The cardinal's musketeer

AFTER Péron had gratified his curiosity in regard to the garret and found it such a bare and unprofitable spot, he speedily forgot it, and only once again during his childhood was he to startle Madame Michel with the mention of it. This was on the occasion of a conversation which took place some months later in the shop. The house at the sign of Ste. Geneviève was too small to harbor any of the apprentices at night, so after work hours they took their departure, leaving the members of the little family to themselves. As none of his patrons ever visited him in the evening, Jacques des Horloges was then at liberty to entertain his personal friends. The clockmaker was a quiet man, not much addicted to conviviality, and he had few visitors at such times, occupying himself frequently with studies connected with his work or in straightening his accounts. It was the family custom in the evening to gather around the table in the living-room, which was cheerfully lighted with tapers. Madame Michel was always knitting, her needles flying with marvellous celerity, while her eyes were equally alert in observing Péron and M. de Turenne. Jacques des Horloges was a broad-shouldered, stalwart-looking man, a native of Picardy, his rugged face and honest, kindly eye commending him to the observer. He had a powerful build for one of his profession, and looked better suited to bear the sword than to wind the machinery of delicate watches. His dress was suited to his station in life and showed no signs of the fortune which, it was whispered, he had accumulated. His only ornament was a chain of gold around his neck which supported a tiny, cruciform watch, so ingeniously manufactured that it not only struck the hours but showed also the day of the month.[1]

It was on one of these evenings, when Jacques and his wife and little Péron sat around the table, that a knock at the shop door disturbed the quiet scene. Madame Michel rose and went to answer it, still knitting, even when she walked across the dimly lighted shop, not even dropping a stitch as she made her way between the tiers of clocks. When she opened the door she curtsied low and greeted the visitor with reverence as well as affection. A moment later she returned to the living-room conducting a tall, thin man wearing the plain black habit of a priest,—a man of middle age, stooping slightly in his bearing and with a face of unusual sweetness and refinement of expression. Michel greeted the new-comer with as much cordiality as his wife had shown; and even little Péron ran to draw forward a chair for him, while the cat rubbed himself against his cassock with evident affection. There are some persons to whom all animals turn with instinctive trust and affection, and there is no better sign, as there is no worse than the aversion shown to others. The instinct of an animal is more unerring than human perception: it recognizes both brutes and traitors.

The priest smiled an equal welcome upon all, but there was perplexity in his blue eyes. He sat down and laid his broad-brimmed hat on the table and clasped his hands on his knee; and he had handsome hands, slender and nervous, with delicate finger-tips. His face was pale, with lines about the thin lips and under the large eyes, showing care, anxiety, midnight vigils; he had the face of a student, and the hair, already gray at the back of his head, was white on the temples. His gaze rested now on the child, who, having seated the visitor, had resumed his own place on the floor, where he was cutting out a paper clock. The priest watched him attentively, while Jacques des Horloges and his wife waited in respectful silence for him to open the conversation. Something about little Péron interested Père Antoine so much that it was some moments before he looked up, and when he did, it was with a grave face.

“I have strange tidings,” he said softly, glancing from Jacques to his wife. “M. de Bruneau has been arrested and will be condemned to death.”

Michel stared at him in blank amazement, and madame uttered a cry and dropped her knitting-needles. The priest made a sign with his hand toward the child on the floor, and it had its effect at once; both his auditors restrained their agitation.

“I cannot understand,” Jacques des Horloges said. “What was his offence? Not a plot against the king, surely?”

“Ay,” Père Antoine replied soberly, “something of that sort, although a much exaggerated charge, manufactured, I fear, by his enemies. He was taken on the Rue St. Denis, on information furnished by one high in the favor of Albert de Luynes.”

“Who is he?” asked Michel eagerly.

The priest glanced again at the child.

“It is M. de Nançay,” he said, in a low voice; “one of the witnesses against the accused is his cousin, Lemoigne de Marsou.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Jacques des Horloges, nodding his head slowly.

“A trap, of course, mon père,” Madame Michel exclaimed, leaning forward in her interest, her knitting forgotten.

“It would seem so,” Père Antoine replied thoughtfully. “M. de Bruneau was led into making some admission. There has been too much sharp practice in tracing plotters. I truly believe that de Bruneau may be innocent of all treason, but it cannot be proved. Since his majesty reached his majority, madame his mother has been discontented with her position. She cannot accept any place but the first. She has ruled so long during the king’s childhood that she is not willing to give up. It is said publicly by her partisans that she has been admitted to the council merely for the sake of appearances and has no voice in anything, though her name is used, and the people hold her responsible for affairs in which she has no part. The young men of her party are therefore constantly plotting to reinstate her in authority, and her jealousy of her son fosters these intrigues both here and in her court at Blois. It is some affair of this kind in which de Bruneau is implicated, but I think that M. de Nançay is far more likely to have burned his fingers than this young man.”

“It is strange,” remarked Jacques des Horloges; “M. de Bruneau is the last man of whom I should expect such disloyalty; he could not have been in his senses.”

“He says that he had been drinking when the confession was forced from him,” Père Antoine rejoined; “it was at Archambault’s pastry shop.”

“You have seen him, then?” asked Madame Michel eagerly.

“I went immediately to the Châtelet,” the priest replied; “I found him much as I expected. He has not the fortitude to meet such a calamity.”

“He has powerful patrons, mon père,” the goodwife said; “is there no hope of intercession?”

The priest shook his head.

“None,” he answered; “there have been too many plots, too many intrigues; they will make an example of him. The whole weight of the Marquis de Nançay’s influence, never greater than now, will be thrown into the scale against the prisoner.”

“Ay,” remarked Michel sternly, “’tis his opportunity to be rid of a troublesome rival, and marvellously well planned too, if I mistake not.”

“I fear so,” said Père Antoine thoughtfully; “it has worked out strangely, at least. Certainly, M. de Bruneau’s death is in his favor.”

“I am sorry for the accused,” said the clockmaker; “I remember him from a lad of twelve. ’Tis a sad end for a young man and a soldier. Did you tell him aught of that matter whereof we spoke before?” he added, glancing anxiously at the priest.

Père Antoine shook his head. “Nay,” he answered. “How would it profit us? He is as good as a dead man, so could not aid us if he would, and I have never been sure that he would. He is a feather-brain, and we cannot put so weighty a matter into idle or desperate hands. He cannot aid us, but he might work us some mischief with his careless tongue even now. I deemed it best that he should die in ignorance of that which would not serve him, and might harm others.”

“I have felt much as you do, father,” Michel rejoined, after a moment’s silence; “once or twice he came here to the shop, talking with me freely, yet I did not wholly trust him. He seemed to me a harebrained, ambitious young man, desiring nothing so much as his own aggrandizement and not likely to welcome the thought that one stood ahead of him upon the road to name and fortune.”

The priest did not immediately reply; he was leaning forward and fingering out a silent piece of music on the table with his slender fingers.

“There might have been some question as to his claim,” he said thoughtfully; “in a case like this, where there is confiscation, he might have had a better chance than the true heir.”

Madame Michel drew her breath deeply, clasping her hands to her bosom.

“The finger of God is in it!” she exclaimed devoutly.

“His hand directs all things,” Père Antoine returned quietly; “it is our blindness which does not recognize it.”

There was another pause, and in it Madame Michel surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eyes. The regular throbbing tick of the clocks sounded distinctly from the shop, and little Péron began to doze, with his head on the low stool in the corner; it was past his bedtime, but he was forgotten.

“When will M. de Bruneau be tried?” asked Jacques des Horloges, at last.

“Immediately,” Père Antoine replied; “’tis a well established case; there are several witnesses, all relatives of M. le Marquis.”

“Sent purposely, no doubt,” exclaimed madame indignantly. “The old rogue!”

“I am sorry for the poor gentleman,” Michel said once more; “he is like to have a short shrift. Will you see him again, mon père?”

“I have a permit from the king,” the priest replied, “and I shall stay with the unhappy prisoner to the end. There is absolutely no earthly hope, and I fear M. de Bruneau has never set great store by the heavenly.”

As he spoke, he rose from his seat to leave them, and the movement startled Péron, who opened his sleepy eyes just as the priest glanced in his direction.

“The child has been asleep,” Père Antoine remarked, smiling. “How great a blessing is the unconscious freedom from care! I had well nigh forgotten your present, Péron,” he added, thrusting his hand into his wallet and drawing out a pale blue silk handkerchief; “I brought this for you, little one, because you begged for a silk handkerchief the other day.”

The child was wide-awake now and came running to the priest, all eagerness for the small bit of silk in Père Antoine’s outstretched hand.

“Oh, madame, it is just like the beautiful silk in the chest in the garret!” Péron cried, delighted; “the same pale blue—but it is not so thick and glossy!” he added, on examination.

At the child’s words both men glanced quickly at Madame Michel, whose face flushed scarlet.

“Hush, Péron!” she exclaimed angrily, “you do not know what you say.”

“How is this, mother?” asked Jacques des Horloges gravely.

She laughed a little, her agitation giving way to a milder feeling.

“I left the ladder down and the little rogue is as active as a cat and more curious,” she said, apologetically.

Père Antoine smiled, laying his hand softly on the child’s curls.

“The likeness to his father grows daily,” he remarked to Jacques; “do you not see it?”

“I try to think it is in my eyes,” rejoined the clockmaker bluntly; “it is like to do him more mischief than good.”

“He is in higher hands than ours,” replied the priest sadly, making a sign as though he blessed the child, before he bade them good-night and went on his solemn errand to the Châtelet.