The cardinal's musketeer

IN the Rue des Bons Enfans, behind the gardens of the Palais Cardinal, Péron had his lodgings. He had long since outgrown the proportions of his little room over the clockmaker’s shop; the old house at the sign of Ste. Geneviève was too small to accommodate the three grown people and the apprentices, and he had taken up his quarters near the scene of his daily employment. He had two upper rooms in a house but a little way from the rear of Archambault’s pastry shop; his means were limited and his requirements few and simple, so the apartments were plainly and neatly furnished. He had left the little room on the Rue de la Ferronnerie untouched; it was to him full of tender recollections of his childhood, and he knew it was dear to the motherly heart of good Madame Michel, who looked upon him almost as her own son.

It was in these rooms on the Rue des Bons Enfans that he made a discovery which amazed and alarmed him. He had been twenty-four hours in Paris before he recollected the cardinal’s ring, which he had hidden in the lining of his coat, and when he went to look for it, to his surprise, it was not to be found. He remembered that it had escaped the vigilance of M. de Vesson’s searchers, and he could not account for the loss. In his anxiety, he cut the lining entirely away from his coat, but revealed nothing. It was dusk when he made this discovery of his mishap, and he lighted a taper and kneeled on the floor, searching with patience and exhaustive scrutiny every corner and crevice of the room. The furniture was scanty, and the light shone into the most remote spots, but showed nothing. He was convinced that the ring was in the coat when he took it off to assume his uniform, nor could it get out of its own accord. He had dressed hastily to attend the cardinal to mass at his parish church of St. Nicholas des Champs, and in his hurry he had forgotten the ring. No one had entered the rooms in his absence, for the doors were both secure and the keys in his pocket. Then he recollected the windows. There were three; the two in the front room overlooked the street and were inaccessible, but the one in the inner room opened within three feet of the slanting roof of the adjoining house, which, however, appeared to be unoccupied. If any one had entered his rooms, it must have been through that window, but he saw no signs of it. It was possible for a man to walk along on the roofs of the other buildings and come down on the roof opposite his quarters, but why should any one suspect him of carrying the ring, and know where to find it? If the men of Vesson’s party had seen it, they surely would not have hesitated to take it. What had become of the circlet? It could not effect its own escape, that was certain, and he could not imagine that it had fallen from its place, so securely had he fastened it. Moreover, he was not alone confronted with anxiety at the loss; he was liable to be called upon to produce it at any moment by Richelieu, who had for the time overlooked it, but who never forgot. His ceaseless vigilance noted all things, small and great, with the same untiring energy and patience. It was with profound anxiety, therefore, that Péron continued his search, and it was only when he was absolutely certain of its fruitlessness that he ceased to look in every possible spot where the precious ring could have been mislaid. At last, he was compelled to go on duty again to attend the cardinal to the Louvre, whither he went like a man in a dream. He was too full of his own perplexities to observe the gay scenes in the galleries of the palace, where M. le Grand was at the height of his power and arrogance, unconscious that Richelieu’s web was already about him. Père Matthieu had sent from Brussels evidence of M. le Grand’s correspondence with the Vicomte de Fontrailles, who had already been selected as the messenger that the conspirators were to send to Madrid to conclude a treaty in the name of Monsieur. For Péron had aided in the first steps to expose the plot of Cinq Mars, which was already partially woven. In the Louvre, too, Péron came face to face with his old patron, the Prince de Condé, who greeted him kindly, recalling with a smile the victory over Choin in the tennis court and saying that monsignor had spoken highly of the musketeer’s courage and address. The prince’s condescension and his mention of the cardinal’s commendation suggested to Péron the possibility that his real station in life was already known among a few, and that M. de Nançay’s strange liberation had some secret meaning. But all these thoughts did not allay his anxiety over his loss, which might be attended with such serious results, the bearer of that ring being able to gain easy access to the house of the iron cross, and perhaps to fool even Père Matthieu. Yet a vision rising before him of the stern-faced, keen-eyed priest afforded him some reassurance, for it would be difficult indeed to outwit him.

It was midnight when Péron was at last at liberty to return to his lodgings. He was weary and abstracted, and made his way through the gardens of the Palais Cardinal to the Rue des Bons Enfans. At his own door he found a little ragged boy of the street sitting on the stone step, and thought the child had selected this spot to sleep; but at his approach the small figure rose. It was too dark for either one of them to distinguish the features of the other, and only the lantern which hung above the door revealed the ragged outline of the boy. He peered through the darkness at Péron as he came up.

“Are you M. de Calvisson?” he asked.

“I am,” replied Péron, surprised at the recognition. “What do you want of me at this hour, child?”

“I have a letter for you,” he replied, thrusting a note into Péron’s hands and turning away at once.

“Not so fast,” exclaimed the musketeer, intending to detain the messenger; but the boy was fleet of foot and had fled away in the darkness, without pausing to hear what Péron had to say.

Annoyed and amused by the little vagabond’s manner of delivering missives, Péron had no resource but to enter the house and get a light by which he could read the letter so strangely sent to him. The contents startled him more than the manner in which he had received it. The writing was delicate, like that of a woman, and he recognized the seal. The note was brief and to the point; it ran:—

The seal and the initials were those of Renée de Nançay; yet Péron was not only perplexed, but doubtful. He had never seen mademoiselle’s writing, but something in the letter raised his doubts; he suspected a trap. This was Tuesday; he had therefore one day in which to endeavor to fathom this mystery, and he resolved to use it. Of one thing he was no longer uncertain: the ring had been stolen. As it was already past midnight and he could accomplish nothing for the next few hours, he wisely spent those in an effort to rest; but he slept little, for now, in addition to his anxiety in regard to the cardinal’s ring, was the fresh perplexity of the note, which might and might not be from mademoiselle. Péron did not misunderstand her; he knew that what she did was prompted rather by her disgust at the treachery that she saw about her than from any kindness toward him, though once or twice he had thought that with all her hauteur Renée was not wholly indifferent to his fate. He knew that in her eyes there was a great gulf fixed between them, which not even her love or his could span. Mademoiselle, the daughter of a marquis, one of the grand demoiselles of France, could scarcely afford to lose her heart to the cardinal’s musketeer. Péron, conscious of his own noble birth, watched the young girl’s proud defiance with a pang at the thought that the revelation of his rank would but widen the breach. As for the note, the appointment at the lonely spot was unlike a woman. On one side of the Cours la Reine, the road to the king’s hunting-lodge at Versailles divided it from the Seine; on the other were ditches which ran between the promenade and a barren plain; and across these ditches was, at one place, a small stone bridge. A spot more lonely at that hour of the morning could scarcely be found, and it seemed wholly unsuited to a visit from a young woman, yet it had the one advantage of being isolated and little visited by those who would be likely to recognize Mademoiselle de Nançay. Whichever way Péron regarded the matter, he found it perplexing, but he never thought of failing to keep the tryst. There was no risk save to himself, and he was not one to hesitate because of personal danger. It lent a zest to every adventure, and he would have lamented its absence.

He devoted some time the following day to a fruitless endeavor to probe the mystery. It was of course impossible to discover the bearer of the letter, and he found it equally difficult to obtain any other information beyond the bare fact that Mademoiselle de Nançay had been in Paris the previous day, at her father’s house on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre. This lent a color of possibility to the incident. Further than this, Péron was unable to push his investigations, and at nightfall on Wednesday he knew as little as ever, but he had fully determined to go to the stone bridge on the following morning, taking only the precaution to wear his hallecrèt and to go well armed and prepared for any emergency.

He supped with Madame Michel at the clockmaker’s shop,—a custom to which he always adhered unless on duty at the Palais Cardinal,—but he returned early to his rooms on the Rue des Bons Enfans. He had kept a persistent watch there since the loss of the ring, having some fancies about the window, which he still suspected as the way by which his quarters had been entered. It was after nightfall, and he had lighted his tapers and sat down at his table to read; for Père Antoine’s early training had cultivated his taste for books. It was while he was thus quietly engaged that he became aware of light footsteps on the stairs outside his door, and the rustle of a woman’s garments. He stopped in surprise and listened, his eyes upon the door. In a moment he heard a whispered consultation, and then something brushed against the panels. He said nothing, waiting to see the sequel or to hear it. Presently there was a timid knock, followed by the low murmur of voices. He waited no longer, for his curiosity was fully roused, and undoing the latch he threw open the door, revealing two cloaked and masked women on the other side. Without hesitation, the smaller of the two entered the room, followed by the other, and signed to him to close the door. He did so in surprise and bewilderment, and was not sure of his recognition until Mademoiselle de Nançay removed her mask. She was very pale, but her eyes sparkled with excitement and resolution, and she scarcely heeded Péron’s salutation.

“M. de Calvisson,” she said, with quiet dignity of manner, “you must think it strange indeed for me to come here—and in this manner—but I learned only an hour since of the snare that had been set for you; that my name had been used for a cruel deception, and I could not rest until I set it right. Monsieur, you received a note purporting to come from me and summoning you to keep a tryst at the stone bridge by the Cours la Reine. That letter was a tissue of falsehood.”

Péron bowed gravely. “Mademoiselle,” he said quietly, “I never believed that the letter was yours, but I should have kept the appointment.”

“Mon Dieu!” she cried with sudden emotion, “you would have kept it to your death—and I should have been the means of it!”

She pressed her hands before her face, shaken by an emotion too deep to conceal. Péron watched her with a strange confusion of feeling, his heart beating high with sudden hope.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, too low for any ears but hers, “if my death would cause you regret, it would be robbed of much bitterness.”

She looked at him with startled eyes, a beautiful blush mounting to her fair hair, and then she drew back haughtily.

“I came here from a sense of duty, monsieur,” she murmured in a strange voice. “I could do no less—I know not what you think of me!”

“That you are an angel, mademoiselle,” he replied, “too noble and too just to let a man’s life be sacrificed by the use of your name.”

She gave him a questioning glance, as though she doubted the sincerity of his words and feared that he misunderstood her motives. Her pride was up in arms and she put on her mask, securing it with trembling fingers.

“There is no more to tell, monsieur,” she said coldly; “if you go to the Cours la Reine, you will meet your death—and I did not write that letter—that is all. Come, Ninon, we must away.”

Péron could not delay her, but he picked up his sword.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “permit me at least to attend you through the streets.”

She halted at the door, confused; her woman had gone out upon the stairs, and the two stood face to face.

“You cannot go, monsieur,” she said, with a falter in her voice; “your attendance upon me would lead to worse trouble for you—and for me!”

“If it touches you, mademoiselle, I will not stir,” he replied; “otherwise, I pray you not to deny me the small privilege of attending one who has thrice saved my life.”

“It would be my peril, Sieur de Calvisson,” she said softly. “Adieu!”

She hesitated on the threshold, her mask hiding her face; then she held out her hand and he took it in both his.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, very low, “I would cheerfully give my life to defend yours, and the time may come when I pray you to remember that I will accept no benefit which shall be to your detriment.”

He thought he saw surprise in her eyes; but he pressed her hand to his lips, and in a moment she was gone and he heard her light footfall on the stairs. Flushed with emotion, and with a hundred conflicting thoughts, he moved to the window to watch her leave the house; but as he saw her come out on the step below, he heard some one in the hall, and looking up, saw Ninon on the threshold.

“Mademoiselle dropped her handkerchief, I think,” she said, pretending to search upon the floor.

Péron took the taper from the table to aid her, and the two stooping down to look beneath the table came very near together. It was then that the woman found her opportunity.

“Be wary, monsieur,” she whispered, giving up the pretended search; “they know who you are—and I do, though mademoiselle does not—and they mean mischief.”

In a flash the truth burst upon him, the Nançay faction knew whose son he was.

“Ninon,” he said earnestly, “I pray you not to tell mademoiselle!”

She was at the door again, and she gave him a strange look.

“Do not be a fool, monsieur,” she said with blunt kindness; “mademoiselle has been betrothed to M. de Bièvre for a twelvemonth; and her father—ah, M. le Marquis is a devil!”

With these words Ninon hurried from the room and ran down the stairs after her mistress, leaving Péron standing in the middle of the room, like a man turned to stone.