The cardinal's musketeer

IT was one of Péron’s few privileges to pay an occasional visit to the pastry shop of his friend Archambault. A privilege which he prized most highly when he could go without Madame Michel, because he was then certain to be the recipient of various little gifts of sweetmeats, of which he did not receive so large a share in her presence. But the permission to go alone was so rare that it was scarcely obtained in a twelvemonth, and then only when the goodwife was so occupied that she could not spare the time either to make or to fetch some dainty for the dinner of Jacques des Horloges. But it was only a few weeks after Père Antoine’s evening visit that one of these rare opportunities presented itself, and little Péron trotted off as fast as his sturdy legs could carry him to the Rue des Petits Champs. He was clad in his every-day clothes, and his taffety jacket was beginning to show threadbare spots at the elbows; but his apparel did not disguise the child’s native grace, and his dark eyes shone with happiness. He walked swiftly, not stopping to speak to any one, ignoring the children at play, according to his instructions, and clasping a livre tightly in his rosy fist; for madame had bidden him be careful of it and bring her the change, and he knew well that she made much ado over the careless spending of a denier or a sou. It was a great thing for him to be trusted with so stupendous a sum as a whole silver livre, and he felt the responsibility, resisting the temptation to disobey orders and stop to watch the youngsters at play in the Rue de l’Arbre Sec, which was right in his way. With a strong appreciation of his own virtues, he kept straight upon his course, and arrived at the pastry shop, above the door of which swung the sign of Les Trois Champignons. In this establishment there were two rooms,—the outer one, which Péron entered, furnished with a long counter in front of the kitchen door, and full of small tables for the accommodation of a motley crowd of visitors; and the inner apartment, on the opposite side from the kitchen, which was for the entertainment of persons of consequence. No one was more quick to recognize the most ethereal differences in rank or social degree than Archambault, the cook, and like all vulgar people he was noisy in his eagerness to serve the rich and the great; yet—with all the faults natural to his class—the honest fellow had a good heart, and fed the poor at his back door as liberally as he fed the rich at his front. For which he was not to blame, as it is a common fault of human nature to prefer to receive the poor at the back door. St. Teresa and her two sous had the help of God, but doubtless she would have had a low seat at the pastry cook’s.

When little Péron entered the shop, the outer room was well filled with guests, scattered in groups at the various tables. The greater number of them were soldiers, and there was a good deal of noisy talk and laughter. The attendants were moving about at a rapid pace, endeavoring to fulfil the demands made on them from every quarter, and there was no one behind the counter when the boy reached it. A little embarrassed by the crowd and the noise, the child stood waiting for some one to attend to his wants, watching meanwhile the groups nearest at hand. At a table close by sat three young soldiers wearing the dress of musketeers. They had reached a course of sweetmeats and pastry, which they were washing down with a liberal supply of good red wine. A soldier is always interesting to a boy, and little Péron gazed at these men with eager curiosity; their rich uniforms, their fiercely curled moustaches, their polished accoutrements, all pleased his eye. After awhile, a few words of their conversation attracted his attention, and he listened trying to understand, for the name of M. de Bruneau was one that he remembered hearing from Père Antoine. The men were discussing in low tones the trial of the latest political offender; they were talking also of M. de Luynes and of the king, and it seemed as if the fate of de Bruneau, for some reason, excited unusual interest. It was evident that no one quite believed in his guilt, although no one could prove his innocence.

“M. de Bruneau died like a gentleman at noon to-day,” remarked one of the musketeers, eating a citron with a certain placid enjoyment of the sweetmeat and his gruesome subject.

“I heard that his knees shook and he was sadly frightened at the sight of the block,” said another, shrugging his shoulders.

“Parbleu! I do not blame him,” cried the third; “’tis one thing to die in a fight, or even to fall by a sword-thrust on the Place Royale, quite another to walk up to the block to be bled like an ox. No one seems to know what was the full charge against him either, except the accuser.”

“Who is a cousin of M. de Nançay, whereby hangs a tale as long as a sermon,” said the first speaker.

“And Bruneau was the cousin of the dead marquis, was he not?” asked the second soldier.

“Ay,” responded the other, “which is the handle of the tale.”

“And M. de Bruneau’s property is confiscated?” continued the inquiring soldier.

“Certainly, and that is the gist of the tale!” retorted his companions, laughing.

“His accomplices both escaped,” said the first speaker,—“one to England, the other, M. Benoit, to Flanders.”

“M. de Bruneau stopped,” began one of the others, “to—”

“To bid his sweetheart adieu!” interjected the gayest member of the party, laughing.

“And was taken on the Rue St. Denis by the provost-marshal and”—the speaker held his hand over his mouth and pointed at the inner room,—“and M. de Nançay.”

“Ventrebleu!” exclaimed the other, “what a pleasant rencounter.”

At this they all laughed loudly, and little Péron, who was still watching and listening, wondered what could be so amusing in a subject which seemed to be the same of which Père Antoine had spoken so gravely. The child’s wondering gaze attracted the attention of the youngest musketeer, and he mistook the boy’s eager attention for a longing after the sweets on the table, seeing that he was neglected and wore a rather shabby coat. The soldier had eaten well and was in the humor to be not only kind but mischievous. He leaned back in his chair and held out a rissole to Péron.

“Here, Master Bluecoat,” he said gayly, “have a tidbit. I have eaten and you are not yet served.”

Péron shook his head, drawing back indignantly, but the musketeer did not recognize the meaning of his repugnance.

“Come, come,” he said, “no need of shyness; I do not want it, my boy, I have had one bite—and one of my bites is equal to three of yours.”

He pressed it upon the child, who retreated still more toward the counter, his little face flushing scarlet. The other two soldiers had now become interested and each held out a sweetmeat laughing, much diverted at the boy’s discomfiture.

“Here is a citron,” said one.

“And here a tart,” cried another, while the first offender still flourished his rissole.

“I do not want them!” exclaimed Péron, now backed against the counter, and looking at them in angry bewilderment.

But they were not to be put off so easily.

“You will miss it, Master Bluecoat,” said the soldier with the rissole; “’tis an opportunity not often found at Archambault’s, sweetmeats free of charge! Try my cake, monsieur.”

“I do not want what you have tasted!” cried Péron, with disgust.

This sally was greeted with laughter as the astonished guardsman looked blankly at the child. He recovered, however, in an instant, and made the boy a mocking bow.

“I beg your pardon, M. le Marquis!” he said. “Can I not order for your excellency? Archambault does not know who is without.”

The jest caught the fancy of his idle companions.

“Give place here at the table,” they cried, clearing a space in the dishes; “let the marquis sit!”

Before the child realized their intention, the gay musketeer had picked him up in his arms and set him down in the center of the table.

“Place for the pièce de résistance!” he cried, laughing; “room for M. le Marquis de Rissole!”

Amazed, angry, half frightened, little Péron sat amid the dishes gazing defiantly at his tormentors, too proud to cry, too surprised to attempt an escape, remembering only to hold tightly to Madame Michel’s precious livre. Around him the three musketeers gathered, jesting, laughing, making him fanciful obeisances as they offered every dish in turn, as if serving a prince. Their boisterous merriment drew a group of idle spectators, and the child was soon the center of a noisy circle, which constantly widened.

“M. le Marquis, permit me,” said his first tormentor, “here are some bouchées à la reine—or here are tartelettes aux confitures.”

“And here, your excellency,” cried another, “are macarons aux amandes!”

“Coquilles de volaille,” said a third, “œufs farcis!”

“Croquettes de ris de veau,” said one of the new-comers, “and a roast of hobgoblins, with a sauce aux champignons!”

Amidst this hubbub the child remained silent, his courage was wavering a little, and his small mouth closed tighter as did his clenched fists, but he kept his dark eyes fastened defiantly on the ring of laughing faces. The jest was no jest to him, and it required all his force of will to bear it; but he was too proud to waver, too shy to understand or retort to their rough pleasantry. The table on which he sat was being crowded at the edge with dishes, and the light fell full on his golden brown head and shabby, blue taffety jacket. The color which had come to his face with his first anger had faded with his increasing alarm, and his eyes looked unnaturally large and bright.

The jesters had just begun a fresh assault with cakes and pies, when the door of the inner room opened and a tall man came slowly out, pausing at the sound of the merriment at the table by the counter, and glancing in that direction with an air of displeasure. He was evidently a person of consequence, as his bearing and the richness of his dress indicated. His face was handsome and severe, and his brow was concealed by a great plumed hat; he wore a collar of rich lace over his velvet coat, and ruffles of lace, two fingers deep, finished his satin breeches at the knee and fell over the wide tops of his boots. He stared haughtily at the laughing circle about the boy, and then his glance alighted on Péron and seemed for the moment arrested by the child’s face and figure, and he looked long and attentively at him. There were still many persons at the other tables in the room, and presently the tall stranger began to attract nearly as much notice, though of a respectful kind, as did Péron. But the new-comer heeded no one save the child, and it was evident that the scene did not meet with his approval. At last he moved forward to the edge of the circle of jesters, and as one of the servants approached he spoke to him with an imperative tone and gesture.

“Who is the child?” he demanded sharply.

At the sound of his voice the musketeers and their friends looked about, and seeing him fell back discomfited; only the little boy remained motionless in his seat on the table, not knowing how to escape.

“Who is that child?” exclaimed the great man again, impatiently.

Some one had warned the chief pastry cook, and Archambault came hurrying from the kitchens. A glance told him the story, and with a swift movement he swept the little fellow from the table into the background and stood bowing obsequiously to his tall guest.

“Are you all deaf?” exclaimed that personage tartly; “I have asked three times about that boy. Who is he?”

“Only little Péron, M. le Marquis,” replied Archambault blandly; “the son of a poor tradesman.”

“An ill-mannered cub to make such a scene,” remarked the great man haughtily. “I did not know you kept a playhouse, Archambault.”

The pastry cook was profuse in his apologies. He was a little round man with a bald spot the size of a poached egg on the back of his round head, he had little round eyes that glistened not unkindly, and even his fingers were as round and plump as croquettes. He made a thousand excuses and waited on M. le Marquis to the door, looking out at the liveried lackeys awaiting his irritable guest. When he was safely out of hearing, however, Archambault was no longer amiable. He hurried back, and as he passed through the group of musketeers he flourished his hands in frantic gesticulations.

“Morbleu!” he cried, “you will ruin me, you coxcombs! That was M. de Nançay, and he is more ticklish for the proprieties than M. de Luynes! Between your appetites and your manners I shall be a ruined man! If you do not mend your ways, you dogs,” he added, shaking his fat fist at them, “I will run you all out with a spit. Mordieu! I shall be outlawed!”

With these words he disappeared into the kitchen, pushing Péron before him, and closing the door sharply behind him.

In spite of Péron’s recent alarm and anger, he became at once so interested in the busy scene which opened before his eyes that he almost forgot his troubles; but not so did Archambault. The pastry cook seemed absorbed in thought and took no notice of the cooks and scullions hurrying to and fro with smoking pots and gaudily dressed dishes. He even forgot the child’s errand and hurried him through the kitchens, across the court, and into a room which opened at the back of the house on the Rue de Beaujolais. So rapid had been their movements that the bewildered boy did not recollect Madame Michel’s orders until he suddenly bethought himself of the livre still in his hand.

“I have not the tarts,” he said, drawing back as Archambault began to unfasten the outer door. The pastry cook stopped and rubbed his head.

“Diable!” he ejaculated, and then after a moment’s thought he called to a scullion.

“Gaspard, bring hither some tarts and cakes,” he said, “and be quick!”

Péron opened his little fist at last and gravely extended the money.

“You were to take out the price,” he said.

The scullion had already hastily filled the order and put the bundle in the small customer’s arms but without taking the livre. Archambault meanwhile had thrust his head out from the door and looked anxiously up and down the street; he drew back now and grasped the child by the arm.

“Come!” he said impatiently, as Péron held back.

“I have not paid,” the boy protested, stoutly resisting.

“Some other time will do,” retorted the fat pastry cook.

“Madame Michel wished the change,” replied Péron stubbornly; “that is why she gave me a livre.”

“Mon Dieu!” cried Archambault, beside himself with impatience, “quick, Gaspard, the change; this child would wait for change if he bought his own coffin!”

And it was not until this business had been transacted to Péron’s satisfaction that he was willing to go out at the door which had been opened for his convenience. But after the livre had been changed he stepped out into the street, closely followed by the pastry cook. There was no one in sight, and Archambault laid his hand on the child’s shoulder.

“Now mind you, Péron,” he said, with emphasis, “run down to the Rue St. Honoré and so to the shop. No time to dream now, no dallying,—vite!” and he clapped his fat hands and laughed a little as the boy ran off in the direction that he indicated.

He watched until the lad was out of sight and then returned to his business with evident relief. He did not know how anxious Péron was to be at home or what a horror he had conceived of the pastry shop.

The child ran the whole distance and arrived so out of breath that Madame Michel marvelled and scolded while she counted the change. She found one more pie than had been paid for, which she however supposed to be intended as the messenger’s perquisite, and so set her mind at rest. Her conscience permitted an increase in the amount received more readily than a decrease in the returns from her livre. Being satisfied with the results of Péron’s shopping, she did not pursue her inquiries and remained ignorant of the scene of which he had been the hero.