A BUNCH OF VIOLETS
THE two children, thus suddenly confronted, stood regarding each other
for some moments in silence. Then the little girl drew back with a
gesture which was wonderfully full of hauteur for one so young.
“Who are you?” she demanded arrogantly. “Where did you come from, boy?”
“From Paris,” returned Péron promptly; he was not shy of another child.
“From Paris?” she repeated, opening her eyes to their fullest extent;
“what are you doing here, then?”
“Nothing,” the boy answered truthfully, all the while thinking more of
her wonderful appearance than of her imperious questions.
The little girl stood a moment longer as if uncertain what to do, and
then she stepped backward toward the door behind her, all the while
keeping her eyes fixed on the intruder.
“Mademoiselle!” she called loudly. “Mademoiselle Lucien!”
The portière was lifted hastily and a young woman came in answer to the
summons. The little girl pointed her finger at Péron, who still stood
there, embarrassed now by his situation but not knowing how to escape.
“Mademoiselle, look at that boy,” cried the child, “he must be a thief!”
“I am not!” exclaimed Péron, amazed at the accusation and resenting it
with all his honest heart.
“How did you come here, then?” asked the little girl, “and what are you
doing?”
“Go away, boy!” exclaimed Mademoiselle Lucien haughtily, catching hold
of the child by her side. “Come, Renée!” she added, “do not go near
him; there has been fever in Poissy and his clothes may be full of it!”
“His jacket is very poor!” little Renée remarked mercilessly, “and his
shoes are coarse--are you a beggar?” she added, addressing him.
“No,” replied Péron, with passionate indignation, “I am not a beggar or
a thief, any more than you are!”
“You are an impertinent child!” said Mademoiselle Lucien, drawing her
little charge nearer to her; “if you do not go away I will call one of
the men to put you out with a whipping!”
“That you shall not!” cried Péron, his face scarlet with indignation;
“no one ever whipped me--I would kill any one who did!” and he clenched
his fists and faced them like a fury.
“Ciel!” exclaimed mademoiselle, “he is a little savage; come away,
Renée!”
But her charge was not inclined to go. She was a spoiled child and not
accustomed to obeying her governess. She found Péron more interesting
than the humble village children whom she was accustomed to order about
at her will.
“I will not go, mademoiselle,” she said wilfully; “I want to know why
he has come here in his poor jacket and his coarse boots!”
Péron was not given to conversation, but he was a child who had
listened and thought, and the shyness which had sealed his lips at
Archambault’s did not possess him to-day. He forgot it, for he was
burning with indignation at the manner in which this little demoiselle
treated him.
“You are ill-mannered to speak of my boots,” he said gravely. “Père
Antoine says that a beggar may be the same as the king, in heaven.”
Mademoiselle Lucien laughed. “What have we here?” she exclaimed; “is
this an infant preacher?”
Péron only looked at her, not understanding either her laughter or her
words. But the little girl understood the boy better than the woman;
her curiosity being excited, she was eager to pursue her inquiries.
“Who is Père Antoine?” she demanded.
“A good man,” replied Péron promptly, “who would tell you that you were
naughty to call me a thief!”
At this juncture Jacques des Horloges appeared suddenly at the door.
He had missed the boy and was overwhelmed with amazement to find him
angrily confronting the little girl and her governess. The latter
recognized the clockmaker at once, and began to understand the child’s
appearance in the château. She listened to Michel’s profuse apologies
with contemptuous indifference.
“It does not matter as long as M. le Marquis is absent,” she said, with
a shrug; “but pray, Maître Jacques, keep the boy from running over the
house; we do not allow the village children even in the kitchen for
fear of some contagion for Mademoiselle Renée. You will take him away
from these rooms at once.”
The clockmaker obeyed without a word, but once out of hearing he
muttered loudly to himself, and to Péron’s surprise administered no
rebuke. Instead of scolding the child for his intrusion, Jacques seemed
to resent intensely Mademoiselle Lucien’s arrogant orders.
“The saucy hussy!” he ejaculated; “and in this house, too! Mademoiselle
Renée will take some infection, will she? Pah! ’tis the boy who needs
the care.”
Grumbling to himself and holding Péron tightly by the hand, the honest
man gathered up some of his tools in the hall and, still leading the
child, proceeded through a small door to the staircase which ascended
on one side of the Tour de l’Horloge. This was the main tower of the
château and was very strongly built of stone; in the older days,
before the use of artillery, it would have been capable of a lengthy
resistance. The stairs which led to the jacquemart were constructed
after the fashion of the early turret stairs, being of stone and
winding around the tower, between the outer and inner walls, and so
narrow that one resolute man could have held the enemy at bay upon
the step. They were lighted high up by narrow, lance-shaped loopholes
in the wall and were festooned above with cobwebs; for this spot was
seldom visited except when the great clock was wound.
Jacques Michel climbed up slowly, followed by little Péron, for the
stairs were too narrow for the two to walk abreast. Half way up they
came to a door which opened into the house; here the clockmaker paused,
and laying down his tools on the step fumbled in his pockets for a
key, which he presently produced and unlocked the door. It opened with
some difficulty on its rusty hinges, and he entered the room beyond,
pushing the child before him. It was a large apartment, evidently
long unused. Three large windows looked out over the terraces and the
sloping fields beyond to the Seine. The ceiling was of carved oak, the
floor paved with enamelled tiles, the great carved bedstead, inlaid
with ivory, stood partially screened by the Arras tapestry of the
closet. The benches in the window recesses and the arm-chairs were
all beautifully carved, and in one corner of the room was an alcove
furnished with a crucifix and prie-Dieu.
Jacques des Horloges stood looking about him with an expression as
reverent as if he stood in a chapel. Péron had long ago learned
the futility of asking him questions, and he remained silent, only
observing everything with a child’s keenness of vision. The quiet and
the air of desertion about the place oppressed the boy, but he did not
speak. Finally the clockmaker seemed to recollect him and gently pushed
him toward the alcove of the crucifix.
“Go say your prayers there, Péron,” he said abruptly; “we ought to pray
here.”
“Why?” asked the child. “Is this a church? It does not look like one.”
“Nay,” replied Jacques, crossing himself, “but a good lady died here
who is now, I doubt not, an angel in Paradise.”
“Was she a saint?” inquired Péron, in an awed tone, for Père Antoine
had trained him well.
“Ay, as near one as a woman may be,” said the clockmaker bluntly. “I
know no better, nor will you ever see her equal. Say your prayer,
child, and look well at the room, for we must go on, but I would have
you see this place; and here, I think, M. de Nançay comes not--nor the
others.”
When the prayer was said, Jacques took the child to the window and
pointed out at the garden.
“You see yonder the terrace by the fountain,” he said, “I will take you
down to a door which opens from this tower, and you must go there and
wait for me. I can see you from above as I work, and will come to you
presently. It is a dizzy place up by the clock and I would not take
you.”
With this instruction, he took Péron back the way they had come, first
locking up the room and putting the key in his breast. At the foot of
the stairs they found a door which let the boy out into the garden, and
he ran off along the terrace, happy to breathe the free air again and
see the flowers; for the strange apartment and the command to tell his
beads for the sake of a dead woman had shaken his sensitive nerves,
and he was not recovered from his treatment at the hands of little
Mademoiselle de Nançay. Péron resented it with all the strength of his
proud heart, and so angry was he that the unusual conduct of Jacques
in the locked room was of less consequence. He did not find time to
wonder at it,--he could only think of the insulting tone and words of
the little girl, especially interesting to him because she was so near
his own age. He neither understood nor appreciated class distinctions;
the child Renée had been educated in arrogance beyond her years, and
recognized differences in birth and station; Péron, on the other hand,
had only the teachings of Père Antoine, who had sought to instil into
the boy’s mind the humility of the Christian, seeing plainly enough the
pride which filled the childish heart and was likely to work mischief
enough without any prompting.
Péron walked along the terraces now to the fountain indicated by
Jacques, and here he stopped, standing with his back to the château and
looking at the flowers, the velvety grass, the birds picking on the
slopes. The splash of the fountain made pleasant music in his ears,
and he was just beginning to feel at his ease when a slight sound above
made him look up at the terrace behind. There, leaning on the parapet
and watching him curiously, was his little tormentor. Renée was alone,
having eluded the vigilance of her governess, and her arms were resting
on the stone balustrade while she leaned over so much that her chin
rested on them and her golden curls hung over her face, shading it and
framing it, while her great dark eyes were fixed on the boy. It was a
charming picture, since both children were beautiful in their different
ways and both possessed marked characteristics. At the sight of her,
Péron’s anger returned with full force, and he turned his back on her,
his fists clenched and his face growing very red. She was not a boy,
and he could not chastise her as he had once unmercifully beaten a
youngster who ventured to stone M. de Turenne.
There is nothing more effective in reducing arrogance than silent
contempt. Péron’s manifest scorn had an immediate effect on the little
spoiled beauty of the château. She had been accustomed to adulation,
servility, humility; honest anger was new and interesting. She was
not troubled with any grown-up reserve, and there was, too, a secret
relenting. She was not an ill-natured child, only a spoiled one,
and under all lurked a tender heart. She could not forget her unkind
criticism of the stranger’s poor clothes; she had reasoned it all out
and come to a conclusion. He was the clockmaker’s son and doubtless he
was poor. Renée had a vague idea of poverty, but she knew that it was
a state which deserved commiseration; her old nurse had taught her not
to despise it, but Mademoiselle Lucien’s subsequent teachings had not
been wise; and Renée had no mother. Her rudeness to the clockmaker’s
boy troubled her, and she was as quick to act on a good impulse as on a
bad one. Péron’s squarely turned back did not disturb her, for she felt
herself a great lady and able to bestow her favors where she chose. Yet
she was rather at loss what to say and how to begin; above all, she
saw a party of horsemen coming up the road, and knew that her father
would very soon cut short her adventure. She received no encouragement
from the boy, however, and when she spoke at last it was in a rather
uncertain voice.
“I am sorry,” she said softly.
No answer from Péron.
“I did not mean to speak of your boots,” she ventured again.
Still no reply.
“I am sorry,” said Renée once more, “and I think you are mean to be so
cross!”
Péron gave her a sidelong glance but refrained from speech, and there
was a prolonged silence. Then, just as the horsemen were dismounting at
the lowest terrace, he felt something brush his cheek and a bunch of
violets fell at his feet. He looked up then and saw Renée running away,
laughing, her golden curls waving in the breeze and her white garments
fluttering. When he was sure she could not see him, Péron stooped
down and picked up the violets; he was very fond of flowers, and none
bloomed in the Rue de la Ferronnerie. He was still holding the nosegay
when the party of cavaliers came sauntering up the terraces, so near
him that he could hear their talk. A gay party they were, dressed in
the richest fashion of the court and led by the tall and fine figure
of M. de Nançay, the same who had seen Péron at Archambault’s. They
all wore high, loose-topped boots and full lace-ruffled breeches,
with jackets of gay colors and short cloaks of velvet thrown back on
the shoulders and displaying equally rich linings, while their hats
were well trimmed with plumes. They were lightly armed, only one or
two wearing hallecrèts and carrying pistols; they could scarcely
have ridden from a greater distance than Paris. As they approached
Péron, he caught sentences which he heard without comprehending their
significance.
“’Tis dull now that the queen-mother has no court at Blois,” one of the
party remarked, “but there may yet be two at Paris. I hear, too, that
the Bishop of Luçon wants the cardinal’s hat.”
“He will not get it,” said M. de Nançay sharply. “The devil take the
Bishop of Luçon. Albert de Luynes will never see a cardinal’s hat on
the head of Jean Armand du Plessis.”
“Yet ’tis said that the queen-mother desires it,” suggested another
follower mildly, “and you, M. de Nançay, are too stanch to recede, even
after the defeat at Ponts-de-Cé.”
Nançay struck his sheathed sword across his boot.
“The queen-mother is duped,” he said; “the bishop is a fox who will rob
her sheep-fold. A fig for a woman’s wit, when she is flattered by so
skilful a priest!”
“It may be you are mistaken, M. le Marquis,” replied the first speaker,
“Madame la Mère reads well the wit of the bishop. I have often thought
that he would yet defeat M. de Luynes, and if he gets the ear of the
king--”
The marquis frowned darkly, giving the courtier a black look.
“You choose a strange subject for croaking, monsieur,” he said, in a
biting tone, “especially here!”
His companions all stared at the luckless disputant, who grew crimson
and stammered an apology which, fortunately for him, was lost, for at
that moment M. de Nançay’s eye alighted on Péron. Jacques des Horloges
had observed the party approaching, and hurrying down from the château,
with his tools, was just preparing to leave the place with his little
charge, when the marquis discovered the boy. The sight of the child
seemed to disconcert the nobleman more than the speech of his friend,
and a sharp change came over his face. He turned to an attendant who
was following at a respectful distance.
“Who are those people--the man and the boy?” he asked sharply.
“Jacques des Horloges, the famous clockmaker of St. Honoré, M. le
Marquis,” replied the man; “the child, I think, is his--I have seen him
in his shop.”
For a moment the marquis hesitated, as if undecided whether to recall
the clockmaker or not, and his followers stood about him, secretly
amazed that he should notice such humble persons. But M. de Nançay did
not heed them, he continued to watch Michel and Péron until both had
passed out of the gates and taken the road to Poissy. When they were
out of sight he led the way to the château; but there was a frown on
his face, and his temper was more acrid than usual on such occasions;
for he had the reputation of being a genial and hospitable host.