THE CHÂTEAU DE NANÇAY
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.