The cardinal's musketeer

THERE was one thing that Péron noticed in his walks with Père Antoine—whom he had followed like a shadow—and that was that they passed so frequently through the Rue du Chaume, although it was not always the shortest way to their destination. It was indeed more often out of their way, yet the priest would walk slowly through that street from the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes to the Rue de Paradis, though he had to turn back to the church of St. François d’Assisi. This peculiarity in Père Antoine’s conduct finally aroused Péron’s suspicions; he said nothing to the priest, but he too walked through this quarter, scanning the houses. On the corner of the Rue du Chaume and the Rue de Paradis was the Hôtel de Guise, built originally for the Connétable de Clisson, a great house with gardens which reached the Rue Charlot in the rear. Across from this, on the other corner of the Rue de Paradis, was a smaller and plainer building with a turret which commanded the Rue du Chaume. On either side of the street were houses, some grim and some gracious, but all inscrutable to Péron; nor could he discover any reason for Père Antoine’s predilection. After a careful examination of the exteriors, he made some inquiries about the inmates, but none were satisfactory. He had not relaxed his efforts to find mademoiselle, but he was disheartened; he had heard a rumor at Archambault’s that she had gone to an aunt in Languedoc, and he began to believe that there was truth in this report. He tried to devour his chagrin in silence, and told himself constantly that he must be odious in her eyes, as the man who had first been almost a jailer, and had carried her against her will to Poissy, and now took possession of her name and estate.

It was the day before Christmas, and Péron had been with Père Antoine to the church of St. François d’Assisi. They were coming away when he saw a familiar figure among the crowd leaving the church; he could not be mistaken in the walk and dress of the woman; it was Ninon. Without a word, he left Père Antoine and hurried after her. His first impulse was to accost her, but remembering her uncertain temper, he determined to follow her, convinced that she would show him the way to mademoiselle. The woman had no suspicion of being followed; she was alone and walking rapidly, evidently in haste to reach her destination. Péron suited his pace to hers, keeping on the opposite side of the street and some distance in the rear. She made straight for the Rue de Quatre Fils, and Péron’s spirits rose as he saw her turn into the Rue du Chaume. She kept close to the wall of the gardens of the Hôtel de Guise and walked rapidly along to the other corner of the Rue de Paradis. Here she paused and looked sharply up and down the street but apparently without observing him, and then she entered the house with the turret.

Péron did not hesitate, but quickening his steps was at the door a few moments after she had disappeared. As luck would have it, she had left it ajar, and pushing it open he walked boldly into a narrow hall with stairs ascending directly in front of him. Here he paused to listen for a possible indication of her whereabouts, and hearing a door overhead open and close, he no longer hesitated, but ascended the stairs. At the top were two doors, one to the right and one to the left, and he stood again in doubt, but only for a moment. A slight noise as of some one moving in the room to the left decided him; he tapped smartly on the door, and a woman’s voice bade him “Come in.” He opened the door gently and saw a small, plain room lighted by one window, near which stood Renée de Nançay alone. Mademoiselle, in a plain black robe, her golden hair coiled loosely at the nape of her neck and her face as white as a lily, looked at him in intense surprise.

“At last I have found you!” he cried, forgetting all but his joy at the sight of her.

“You must pardon me, M. le Marquis,” she said, sweeping him a curtsey, “I did not look for visitors.”

The formality of her tone and her proud manner, reminding him of their first encounter on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, chilled him. He reflected that it was possible that she was not only not glad to see him but actually displeased. The thought that he had thrust himself upon her covered him with confusion.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I sent a message to you through Père Antoine and I was deeply pained that you thought it best to quit your house on my account.”

“Not my house, monsieur, but yours,” she answered with proud calm.

“Yours,” he said softly, “for I have never set foot in either since you left them, Mademoiselle de Nançay.”

“You give me a false name,” she said, and there was a break in her voice; “I am Renée de Marsou. It is you who are a de Nançay.”

“I am Péron the musketeer,” he answered gently, “for I will never bear the title save under one condition.”

There was a pause; she stood proudly, her golden head erect and her eyes upon the ground, while he looked at her with a flushed face, embarrassed and uncertain; the old gulf seemed to have yawned between them. He did not realize his own exaltation and her mortification; she seemed to him still the great demoiselle and he the soldier of fortune.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “it pains me to think how you must interpret my conduct. It seems as if I came to your house on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre—”

“To your house, M. le Marquis,” she corrected him quickly.

“Nay, to yours,” he went on, “with the intention of driving you out of your own, that I must have seemed a ruffian when I escorted you to Poissy, that you must look upon me as one who planned your misfortune.”

She gave him a quick glance from under her long dark lashes and then looked down again demurely.

“You are mistaken, monsieur,” she said, “the cardinal himself told me that you did not wish to claim your own. It is I who should feel reproach though I am innocent; but Mère de Dieu! my father—”

She broke off, covering her face with her hands. Péron looked at her with shining eyes.

“Mademoiselle,” he said softly, “there is only one thing that makes me rejoice in my rank.”

She looked up through her tears. “There is usually much cause for joy in such a case,” she said.

“But not in mine,” he answered softly. “When we first met at Nançay I was the clockmaker’s boy, and there seemed a great gulf fixed between the mistress of Nançay and a poor orphan; and ever since that day it has remained until now, mademoiselle, when I also can claim noble birth.”

He paused, and she did not reply, but the color of a rose glowed faintly in her pale face.

“Mademoiselle,” he said very low, “can you forgive me? Can you let me speak the truth? The clockmaker’s boy, the musketeer, and the marquis—all three are one in their love for you.”

“M. le Marquis,” she said proudly, “you say this to me because you pity my condition. I am a friendless orphan, the child of a disgraced father, with only a stained name to bear; I am no longer Renée de Nançay.”

“I told you but now,” he said, “that I would never bear my title except on one condition, and that, mademoiselle, is that you bear it too. Unless you will be the Marquise de Nançay, I will be still Péron the musketeer.”

She stood looking at him, her face turning from red to white and her lips trembling.

“M. le Marquis,” she cried, with a sudden outburst of passionate emotion, “you pity me!”

He caught her hands and covered them with kisses.

“Renée,” he said, “I love you! Have you no love for me?”

She hung her head. “Monsieur,” she said, “you forget my father and yours!”

“Renée,” he answered tenderly, “I love you, and that suffices.” He drew her toward him, trying to look into her face. “My darling,” he whispered, “do you scorn the marquis too?”

She looked up into his face, her own aglow despite the tears in her eyes.

“It was not a marquis I loved,” she answered very low, “but—the cardinal’s musketeer!”

He caught her in his arms and kissed her, and in their happiness they did not hear a step without nor see the door open gently as Père Antoine looked in. They were standing in the middle of the room, and the sunshine touched her golden hair and illuminated Péron’s glowing face.

Père Antoine hastily closed the door and went down the stairs. He was smiling, and there was a tender light in his blue eyes. It was not until he reached the street door that he wiped a tear from his cheek and crossed himself. He had had a gentle vision of Françoise de Nançay, as he saw her last, with little Jehan in her arms, and the old wound ached; but then he looked up and saw the sun shining and remembered that to-morrow was Christmas.

THE END.