughts and with the recollection of Madame Michel’s description of the manner in which he had been saved, when a helpless infant, from his father’s enemy. He thought, too, of his visit, when a boy, to the château with Jacques des Horloges, of his prayer in his dead mother’s room, of Renée and her bunch of violets on the terrace. As he lay there on the dungeon floor he fancied that he could hear the bell of the great jacquemart, which Michel regulated, ringing for eleven o’clock, and from that his mind went back to the chimes in the little shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie and of his childhood and M. de Turenne. At this his thoughts trailed off into unconsciousness, and the exhausted musketeer slept the sleep of the tired and the innocent.

He did not know how long he had slumbered, but it seemed scarcely an hour, when he was awakened by the opening of the door of his cell. The bolts were rusty, and they slipped back with a grating sound which roused him at once. His rushlight had gone out, but the persons who opened his door bore a taper which served to reveal them to his startled eyes. He had expected Guerin Neff or one of the retainers of Nançay, but instead of these he saw two women: one, short and thick, held the taper which shone in her face—it was Ninon; the other, smaller and slighter, he recognized with surprise as Renée de Nançay. At the first sound he had started to his feet, and he stood now regarding them in much perplexity, but without uneasiness in regard to his trust; of two women he had no need to be afraid. Mademoiselle’s treatment of him in the hall had been such that he gravely waited for her to speak. They came in, however, without a word, and closed the door behind them; then he saw that Renée held a sword and a pistol in her hands as well as a mask. All these things she laid upon the bench before she spoke. She was evidently surprised at her reception, and her face flushed deeply as she turned to address him.

“Sieur de Calvisson,” she said haughtily, “yonder are weapons and a mask: assume them and prepare to follow Ninon, who will let you out of the château. I would have you know, monsieur, that it was no petty spirit of revenge which made me send you to this comfortless den. I chose it because, forsooth, I could the more easily release you.”

“Mademoiselle, you but increase my gratitude,” Péron replied, in a low voice. “Your trinket saved me, as I believe, upon the road, and now you are my liberator; your justice to the messenger will doubtless have its weight with monsignor.”

She turned upon him with sparkling eyes.

“Monsieur,” she said proudly, “I do not care a jot for M. le Cardinal; I would not move my finger to serve him or his cause, but no man shall suffer wrong in the Château de Nançay while Renée is mistress here. I pray you take your weapons and begone, for I cannot promise protection should my relatives overtake you in your flight.”

“Mademoiselle, I thank you for the warning; but with my sword and pistol in the open I trust to shift for myself,” he replied, not without feeling; but he obeyed her, knowing himself to be an unwelcome guest.

She watched him in silence while he assumed the weapons and his cloak and mask, and something in the expression of his face softened her mood. When he was ready she signed to Ninon to open the door, and then she turned for her last words to him.

“Ninon will guide you, monsieur,” she said, not unkindly, “and you will find your own horse, saddled and bridled, by the wall on the highroad. They brought it from Amiens, the better to carry out the farce they acted at the Rose Couronnée. One of my own trusted grooms holds the horse now against your coming. Mount him and make good speed to Paris, for at morning they will be looking for you. That is all—except, monsieur, beware of the Golden Pigeon at Poissy; some of the party may be there to-night.”

She lighted her taper at Ninon’s and started as if to leave them; but, before she could prevent it, Péron knelt on one knee at her feet and kissed her hand.

“Mademoiselle de Nançay,” he said softly, “believe that I am not ungrateful—or ignorant of the risk you take to aid me.”

“Monsieur,” she replied, and for the first time her voice faltered, “I have done nothing but that which my father’s honor demanded.”

She spoke with dignity; but Péron saw the tears shining in her dark eyes, and moved by an impulse he pressed her hand to his lips again as he rose to his feet. She drew it away with a deep blush.

“Go, monsieur,” she said shortly; “there is not a moment to lose, it is nearly two o’clock.” And with these words she left them.

Ninon lost no time in fulfilling her mistress’ instructions. She signed to Péron to follow her, and in silence they went through the winding labyrinth of the cellars until they came to a postern, which she opened cautiously; after looking out to see if all was quiet, she extinguished her taper and led the way into the rose garden of the château. The night was intensely dark, and Péron stumbled more than once in making his way among the thorny bushes; but at last they came to a terrace, and descending it found themselves by a low stone wall. As they reached this spot Péron heard a horse neigh and Ninon paused.

“Climb the wall, monsieur,” she said curtly, “and on the other side is your horse.—Adieu!”

She left him without waiting to listen to his thanks; and he did not linger, but vaulting over the low wall found his horse held by a groom, as Renée had said. In the darkness he could not see the man’s features, but he was expected.

“From Mademoiselle de Nançay?” asked the servant.

Péron replied in the affirmative and in a moment more was in the saddle, a free man again with his sword by his side. He took one last look at the dark outlines of the château, in which one light shone from the western tower, and then he set his face toward Paris, with a lighter heart than he had carried in his bosom since he left Brussels.

He made good progress, although he had to make a détour at Poissy to avoid the Golden Pigeon, and he did not halt until he reached Ruel, where he stopped only long enough to ascertain that the cardinal was in Paris. The ride was uneventful; and it was evident that mademoiselle had deluded his captors, for there were no signs of pursuit, and he rode down the Rue St. Honoré at last, with the message from Brussels safe in his bosom.

He did not pause even to arrange his disordered dress, but went at once to Richelieu to discharge his trust. The cardinal listened to his account with a grim smile.

“You erred in following—from idle motives—the stranger at St. Gudule,” he said calmly; “from that probably arose your troubles, which were a just and legitimate retribution. Otherwise you have done well and deserve well at my hands. You have to-day placed in my hands evidence that will convict the enemies of the state, that will open the eyes of the king to the peril in which we have stood, and show him whom he can trust. M. de Calvisson, there are two ways for a man to die: in doing his duty, or for betraying it—always choose the former.”

Two hours later Péron had again assumed the scarlet uniform of the cardinal’s musketeers and was making his way to the shop at the sign of Ste. Geneviève with a light heart, having successfully executed his commission and conscious that he stood well with Richelieu, who was ever chary of his praise, though quick to censure neglect and unforgiving of disobedience.

It was the fête of St. Barnabas, and the shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie was empty when Péron entered it, but at the sound of his footsteps Jacques des Horloges came out of the inner room followed by Madame Michel. In both their honest, kindly faces Péron read disappointment and surprise as they saw him in his old uniform; these simple folk longed to hail him by his proper title, to see him in his father’s place, and they could not understand what seemed to them his lack of ambition. However, they greeted him with their accustomed cordiality and affection, and the shop being vacant, the three sat down amid the tall clocks and the short clocks, which stood in the same close tiers as in the days of Péron’s childhood; and as the cat, a gray one too, came out from behind the jacquemart and rubbed himself against them, it seemed to the musketeer that the years had not been, and that he was still the clockmaker’s adopted child, with his speculations about the mysterious attic and his legends of the many clocks; and his eyes rested dreamily on the cross-shaped watch of M. de Guise. He was not permitted to enjoy this revery; for they had a hundred questions to ask, and he strove to answer them to their satisfaction, for his heart was warm with grateful affection for this faithful couple. They heard all that he felt at liberty to tell them of his journey,—its perils and its happy termination. Madame listened between tears and smiles, clasping her hands and murmuring an occasional thanksgiving as she heard of his narrow escape. Jacques was differently affected. He had been reared a soldier, and the account of such adventures stirred his blood; there was a gleam in his eye, a tightening of the lips that told, more plainly than words, how he wished he had been there to strike a good blow at the opportune moment. The scene in the old shop was full of homely interest, the beautiful and quaint clocks forming a picturesque setting for the three figures,—the stalwart clockmaker leaning on the counter, his gray head a little bent as he listened, Madame Michel sitting in a low chair, her hands clasped and her broad, brown face illumined with affection and amazement under the white wings of her wide cap, and opposite the graceful figure in its scarlet uniform and the handsome face of the musketeer, who held the gray cat on his knee absently caressing it as he talked. When he told of mademoiselle’s trinket, Jacques immediately showed a new interest and asked to see it; he held it a moment in his hand, looking at it attentively, and then he smiled.

“I know this watch well,” he said; “I made it myself.”

“I thought I knew something of watches,” Péron remarked, “and I took that for one of the Valois period.”

“That shows my skill,” replied the clockmaker, in an amused tone. “It is a copy of a Valois watch belonging to the queen-mother. I made twenty of these, though I only dimly divined their purpose, and all have this secret spring.” As he spoke he pressed the side of the watch and it opened to reveal a miniature. With a smile he held it out to Péron, “You know its secret virtue now,” he said.

The miniature, though exceedingly small, was an excellent representation of the Italian features and round eyes of Marie de’ Medici.

“I should never have made this discovery,” Péron said, “nor do I think that Guerin Neff opened it.”

“There was no need,” rejoined Jacques, pointing to the cover; “they all bear that tiny fleur-de-lis upon them, and are all of exactly the same size and shape.”

The trinket had to be handed to Madame Michel to examine, and while she was marvelling at her husband’s skill, he went on to speak of other things.

“M. de Vesson is a half-brother of Pilâtre de Nançay,” he said, “and like enough to be up to the elbows in the same business. ’Tis strange that monsignor let that rogue go.”

“What rogue?” asked Péron quickly.

Both Jacques and his wife looked up in surprise.

“Did you not know that M. de Nançay had been set at liberty?” asked the clockmaker. “I saw him yesterday on the Rue St. Martin with an escort of gay gentlemen. There was much gossip, so says Archambault, about the arrest and the release; ’tis thought that monsignor but baits his trap for larger game.”

Péron was silent, perplexed and uneasy at this turn of events. It was impossible, however, for any man to probe the cardinal’s purposes; it was not unusual for him to let a victim apparently escape from his toils for the sole purpose of more deeply involving him. It might be so with M. de Nançay; it had been so with Chalais; but Péron could not understand, and it presented matters in a new light: it bore directly on his own future.

“I cannot forgive him for letting the rascal go,” Madame Michel remarked, breaking in on the thread of his meditations; “if a man ever deserved to lose his head it is Pilâtre de Marsou, sometimes called Marquis de Nançay. Mère de Dieu! I wonder that his flesh does not creep at the name, for verily ’twas he who murdered your father and would have murdered you. Ah, I have not forgotten that night in the woods, and how I prayed and wept with the poor fatherless baby in my arms. I know that the bon Dieu will reward him according to his merits. I recollect how I said over and over the words of the psalm: ‘Qu’une ruine imprévue accable mon enemi; qu’il le prenne au piège qu’il a dressé lui-même, et qu’il tombe dans les embûches qu’il m’a préparées.’ And I believe that it will be so, for even Père Antoine, who is an angel of forgiveness, says that retribution comes surely upon the wicked—either at seedtime or harvest.”