The cardinal's musketeer

WHEN the boy was twelve years old, a great change came into his life. The Prince de Condé, coming into the shop one day, saw him, noticed his strength and beauty, and offered to receive him into his household to be trained to the profession of arms. This opportunity was joyfully embraced by Jacques des Horloges, who had long been in despair of placing the child as he desired. Père Antoine had trained him well in reading, and he was a fair scribe, but he had had no one to teach him to wield a weapon or ride a horse, and the clockmaker desired to see him a soldier rather than a priest.

Condé’s offer was therefore the subject of many debates in the room behind the shop; Jacques Michel being eager to send him into the household of a prince of the blood, and Père Antoine and Madame Michel half inclined to put obstacles in the way, mainly because they could not endure the thought of parting with the boy. But the opportunity was too brilliant to be lost, and in the end the clockmaker prevailed.

So it was that madame washed and pinned out the best lace collar and brushed the black taffety suit with many secret tears, and the day came at last for Péron to leave, for a while at least, the humble shelter of the shop at the sign of Ste. Geneviève and go with his adopted father to his great patron. The boy was too proud to weep, but he covertly kissed M. de Turenne and wiped his eyes surreptitiously behind the jacquemart before he left the familiar quarters to begin a new life. His heart swelled with pride, however, at the thought of being trained for a soldier, and he walked as if he already felt a sword at his side.

The change from a shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie to the house of a prince was marvellous enough, but it was not all. Péron had attracted the attention and fancy of Condé, and was an acknowledged favorite in the household. He was handsome, straight-limbed, and large for his age; and he was not only trained for the camp, but also for three or four years he served as a page to the princess. It was a happy and uneventful period in his life, and he improved in person and manners. He received his first lessons in sword play from Choin, an expert fencing-master employed by Condé to train his men, and Péron was an especial favorite with the maître d’armes. He was an apt pupil, his lithe, active figure seemed made for sword practice, and he had a wrist like steel. He was destined to serve as a musketeer, but he was thoroughly trained in all military exercises, and became a fine horseman before he was sixteen. He not only enjoyed the advantages of a soldier’s education in the great establishment, but he became accustomed to the manners and fashions of the court circle. In the Hôtel de Condé he could see all the great personages of the day, from the king and Monsieur to Richelieu; for the Bishop of Luçon was now a cardinal. It had been his privilege also to attend upon the princess when she stood in her grand salon to receive her guests, and to follow her when she went to the Hôtel Rambouillet, where Catherine de Vivonne received all the wits of the day, and where, at a later period, the Cid was read to the chosen few of madame’s coterie.

But it was not Péron’s fate to remain long with Condé; another change was to come into his life, and, like the first, it came suddenly and unsolicited. It was the custom of Choin, the fencing-master, to train the boys and young men of the household in the tennis court at hours when it was unvisited by the prince or his guests. One afternoon they were assembled there as usual, the maître d’armes and his pupils, some dozen lads about Péron’s age, in various employments in the establishment, and all given the advantages of military exercises, then so essential to every young man. Choin was a merciless tutor: a blow was apt to follow a rebuke or accompany it, and he showed no favor. The lads were taught to use both pistol and sword, and many of them were already expert. It was, however, a high compliment to receive a challenge from Choin to single combat, and but few of the boys could defend themselves at all against the fencer. He was a short, thick man, with a neck like a bull’s, and much the same kind of wide nostrils. His small bright eyes glittered like the points of stilettos, and his shock of black hair hung in a straight bang across his low forehead. He was half an Italian, he was one of the most expert swordsmen in Europe, and he bore no love to Richelieu since the edict which had struck such a blow at duelling. He was in no very amiable mood when he called his pupils together, and more than one lad had received a box on the ear before the first hour was over. It was his way, when out of temper, to challenge one of the boys and vent his rage by inflicting a humiliating defeat on the unfortunate. It happened that he selected Péron, perhaps because the lad had shown a daring indifference to his teacher’s mood and yet had, so far, escaped a blow. Choin did not know the lion that was sleeping in the boy’s heart; he had made a favorite of the clockmaker’s son, and had never before tested his skill in any of his fits of passion. The two engaged now, to the intense interest of the others. Both were stripped of coat and waistcoat, and Péron’s lithe, slender figure presented a strange contrast to the bulky form of the maître d’armes. The spectators, a group of half-grown lads and hostlers, drew back in a circle large enough for the encounter, and challenger and challenged faced each other. Choin was not only in a bad temper, but also contemptuous of his adversary’s skill; he forgot how intelligent and apt a pupil he faced. Péron watched him with heaving breast; he looked for defeat, but was determined that he would not be disarmed at the first stroke, as the others always were. He was, of course, no match for the fencer in strength, but he had the activity of a cat and he was not angry; moreover, he was sharply conscious of the gaping interest of the onlookers, in the expectation of his failure. The foils were blunt, happily for him, and there was no cause to fear the uncontrollable fury of the maître d’armes. There was a momentary pause; then, at the signal, their swords crossed, and Choin made the pass which always disarmed the boys, though they had seen it a thousand times. But Péron was not to be taken unawares; he sprang aside and parried to the amazement of his instructor. There was another short play, and again the maître d’armes failed to win and was even annoyed by his adversary’s skill. Then the sparks flew; Choin began to put out his full powers, and yet, miraculously, as it seemed to him, his youthful opponent held his ground. The perspiration began to stand out on the broad forehead of the fencing-master, and his short neck grew red across the nape. He was furious, and his anger made his strokes a trifle less dexterous than usual, while the boy, who had expected defeat, was so elated by his successful resistance that he redoubled his efforts. A grin, first of amazement and then of delight, began to broaden on the faces of the spectators. Two or three slapped their comrades with boisterous mirth, and there was a growing desire to applaud. Choin felt it, and he glared around him fiercely.

“Ventre Saint Gris!” he cried, “if you asses do not hold your tongues, I’ll whip every one of you, and spit you besides!”

This threat had the effect of slightly suppressing the enjoyment of the spectators, but they could not refrain from their delighted interest as another round commenced and still Péron kept his weapon. So intent were they upon their amusement that no one noticed the quiet approach of a small party of cavaliers, who halted at the sight of the fencers and stood observing the scene. Choin was now fairly enraged, and he was keeping his antagonist hotly engaged, the two dancing around the circle; for as the maître d’armes thrust, Péron dodged and leaped from side to side, parrying or avoiding every blow. Suddenly one of the hostlers looked up and saw the group on the terrace; instantly there was a murmur which reached the ears even of the fencing-master. “The cardinal,” they cried, “and M. le Prince!” Choin started and looked up, and in that instant Péron struck his foil from his hand and sent it flying over the heads of the spectators.

“Bien!” cried the Prince de Condé, clapping his hands, “good hit! good hit!”

Péron glanced up in amazement, and saw Condé and Cardinal de Richelieu with several others looking down at them. The boy’s face turned scarlet. A storm of applause burst forth at the prince’s approving words, and the victor found himself a hero, while the maître d’armes stood discomfited, fully aware that he had not only been defeated, but had displayed too vicious a temper before his patron. Condé enjoyed the whole situation.

“You are fairly whipped, Choin,” he said, laughing; “you are too excellent a teacher.”

“I ask your excellency’s pardon,” stammered the fencing-master; “I shall not make the same error twice.”

“By St. Denis! ’tis no error to instruct so well,” retorted the prince; “at this rate, I shall have to engage your pupils to teach you.”

“Who is the lad?” suddenly asked the cardinal. He had been a silent spectator of the scene, his keen face showing no sign of his thoughts.

“A protégé of mine, the son of a clockmaker,” replied Condé, not without some pride in his selection.

“Of Jacques des Horloges,” said Richelieu, deliberately. “What is the boy’s name?”

The prince called to the victor, who had retired among his comrades.

“Come hither, Péron,” he said, “and salute Monsignor.”

His face still suffused with blushes, his curls disordered, and with an air of deep embarrassment, Péron advanced. The summons overwhelmed him with confusion; the shy, proud boy had always shrunk from the presence of this august personage, and he was awkward and agitated now that he felt those piercing black eyes upon him. It was not the trembling obsequiousness of the sycophant, but the shrinking of pride, and the cardinal read him like an open page.

“This is Péron, monsignor,” said Condé, as the lad made his obeisance.

“Péron?” repeated Richelieu, thoughtfully. “What is the last name?” he added, addressing the boy abruptly, as he looked searchingly at the blushing and ingenuous face.

“I have no other,” replied Péron, with a simple dignity of manner, rousing himself from his embarrassment.

“Ah!” ejaculated the cardinal, his eyes still fixed on the boy, “you are then only the adopted son of the clockmaker of the Rue de la Ferronnerie?”

“That is all, monsignor,” was the reply.

“You do not know who were your parents?” continued Richelieu, while Condé listened surprised at his interest.

“If I knew my father, monsignor,” Péron said, “I should bear his name.”

“A trite answer,” remarked the cardinal. “Be not over-ambitious, my son; serve the Prince de Condé and strike your good blows for France, not in private brawls or secret conspiracy—and France will reward you.”

With these words he turned away and proceeded along the terrace, accompanied by Condé and followed by an escort of gentlemen.

“I became interested in the boy at the clockmaker’s shop,” Condé said, by way of explanation; “he has, as he says, no name but Péron.”

The cardinal made no immediate reply. He walked on deliberately; the resolute, inscrutable face showed no sign of his secret thoughts. At last, however, he spoke, a slight, sarcastic smile on his lips.

“Péron,” he said; “nay, rather Jehan François.”

“Your pardon, my lord cardinal,” replied Condé, “I do not think I heard you aright.”

The cardinal smiled again. “M. de Condé,” he said deliberately, “give me the boy.”

Condé looked at him in surprise.

“Is it possible that you also see the charm of the lad’s face and manner, monsignor?” he asked in an amused tone; “he is but a clockmaker’s boy, yet he interested me.”

“And he also interests me,” said Richelieu, calmly. “Frankly, M. le Prince, may I have the boy?”

Condé shrugged his shoulders.

“Certainly, your eminence,” he said pleasantly; “he is not so precious to me that I cannot part with him. His guardians, Jacques des Horloges and a priest, Père Antoine, made much ado about his coming to me, but doubtless they will be proud to give him to you.”

“That is soon settled,” Richelieu answered; “with your permission, therefore, M. de Condé, I will take the lad with me to Ruel.”

So it was that, to Péron’s surprise and dismay, he found himself riding that night to Ruel in the train of the man who had fascinated his childish fancy, and whose figure had moved in every vision of his boyhood. He could not decide whether he was pleased or not, but it was a change which excited his fancy and flattered his youthful pride. Not many boys of his years had had the good fortune to attract the interest of Richelieu. It seemed to impress even Jacques des Horloges and Père Antoine as a stroke of luck, for they made no objection to the sudden change; it may have been that they dared not. In any case, all went smoothly, and the fatherless boy took his place in the cardinal’s house, watched, though he knew it not, by that keen eye which could not be deceived.