The cardinal's musketeer

IT was not until Péron was ten years old that he made a journey outside the gates of Paris. Jacques des Horloges was accustomed to go from one grand house to another, to regulate and mend the great clocks, for his skill was held in high esteem, and such errands frequently took him beyond the city limits. But he had never taken the boy with him until one day, as he was setting out, Péron begged so hard to be allowed to accompany him that he consented. The stout Norman horse which Jacques always rode stood saddled at the door, and the clockmaker had just finished packing his saddle-bags when the child ran out, eager and importunate for the privilege of a ride beyond the gates. Michel listened to the petitioner with some amusement and a good deal of doubt. He stood hesitating, his hand on the saddle and his eyes on the pleading face. He was wavering between a desire to gratify the boy and a doubt of the wisdom of yielding to persuasion; and while he was still undecided his wife came to the door.

“Péron wants to go,” he said, smiling, “and I have the mind to take him, only”—he paused, still looking at the child—“I am going to Poissy and beyond.”

“To Nançay?” madame said quickly, and she too looked at Péron.

“Ah, may I not go?” cried the boy, turning from one to the other. “I will be good, I will do just as I am bid!”

“Poor baby!” exclaimed the woman, “’tis a pity, and yet—”

“There can be no harm done, I think,” Jacques remarked, after a moment, “and it is meet that the child should see something besides the shop and the Rue de la Ferronnerie. Give me what he may need for three days, and he shall go.”

Péron uttered a cry of delight, and danced about on the doorstep, while Madame Michel hesitated yet a moment longer.

“Ought we to ask Père Antoine?” she said doubtfully.

Jacques des Horloges shook his head. “I have not time,” he said, “and, after all, it is no great matter. So be quick, for I must be off.”

Without more ado a little bundle for Péron was added, he was mounted behind the clockmaker, and they set out on their journey, the child as full of eagerness as though they were going out into a new world. He looked about him proudly from his perch behind Jacques; he felt that it was an important event in his life, and he was conscious of the envious glances of the children in the streets. But the sights of the city were familiar to him, and it was not until they had passed beyond the limits of Paris and were traversing the green meadows that he realized the delights of a ride in the open country. He was not a talkative child, and he took his pleasure silently, gazing about him with great interest and noting every unusual object. The river seemed so beautiful out here, running through the fields, that he could scarcely believe that it was the same Seine into which he had so often looked from the Pont Neuf. Those observant dark eyes saw every wild flower, every green leaf by the wayside, and followed eagerly the flight of the swallows overhead.

Jacques des Horloges was as little inclined to conversation as the child. The clockmaker’s broad, sturdy figure sat squarely on the back of his stout horse, and he kept his eyes on the road, attending steadily to his own business. He was not a romantic person, and would have been much amazed at the child’s fancies about the matter-of-fact objects in view. He was a plain man who saw only plain duties in life, and, for the most part, performed his share of them in a simple way.

This silent couple made the journey of five leagues to St. Germain-en-Laye without interruption and without incident, and riding into the town stopped for dinner at the Three Moons. The child, tired from the long ride, was glad to find a seat at the table in the public room, where they were forced to wait some time to be served, for it was crowded with guests. It was the season for the annual fair in the forest of St. Germain, and the inn was filled with traders, mummers, and merrymakers going there for business or entertainment. At a table near Michel’s sat a company of strolling players, and the jests and the grimaces of the clown soon aroused Péron in spite of his weariness. The grotesquely painted face and the gay dress with its fringe of bells delighted the child and diverted his attention even from his food. There were soldiers here too; but he had cared less for them since the scene at Archambault’s, although he could not yet entirely resist the fascination of their highly polished corselets and the rattle of swords and spurs. There were peddlers there with their packs, on the way to trade at the fair, musicians, countrymen, a motley gathering and a lively one, the ripple of talk and laughter, the clatter of dishes, the rush and hurry of attendance, all enlivening the scene. Yet there was grave enough talk whispered in some of the corners of that very room. Where there was a knot of persons of the better class, the conversation ran on the quarrel of the queen-mother and the king, on the defeat of her troops at Ponts-de-Cé and the possibilities of peace; of the influence of Albert de Luynes and the return of the Bishop of Luçon from exile at Avignon. Food enough for talk, but it was low spoken; there had been two courts and two factions too long for men to venture free speech. Marie de’ Medici, the queen-mother of France, who had ruled during the king’s long minority, could not retire from a foremost place in the government. Jealous, spiteful, scheming,—a wily Italian,—she never rested from her endeavors to control her son and his affairs until she was defeated by the wit and determination of Richelieu; and for years France beheld the strange spectacle of two courts and two trains of courtiers, a mother and son at swords’ points with each other. Behind all this was the ever-watchful jealousy of the two religious parties. The Huguenots, no longer protected by the great Henry, were suspicious of his son and fearful that their rights would be infringed. The Catholics, on the other hand, liberated from the strong rule of the dead king, and hoping much from Louis XIII., were as restless and eager for strife as ever, and found themselves, in their turn, encroached upon by the Huguenots, who were unwilling to grant the freedom of religion to others which they demanded for themselves. So long the victims of intolerance, they were themselves intolerant. Already the great trouble was brewing that would culminate in the siege and fall of La Rochelle, the stronghold of the Protestants. During the regency of Marie de’ Medici—a season of weakness between the time of Henri IV. and that of Richelieu—the grandees had grown restless again under the royal yoke. Since the days of François I. the power of the great nobles had been diminishing; they saw it with infinite discontent, and now gathered around the queen-mother, intriguing and plotting for a larger part in affairs, encouraged to hope much from the divisions in the state, and from the jealousy and reckless ambition of Monsieur, the king’s brother. All these matters therefore furnished fruitful topics of conversation at every public house; and dangerous gossip it was.

Jacques des Horloges was too wise to join in such talk, but he met some friends and it was some time before he set out again upon his journey. The two—the clockmaker and the child—left the town and rode on to Poissy, passing through the midst of the fair before they reached the gates of that place. The booths were set up in the edge of the forest under the shelter of the trees, and from branch to branch were swung ropes of flowers and evergreen, from which hung little bells that tinkled merrily with every breeze. The open grass plots were covered with dancers, arrayed in the gayest hues, like a moving bouquet of tulips, while the music was furnished by various groups of players, and was full of variety, from the loud blasts of the hautboys to the guitars which were coming into common use, having been introduced at the French court from Italy. There were, too, the shrill sweet notes of the flaïos de saus, or reed flutes, which were coupled by pairs in the orchestras and played the minor keys, some soft and even sweet, especially in the open air, in spite of the crudeness of the instruments. The scene was not only gay, but it had a certain rural charm of its own, which was not even cheapened by the itinerant tradesmen who were crying their wares by the roadside. There was a large concourse of people, for the Fête de St. Louis never failed to bring a full attendance. There was a poultry show, too, and a horse show, each drawing a large audience, and a full selection of marvels to dazzle and bewilder the country people.

Jacques des Horloges, however, was not diverted from his even course by sights which he had witnessed every year, and he rode along at a steady gait, until a strolling gypsy stopped his horse, offering to tell the clockmaker’s fortune. Michel shook his head.

“Away with you,” he said impatiently, “I have more serious work to do than to listen to your babble.”

“Have a care, master,” retorted the fortune-teller glibly; “’tis ill-luck to scorn a friendly warning, there may be trouble ahead!”

“Pah!” ejaculated the clockmaker, urging on his stout horse, “the devil take your nonsense.”

“’Tis not the time for indifference,” said the gypsy, holding up a long finger; “the king makes peace with the queen; changes come; yonder boy is not yours!”

Jacques des Horloges stirred uneasily in his saddle.

“Mère de Dieu!” he exclaimed softly, but he only urged his horse on, without looking back until he reached the gates of Poissy.

Here they put up at the first hostelry in the main street, and Jacques saw his horse safely stalled in the stable before he took his saddle-bags on his arm and set out with Péron to attend to the errand which had brought him so far. They passed through the streets out on to the road which led along the bank of the Seine. To the left, the ground rose gradually until it reached a hilly elevation, fringed by a woodland. Some sheep were grazing on the slopes, and the afternoon sun cast long shadows in the hollows. Over the tree-tops showed the gray turrets and gabled roof of a large château. The clockmaker plodded along, leading the child by the hand, and neither spoke until a turn in the road brought them around the shoulder of the hill and in full view of the house. Then Péron uttered an exclamation of pleased surprise, and Jacques des Horloges stopped involuntarily and stood looking at the scene.

“Do you like it?” he said, turning to the child.

“It is beautiful,” replied Péron; “is it the king’s house?”

Jacques laughed. “Nay,” he said, “did you think it like the Louvre? We are going here to fix the old jacquemart. This is the Château de Nançay.”

Before them the ground rose in a succession of terraces to the elevation on which were the buildings. A stone wall ran along the face of the lowest terrace, with great iron gates, which stood open. Above this were three other terraces, faced by low parapets, in the Italian fashion, and beautifully grassed and planted with roses. The highest formed an immense quadrangle, in the center of which stood the château and its out-buildings. It was of gray stone and of a graceful style of architecture, a mantle of ivy climbing over its turrets and arching the long row of windows which commanded the terraces. Behind it were the stables and the house of the steward of the estate. The whole place was in perfect order and beautifully situated on the spur of the hill, overlooking the river and sheltered by a small forest in the rear. On the central turret of the château was one of the old jacquemarts, and even at a distance two figures could be discerned, one on either side of the dial, which, on nearer inspection, proved to be two knights in complete armor, who struck the hours with their bronze maces on a great silver bell above the face of the clock. It was a very old clock, one of the first made in imitation of the famous jacquemart of Dijon, and this central turret of Nançay had borne for years the name of “Tour de l’Horloge.”

To Péron, this house was more beautiful than the Louvre or the Palais des Tournelles in the old Marais, because of the open country about it. To the child, bred in Paris, the green field and waving trees, the slope of the hill-tops, the blooming flower garden, was a setting of perfect beauty. He followed the clockmaker up the successive steps of the terraces, too obedient to lag behind, but gazing about in pleased wonder. He saw the great velvet faces of the pansies, the clustering roses, the more modest violets; he noticed everything that escaped the eye of Jacques des Horloges; and he followed, in the same silent mood, into the great house itself. They did not approach the stately main entrance, but were admitted by a porter at a side door. The clockmaker was expected, and being an old visitor was permitted to set about his work undisturbed. It was his business to wind and clean and lubricate the machinery of every clock in the château, from the jacquemart to the cook’s timepiece, and there were many. Jacques was a man who performed all tasks expeditiously and quietly, and he commenced his rounds at once, only bidding Péron keep near him. He entertained no fear of the child getting into mischief; in that respect he was too unchildlike, and often perplexed the good clockmaker.

There was no occasion to fear that Péron would offend for lack of interest in what he saw; the boy was amazed and delighted at the beauty and richness of the château’s interior. The floor of the great hall was tessellated, paved with Italian marble, and the balustrade of the main staircase was elaborately carved. While the clockmaker was busily engaged with the old timepiece in the hall, Péron went about softly, peeping in first at one door and then at another, each in turn, giving him such a bewildering vista of beauty and luxury, that the child fancied himself in fairyland. No one seemed to be stirring in this part of the house; indeed the marquis was away from home, and the little explorer, meeting no one, grew bolder and ventured into the dining-room to look at the display of silver and gold on the immense carved sideboard. Here were not only dishes and goblets, but also fanciful vases and figures of the precious metals; there were also several beautiful examples of ceramic art, the work of Maître Bernard des Thuilleries and of his predecessor, Robbia; and the abace and crédence, nearer the table, were covered respectively with rare glass and plates and dishes. The room was very long, and at the end was a mirror in a gold frame of such curious design,—ropes of flowers tied with broad ribbons and held above and below the glass by golden cupids,—that Péron stood a long while examining it, not noticing his own figure reflected therein. A strange contrast he presented to his rich surroundings, the clockmaker’s boy, in plain, dark clothes and coarse boots, but handsome and full of health, and large for his years.

Beyond the mirror was a door draped with pale blue hangings, and Péron, grown bold, lifted the silken curtains and stepped into a smaller room, softly carpeted and richly furnished. But here he was destined to meet with a surprise. He had advanced quite a way before he became suddenly aware that he was not alone. At the other end of the apartment stood a child, a little girl, of about Péron’s own age or less, and she was gazing at him in the most profound amazement. She had seen the intruder before he was aware of her presence, and was searching him with a glance that was not only full of astonishment but of disdain, as she observed every detail of his shabby appearance.

At the sight of her Péron halted too and stood returning her gaze,—but with very different feelings. To him she seemed the most beautiful child that he had ever seen. At the first glance he thought her a fairy. She was small and slight, with the fair, rosy loveliness of childhood, her great black eyes, fringed with long black lashes and set off with delicately pencilled black brows, while, in direct contrast, her hair was like spun gold and extremely fine and glossy. This little vision was arrayed in pure white, with ruffles of fine lace and little white silk shoes. It was not marvellous that the clockmaker’s child should gaze in amazement at this small beauty who, in his eyes, rivalled the fairest belle of the Marais.