THE CARDINAL’S CLOCK
TIME passed, and there were changes in state and at court. The trouble
between the Huguenots and the Catholics had reached a climax, and
France had once more beheld a religious war. The gallant Duke of Rohan
had made his fight and lost. The famous siege of La Rochelle was now
a thing of the past; vanishing in the distance as the white sails of
Buckingham’s fleet vanished from before the starving city and left it
to the mercy of the cardinal. Richelieu had triumphed in war and peace,
though still beset by constant plotting and counterplotting at home.
The queen-mother, who had at first supported and patronized him, had
become jealous of his increasing influence with the king, and was now
intriguing to overthrow the minister. She was seconded in her efforts
by her second son, the Duke of Orleans, who, led on by his mother, had
openly rebelled against his brother the king, and invoked the aid of
Spain. His defeat at Castelnaudary had ruined the gallant Montmorency,
and Monsieur was ever ready to desert those whom he had involved in
his own dishonor. Marie de’ Medici had been defeated at every point in
her struggle with Richelieu, and finding herself in danger of being
shut up by the cardinal at Moulins and stripped of the last vestige
of authority, she fled at night, attended by only one gentleman, and
took refuge in Brussels. There she continued to hatch innumerable
conspiracies, determined to overthrow Richelieu and regain her own
place in the councils of her son. The struggle between mother and son
which Henri Quatre had predicted, was only to terminate with her death.
Unhappily she lived long enough to keep affairs in a constant turmoil
during most of her son’s reign, and at her death there was still left
the Duke of Orleans, who inherited her temperament. However, it was
during the early years of the queen-mother’s exile at Brussels that the
greatest number of plots were constantly springing up under the feet
of Richelieu, and it was at this time that he made the most use of his
followers and tried the merits of all those in his service.
Thus it happened that the years made many and swift changes for Péron,
while they made but few at the shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie. The
boy had grown to be a tall young man in the cardinal’s household,
and wore now the dress of Richelieu’s musketeers, having served his
patron faithfully and on several occasions with distinguished courage
and skill. He stood high in the cardinal’s esteem, and there seemed no
reason to regret his change from the service of Condé.
As for Jacques des Horloges, he showed little sign of increased age;
the clockmaker’s hair was gray now, and there were lines on his brow,
but he bore himself with the same appearance of muscular strength, and
Madame Michel did not look a day older. Her broad brown face was as
smooth as ever, and her glossy black hair was still put back under a
large white cap. M. de Turenne was dead, but a lineal descendant still
sat in the corner by the great jacquemart.
Since Péron entered the household of Richelieu, there had been much
recourse to the shop at the sign of Ste. Geneviève, and when the Palais
Cardinal was built it was Michel who furnished the clocks. It was from
the Rue de la Ferronnerie that the cardinal obtained the huge clock
which stood in one of the smaller salons of the palace; and a famous
clock it was, made for Catharine de’ Medici and especially framed to
serve the secret purposes of the Italian queen. The dial was of silver,
inlaid with gold, and it was surmounted by a silver angel with a
trumpet which sounded the hours. The case of the clock was so tall and
so broad that a man could stand within it without interfering with the
working of the machinery. It was of polished wood inlaid with brass,
and there was a small aperture in the door, which could be closed
or not, at will, by a slide, so cunningly contrived that it seemed
but part of the pattern of brass-work which ornamented the clock,--a
strange clock, which had served a double purpose, telling the time and
concealing spies, both in the Louvre and the Hôtel de la Reine. It
had a strange history: it struck the hour for the bell of St. Germain
l’Auxerrois to toll the signal for the Massacre of St. Bartholomew; it
counted the minutes before the murder of Henri de Guise, and it was
throbbing out the measure of time when Henri Quatre was dying. Through
Jacques des Horloges it came to stand at last in an apartment of the
Palais Cardinal; not in the salon where Richelieu held his court, not
in the anterooms crowded with the eager clients of the great minister,
but in a long, narrow room overlooking the Rue des Bons Enfants, which
was reached by a gallery leading to the entrance of the eastern wing; a
room where the cardinal received persons of all conditions who came to
him, voluntarily or involuntarily, on secret missions. Here the sting
of many a traitor was drawn, the key of many a plot was disclosed, the
secrets of the queen-mother were drawn skilfully from her agents. The
room was hung with crimson velvet; the chair of the cardinal stood
facing the clock of Catharine de’ Medici, and his visitor either stood
or sat directly in front of the clock. Only one door to the apartment
was visible, and that opened into the gallery; there was another, but
it was hidden by the hangings, and it closed the way to the private
rooms of Father Joseph la Tremblaye.
It was in this room that Péron stood, waiting the orders of the
cardinal. He had been summoned there at an early hour to wait until
Richelieu gave him some personal instructions. He had been employed
on many missions by his great patron, and he did not regard the
occasion as unusual. He stood looking up at the clock, for it recalled
many recollections of his childhood on the Rue de la Ferronnerie. He
had been a handsome boy and he was a handsome man, with a strong,
lithe figure and a face of unusually regular beauty. His glossy hair
was parted in the middle and fell in curls to his shoulders, after
the fashion of the day. He wore the rich uniform of the cardinal’s
musketeers, a wide collar of heavy lace around his throat and ruffles
of lace at his wrists. Many thoughts of his humble and lonely
childhood, of his training under Condé’s patronage, of his sudden
transfer to the household of Richelieu, were passing through the young
soldier’s mind. He remembered how the figure of the Bishop of Luçon had
fascinated his childish mind; he remembered the beauty of the Princesse
de Condé, and the face of Leonora Galigai, the wife of the hapless
Maréchal d’Ancre.
He was walking up and down the room when the hangings were put aside,
and Richelieu entered alone. His musketeer saluted and came to an
attitude of attention not far from his chair. Time had wrought changes
in the ruler of France. The pale Italian face had lost none of its
keenness, its inscrutable calm; his moustache and chin tuft were still
black, but the years had touched his hair with white. He wore his red
robe with a cape of priceless lace, and a small red cap on his head;
and he moved slowly to his seat. He did not speak for some time after
he sat down, but folded and endorsed some papers on the table at his
side; then he put them away, and looked up at the young man who stood
waiting his pleasure. His first question, though asked in cold and
deliberate tones, startled Péron.
“Are you fully armed?” he asked.
“I have my dagger and a pistol, as your eminence can see,” Péron
replied, laying his hand on his weapons.
“It is well,” said the cardinal, and he glanced at the clock; “in an
hour I shall have a visitor, and I shall receive him alone,--alone,
mark you, though I know him to be a violent and dangerous man. There
will be no guards in the gallery nor on the stairs; but you see the
clock, and doubtless you know its secret. It is my wish that you
conceal yourself in that clock; from where it stands you can see every
motion of my hand: if I raise it thus to my chin, seize and disarm the
visitor; if, however, he makes a sudden attack upon me, before I have
time to signal, you know your duty.”
“I know it, monsignor,” Péron said quietly, casting a strange glance of
interest at the great clock.
Richelieu saw it, and for a few moments his stern dark eyes studied the
young musketeer, and then a slight smile flickered on his inscrutable
face.
“You have been with me now many years,” he remarked, speaking slowly;
“I remember that you told me you had no name but Péron.”
“I know of no other, monsignor,” Péron replied, his face flushing.
The cardinal looked out through the window toward the Rue des Bons
Enfants.
“More than twenty years ago,” he said in a cold tone, “a gentleman of
France was beheaded for complicity in a treasonable plot against the
state, against the king. He was convicted and sentenced through the
testimony of his best friend; his estates, being confiscated, went to
the accuser. His guilt, however, was never fully established, and more
than ten years ago I found evidence which proved him innocent. The
man--the friend--who bore witness against him would have removed his
only child so that no claimant to the estate could ever be produced;
would have done away with the child, a boy of four years old, if he
had not been baffled by the fidelity of a servant and a priest. They
spirited away the boy, and bred him up in concealment, under a false
name, in a shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie.”
“Mère de Dieu!” cried the young musketeer, below his breath, “is it
possible that your eminence speaks of me?”
Richelieu looked at his startled face and smiled,--a strange expression
in those wonderful eyes.
“I have told your history, Péron,” he remarked coolly. “I recognized
you in the tennis court of Condé by your likeness to your father.”
“And my father died that death innocent?” cried Péron, forgetting
the presence in which he stood, forgetting all but this wonderful
revelation.
“He died innocent,” replied Richelieu, “and doubtless M. de Bruneau
died without cause also. He was the nephew of your father; he made
a claim to the estates; the king was inclined to listen, but there
was again a charge of treason, this time, however, with some sort of
drunken confession. M. de Bruneau went to the Châtelet, and from thence
to the block, and the man who had ruined both uncle and nephew still
possessed the estates and the title.”
“I remember,” said Péron, thoughtfully, “hearing Père Antoine speak of
M. de Bruneau. Monsignor, what is my name?”
The cardinal smiled. He had watched with interest the storm of emotion
which showed itself in the pale face of the soldier.
“Your name is Jehan François de Calvisson,” he replied, “and but for
the strange vicissitudes of destiny, you would be to-day Marquis de
Nançay.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Péron, with passion, “and that man, whom I have seen
and passed a dozen times, is my father’s murderer!”
“Your father’s accuser,” corrected the cardinal, quietly. “His name is
Pilâtre de Marsou, Sieur de Briçonnet, but he bears your father’s title
and holds his estates at the pleasure of the king.”
Péron took two short turns across the room, his breast heaving and his
lips compressed. Richelieu watched him narrowly; doubtless his purpose
would be accomplished.
“I beg your pardon, monsignor,” Péron said, pausing before him, “but a
man can scarcely hear such a tale with composure.”
The cardinal glanced at the clock.
“In a quarter of an hour now,” he said, “M. de Nançay comes here to see
me on a secret summons. You will take your place, therefore, in the
clock, and remember your instructions.”
The fire leaped up in Péron’s eyes, and he laid his hand on his dagger.
“Pardieu!” he cried, “I pray your eminence to make the signal!”
Richelieu looked toward the door; his quick ear had caught the sound of
a footstep in the gallery.
“M. le Marquis is early,” he said coldly; and then he pointed to the
clock, his face as immovable as stone. “Take your position yonder,
Sieur de Calvisson, and do your duty.”
Without a word Péron turned with a white face, and stepped into his
strange place of concealment. As he did so, the clock struck eleven,
and the silver angel sounded the silver trumpet, a sweet clear note,
more penetrating than a bell.