IN THE TOILS
ON the stroke of the clock the door at the further end of the room
was opened and M. de Nançay entered unattended. As he advanced, his
tall figure loomed conspicuously in the narrow room. Time had dealt
kindly with him; he was now past middle age, but rather more handsome
than in his earlier manhood. As usual, he was dressed in the extreme
of fashion. He wore a suit of violet-colored velvet, his collar was
of Mechlin lace, as were the ruffles at his sleeves and his knees,
and he wore jewelled buckles on his low velvet shoes. A scarf of pale
blue silk, the color of Nançay, crossed his breast; he carried his
hat, covered with long plumes, in his hand, and wore no weapon but
his sword. He approached the cardinal with a truculent bearing, and
scarcely saluted as he paused before him.
“You are punctual, M. de Nançay,” Richelieu remarked, affecting not to
notice his manner. “Be seated, sir,” he added, indicating the chair in
front of the clock; “there are matters which we shall need to discuss
at leisure.”
After an instant of hesitation the marquis sat down, leaning his elbow
on the table, and gazing boldly and defiantly at the minister, whose
cold face was like a mask, without expression save for the dangerous
glow in the black eyes.
“I am pressed for time, M. le Cardinal,” de Nançay said haughtily. “I
came hither at your request and to my own detriment, for I should be on
my way to Blois.”
Richelieu held a sheet of folded paper in his hands, which he was
drawing back and forth through his fingers.
“Ah, to Blois!” he said, raising his eyebrows slightly, “M. de Nançay
mistakes his destination. To Brussels, was it not?”
The marquis frowned fiercely.
“Sir,” he said insolently, “’tis possible that you know my plans better
than I know them myself.”
The cardinal inclined his head. “It may be so, M. le Marquis,” he
replied, coolly unfolding the paper which he had held in his hand,
and spreading it out before his visitor; “you will be so kind as to
read over that list and see if I have omitted the name of a single
conspirator against the life of Armand Jean du Plessis.”
At the first sight of the paper the dark face of the marquis turned
pale, but he controlled himself with wonderful nerve and stared
contemptuously at his opponent.
“Sir,” he said coldly, “if you desire to head the list of your enemies
with the name of a prince of the blood, it is not for me to confirm or
contradict your suspicions.”
“M. de Nançay, you play boldly and well,” Richelieu said, “but you
have lost. You have not been unwatched, monsieur, since the day of
Castelnaudary. You were followed at Compiègne, your correspondence with
Monsieur and with the Comte de Soissons is in yonder cabinet. Your
intrigues in Lorraine and with M. d’Épernon are known, as was the plot
that you would have hatched in Languedoc. You are in my power, M. le
Marquis; it remains with you to obtain my best terms.”
There was not a change in the inscrutable face, but his inexorable
black eyes never left those of his victim; his gaze was fixed
unwaveringly on the man who sat listening to him, and who was
controlling his rising passion with a mighty effort which sent the
blood from cheek and lip. M. de Nançay saw that he was caught in a
skilfully laid trap, but he was a man of too bold a spirit and too
fierce a nature to waver even in the face of his deadly peril. His hand
sought the hilt of his sword and played with it, as though he longed
to draw the blade and strike it into the bosom of his tormentor.
“M. le Cardinal,” he said haughtily, “you have made strange statements,
but I defy you to produce the proof.”
Richelieu smiled for the first time. He leaned forward a little in his
chair, and pointed in the direction of the garden, which was one of the
beauties of the Palais Cardinal.
“M. le Marquis remembers perhaps the conversation which he held with M.
de Vesson under the lime-tree yonder?”
M. de Nançay wetted his parched lips with his tongue, and the beads of
perspiration stood out on his forehead.
“It is the first time I have known of hearsay testimony, monsignor,” he
remarked with a sneer.
“It is sometimes more valuable than false witness, M. de Nançay,”
retorted the cardinal, dryly.
“Is this all that you have against me, M. le Cardinal?” demanded the
marquis, with a black look,--“the trumped up and unfounded charges of
your spies, the diseased imaginations of your cooks and lackeys?”
“Bear with me, M. le Marquis,” Richelieu replied calmly, “there is yet
something more. I know of your designs against the state and against
my life; I know of the proposed meeting at Poissy--in short, monsieur,
I know all, from one of your number.”
The marquis drew a deep breath and leaned forward in his chair; he saw
that the play was played out.
“Give me the name of the man who dares to accuse Pilâtre de Nançay
behind his back,” he demanded fiercely.
The cardinal looked at him with a sardonic smile.
“It is easy to gratify you, M. de Nançay,” he said; “I had the greater
part of my information through Gaston d’Orléans.”
Nançay sprang from his chair, cursing Monsieur in a burst of fury.
“The accursed coward!” he exclaimed, “the liar who betrayed Montmorency
and a hundred more. May his soul perish in hell!”
The cardinal watched him keenly. Once he had almost raised his hand to
his chin, but he let it fall again, to the profound disappointment of
the watcher in the clock.
“Be seated, M. de Nançay,” he said quietly; “it is not my custom to
offer terms to traitors, but I have spoken of terms to you.”
“You are pleased to call your enemies traitors, monsignor,” the marquis
remarked bitterly, “yet you are not the king.”
“I have no enemies but those of the state, monsieur,” Richelieu replied
coolly. “I have sufficient evidence to send you to the Châtelet--ay,
to the block, but it is possible that your life may be spared under
certain conditions.”
For a moment there was a pause, and no sound but the throbbing of
Catharine de’ Medici’s clock, though it seemed to Péron that the noise
of his own heart-beats drowned that of the machinery over his head.
Nançay was again sitting in his chair, leaning forward, his eyes on the
floor. Opposite was Richelieu, as immovable as a statue and as cold and
remorseless.
“Name your conditions,” said the marquis, at last, in a hoarse voice.
“They are simple,” replied the cardinal, deliberately; “there are
three: First, you will make a full confession in the presence of
witnesses; second, you will affirm the names upon that list, excepting
Monsieur’s, who will make his terms with the king; third, you will sign
this paper which establishes the innocence of François de Calvisson,
late Marquis de Nançay, whose execution was due mainly to your
accusations. On these terms the king will spare your life.”
M. de Nançay laughed harshly.
“Being a ruined man, I should doubtless be harmless, M. le Cardinal,”
he said scornfully. “You offer terms which no one but a madman would
accept.”
The cardinal leaned back in his chair.
“You know the alternative, monsieur,” he retorted indifferently; “I
have but to raise my finger and you will be arrested.”
“Shall I?” cried de Nançay passionately, springing to his feet and
drawing his sword. “Not until I have my revenge, monsignor!”
He sprang toward the cardinal, overturning the table in his
impetuosity, and his weapon was at Richelieu’s breast when Péron
caught his arm with an iron grasp. The sudden apparition of the young
musketeer took de Nançay completely by surprise, and as he turned to
shake him off, he looked full into Péron’s face.
“Mon Dieu!” he cried, falling back, his own face turning the color of
ashes, and his gaze fascinated by this image of his dead victim. It
seemed--for one wild moment--that François de Calvisson had returned,
in the full flush of youth, to keep his reckoning. He stared wildly at
Péron, his breath coming short.
“Mon Dieu!” he cried again, “do the dead haunt me?”
“Ay, M. le Marquis,” said Richelieu, in his smoothest tones, “they live
ever in the consciences of those who have compassed their ruin.”
The marquis rallied at the sound of the voice he hated, and the truth
flashed upon him.
“So,” he said bitterly, “’twas for this that you hatched this scheme to
entrap me.”
In his first astonishment, Péron had snatched his sword from his hand,
but Nançay was now a desperate man, and he made a sudden dash forward,
trying to evade the young soldier and reach the door. But it was in
vain. Péron closed with him on the instant, and, not having drawn his
own weapons, clenched with him in a deadly embrace. The musketeer had
the advantage of greater agility and more coolness, and he pressed his
antagonist steadily back toward the window.
Richelieu had risen from his chair at the attack of M. de Nançay and
he now stood by it, watching the struggle with composure and making
no attempt to summon any one to Péron’s aid, although for a while the
victory seemed in doubt. However, assistance was not needed, for the
soldier succeeded in tripping the marquis and threw him at full length
on the floor. He fell heavily and lay unconscious, his rich dress in
disorder and his rigid face distorted with passion.
“Have you killed him?” demanded the cardinal, a suppressed eagerness in
his tone.
Péron was kneeling on one knee beside the unconscious man, flushed and
short of breath from the struggle.
“Nay, monsignor,” he said, “’tis but a swoon.”
“I thought you would use your weapons,” said Richelieu, slowly.
Péron raised his head proudly.
“I never strike a man in the back, your eminence,” he said.
“It is the more likely that you will be struck there,” retorted
Richelieu, dryly; “summon aid and have this carrion removed to a place
of security; then I have other orders for you.”
In a few moments M. de Nançay’s unconscious form was raised and carried
out of the room, and Péron again stood alone before Richelieu. The
cardinal had seated himself calmly and was arranging the papers thrown
out of place when the table was overturned.
“Sieur de Calvisson,” he said, addressing Péron by his new name, “I
have put a dozen men at your disposal; take them and go at once to the
Hôtel de Nançay on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre. Search the house,
secure all the papers, and arrest any suspect within it, leaving a
sufficient guard to prevent any person, man or woman, from entering or
quitting it. Do all this quickly and return to report to me.”
Péron bowed and retired. The cardinal followed him with his eyes until
the door closed behind him, then he leaned back in his chair and looked
at the clock.
“The fool!” he exclaimed, “the young fool! A dagger thrust would have
ended all. I mistook the boy’s nature; Michon or Jacques would have
made no such mistake.”