MADAME MICHEL’S STORY
HALF an hour later, Péron had completed his fruitless search. He had
expected no results from it, after mademoiselle’s manœuver, but had
faithfully executed his orders. She, meanwhile, had retreated to the
garden, where she sat under a lime-tree, her cloak muffled about her,
and refusing to budge until the intruders left the house. From the
other inmates Péron met with no opposition, neither was there any
further assault upon the door. It was indeed so quiet outside that he
was at a loss to understand it, and supposed that the Sieur de Vesson
had determined to wait for him in the street. But this was not the
case; in the midst of the tumult, when de Vesson and his friends were
boisterously demanding admittance, a messenger arrived on horseback.
This man called the others aside, and after a hurried and excited
conference they all withdrew, leaving the musketeers in undisputed
possession of the premises. The crowd, drawn by the disturbance, then
speedily diminished until only a handful remained staring at the
guards, who were posted at every entrance of the hôtel.
When the search was completed, Péron descended into the garden and
bowed gravely before mademoiselle, who only gazed at him defiantly over
the folds of her mantle.
“My orders are precise, Mademoiselle de Nançay,” he said, “and I am
forced to post my men around the house; but I shall leave none within
it, that your privacy may be uninterrupted.”
“Your consideration is appreciated, monsieur,” she replied, in a
mocking tone; “as long as I cannot leave my cage, I may do what I
please within it! But alas! I am sorry for your varlets when M. de
Nançay returns.”
Péron made no reply; he thought instead of the marquis in the hands of
Richelieu. He turned to leave the garden, but she was not yet done with
him.
“Did you look under the beds, monsieur?” she asked lightly, “and up the
kitchen chimney? Your occupation is noble, and you should neglect none
of the details!”
“Mademoiselle,” Péron replied gravely, “I got to the chimney too late.”
She understood him, and a gleam of mischief leaped into her dark
eyes; but she bit her lip and was silent. She would not jest with her
inferior.
He turned again toward the gate, but something in her last speech
stung him; he faced about once more.
“Mademoiselle,” he said haughtily, “when I came here, I did not know
that there were any women in the house. I was ordered to seize the
papers in the name of the king; I obeyed, but my duty has been odious
to me.”
She made no reply to this, but evidently it softened her mood, for she
stood a moment looking at him and then took a step forward.
“Sir musketeer, I would ask you one question,” she said. “Where is my
father?”
Péron was silent. He, who had come here full of hatred of M. de Nançay,
could not bear to strike this blow. She saw it, and, for the first
time, wavered in her defiance.
“I pray you speak,” she said hurriedly; “’tis better to know the worst
than to be deceived with false hopes.”
“He is in the Palais Cardinal,” Péron replied.
She was agitated now, but uncertain. She gave Péron a searching glance.
“Does he stay of his free will?” she demanded imperiously.
“Mademoiselle,” he replied gently, “I regret to tell you the truth; M.
de Nançay is a prisoner.”
“Mère de Dieu!” she cried softly, her face white to the lips.
But her emotion was only momentary. She drew herself up haughtily.
“I thank you for the truth, monsieur,” she said coldly, and turning her
back on Péron, she walked slowly into the house.
A strange transformation had taken place in his feelings since he
entered the front door, and he went out of the garden now with a
grave face. He even forgot that it was his own house that he was
leaving, but he remembered to give the guards specific instructions
about their duties in watching the place and about courtesy in their
treatment of the inmates. He was surprised but gratified to find so
few people in the street, and after making some inquiries about M. de
Vesson’s sudden departure, he took two of the men who had been in the
house with him, and proceeded directly to the Palais Cardinal. In the
absence of Richelieu, he made his report to Father Joseph, and was
ordered to wait on the cardinal that night for further instructions.
The interval of a few hours gave him the much desired opportunity to
visit the shop at the sign of Ste. Geneviève. His heart swelled with
gratitude at the thought of the fidelity of the clockmaker and his
wife, who had sheltered him at their own peril and reared the orphaned
and penniless boy at their own expense, and that too without prospect
of remuneration. As Péron proceeded from the palace to the shop by
the way of the Rue de l’Arbre Sec and St. Honoré, where his childish
feet had so often travelled, his thoughts were full of tenderness for
the guardians of his infancy and a new emotion which he could not yet
define in regard to his new position and prospects. He was not ignorant
of the cardinal’s intentions, and knew that he might shortly be
proclaimed Marquis de Nançay; yet his thoughts dwelt more on the sting
of mademoiselle’s defiance as she stood under the lime-tree in the
garden on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre. He thought more of her pain and
mortification at her father’s disgrace than he did of the wrongs which
he had to revenge.
When he reached the shop he saw that there were several visitors
conversing with the clockmaker, so he turned to the gate at the
side, and finding it unlatched, entered the courtyard. He saw Madame
Michel setting the table for supper, unconscious of his presence,
and he quietly ascended the stone steps on the outside of the house
and entered the workshop in the second story. Two apprentices were
putting away the day’s work and setting the place in order, and they
scarcely noticed him as he passed through the room to his own little
apartment, which remained exactly as it had been arranged for him as a
child. It was full of recollections for Péron, but he did not pause to
consider them. He went directly to the little cupboard, which Madame
Michel had left just as he had kept it. He opened it, and in a moment
found a package tied up with the elaborate care of childish fingers.
He undid it carefully, and there lay the piece of red glass which he
had hidden so long ago, and with it, in a folded paper, were the dried
and faded violets of Poissy. He smiled a little at the sight of them;
a strange destiny had again brought him face to face with Renée de
Nançay. The other relic he now examined by the light of a taper and
saw that the red glass of his childhood was a ruby, of unusual size,
bearing the arms of Nançay upon it. He needed no other confirmation of
the cardinal’s story; all through the day it had seemed possible that
Richelieu was mistaken in his identity, but now he was convinced. He
took the jewel in his hand and went down to the kitchen where madame
was alone, her sleeves rolled up and her broad brown face rosy from the
fire. She looked up at his entrance and greeted him with surprise and
pleasure.
“I did not look for you, Péron,” she said, “but you are always welcome.
How goes it at the Palais Cardinal, and how is Monsignor?”
Péron did not reply to this question; he held out his hand with the
jewel lying on the palm.
“Madame,” he said, “I think you know the history of this.”
She looked at it in amazement, and uttered an exclamation, her face
flushing.
“Where did you find it?” she cried. “For years I have searched for that
stone!”
Péron laughed. “Ah, good Madame Michel!” he said, “if you had told me
the truth you would have found my father’s jewel sooner.”
She looked at him in joyful surprise; this secret had been her torment
for more than twenty years. She clasped her hands, tears shining in her
eyes.
“How did you know?” she cried.
“Monsignor told me to-day,” Péron replied. “As for this jewel--I took
it the day you found me in the attic and rated me so soundly for
meddling with your chests.”
Before he could prevent it, she caught his hand and kissed it.
“M. le Marquis,” she exclaimed, joyful in the midst of her tears,
“praise be to the saints, you shall be recognized at last!”
“’Tis for me to kiss your hands, my mother,” Péron answered gently. “I
am too touched, too overwhelmed with my obligations to you to know how
to express my gratitude, but be assured that the boy you sheltered will
never forget his childhood in this shop at the sign of Ste. Geneviève.”
“M. le Marquis,” she began, “the--”
“To you I am Péron,” he said, interrupting her; “and I am not a
marquis at all, only Jehan de Calvisson, for my father’s estates were
confiscated to the king. For the time, at least, dear Madame Michel, I
am only Péron the musketeer.”
Plainly this did not satisfy her, but she held him in too much
affection and respect to dispute his wishes. She went on to tell him
that the three chests which she had so carefully guarded contained the
evidences of his birth and title. In the hasty flight from Nançay, she
had gathered his rich clothing together and packed it with some of the
silver and jewels of his mother, and the documents that would in the
future establish his identity beyond dispute.
“Ah, Monsieur Jehan,” she said, wiping a tear from her eyes, “it was
a dark time: your poor father was dead; they executed him at noon,
and Père Antoine was with him. Only Jacques and I and Archambault,
the cook, were at the château; the other servants had fled in fright,
treacherous too, because of your father’s misfortunes. Jacques was a
born retainer of Nançay, as his fathers had been before him; but for
a long time he had had this shop, being so expert a clockmaker that
the marquis--God rest his soul--set him up here many, many years ago.
But Jacques had been married to me, and I had been madame’s maid and
yours. In my arms were you laid when you were born; and a beautiful
baby you were, Péron; a fine, straight-limbed child, and so red that
the marquise was worried. But see how beautiful your skin is now!
Well, I was there that night with you and Jacques; we were up in the
Tour de l’Horloge looking for Archambault, for he had gone to Poissy
for tidings. It was moonlight, and presently we saw him. He was little
and fat, even then; we saw him running like mad across the fields,
and we knew that something was wrong. He came in gasping, his round
eyes starting from his head, and told us that M. de Marsou, who is now
called Marquis de Nançay, had sent a band of desperate men to Poissy,
and they were coming to Nançay; and Archambault had, too, a message
from Père Antoine telling us to save the child from his father’s enemy.
We had not a moment to lose, and we decided in a moment what to do.
Archambault was as famous then as a cook as he is now; there was a
full larder, for we three had not cared to eat, and the cellar was
full of wine. He said, M. de Marsou’s ruffians were drinking at Poissy
and might be late, thinking their prey certain; and down he went and
began to cook and set out a feast while Jacques carried up wine from
below, and I packed all I could into the three chests. We had one
good horse--it belonged to Jacques--yet in the stable and a cart; and
presently he and I carried out the three chests and put them into the
cart while Archambault cooked and cooked. Oh, what a night it was! We
dared not start right off, for we should surely meet them, and we had
no place to hide but in Paris, and they were between us and the city.
You were asleep, and we wrapped you in blankets and carried you out to
the cart, and then Jacques drove us off to the woods and hid us among
the thick trees and went back to help Archambault. I sat in the cart
with you on my lap and prayed. It was a long time, and I could just see
the château. By the sudden illumination, I knew they had come, and it
seemed to me that they must hear my heart beat in the woods. Mère de
Dieu, how afraid I was that you would wake up and cry! But you were an
angel, Monsieur Jehan, and you slept on, out there in the forest, poor,
fatherless baby, with no one but a weak woman to defend you. After a
long, long time--so long that I was cramped and weary, and the horse,
I think, was asleep--I heard some one coming through the underbrush
and I was half dead with fear; but it was Jacques, and without a word
he sprang into the cart and began to pick his way out of the woods. I
did not dare to speak, I only bent my head down on yours and prayed.
It was hard work to get down through the brush to the road, out of
sight of the house, and it was not until we were driving fast on the
highway to Poissy that Jacques spoke. ‘They are drunk,’ he said, ‘every
mother’s son of them, and filled with the feast, and Archambault is
watching them. We pretended to be false to the dead marquis, and that
we had prepared a feast for M. de Marsou. They think us traitors, and
that we have disposed of the child. Mon Dieu!’ he added after a minute,
‘Archambault has lied so this night that I was afraid of him; I thought
I smelled sulphur!’ Well, that is really all,” she said, smiling
tearfully as she looked at Péron’s grave and attentive face; “we drove
straight through Poissy, and at St. Germain-en-Laye Jacques spread the
report that the late M. de Nançay’s boy was dead. Père Antoine met us
on the road near Paris, and for two years we hid you, in constant fear
of M. de Marsou; but after a while, I think he really believed you
dead.”
After she ceased speaking Péron was silent for a moment, and then he
spoke with emotion:
“All that you have told me only increases my gratitude,” he said.
As he spoke Jacques des Horloges came in from the shop and his wife
told him that the cardinal had divined their carefully concealed
secret and revealed it to Péron. The clockmaker listened to the young
soldier’s earnest thanks with strong feeling showing in his rugged
face, but he made light of what he had done.
“Monsieur Jehan,” he said bluntly, “but for your family, mine might
have remained in the ditch. What I am I owe to the late marquis. I had
a plain duty to perform toward his child, nothing more. It has been on
my mind often, of late, to tell you the truth; but Père Antoine was
fearful that you might be tempted to commit some rash act and so fall
victim to the intrigues of Pilâtre de Nançay, as he is pleased to call
himself.”
They sat for a while longer talking of old times and of the future, the
clockmaker and his wife manifestly disappointed that the cardinal had
not immediately set up the new Marquis de Nançay. Péron forbore to tell
them of M. de Nançay’s arrest, keeping that as monsignor’s secret.
The time drew near for the young musketeer to report for instructions,
as directed by Father Joseph, and bidding his two humble friends an
affectionate adieu, he set out for the palace. But he did not go
directly there; he turned out of his way to the Rue de Bethisi and
climbed the stairs to the lodgings of Père Antoine. He knew that the
priest was at home, for he saw a light shining under his door. Péron
tapped on it three times, using the signal of his childhood, and
immediately Père Antoine opened it and stood with outstretched hands
on the threshold. His hair was snow white now and his gentle face was
lined with care. His figure looked tall and thin in the simple black
habit of his order, and he stooped a little more with the weight of
added years. Péron told him the story of the cardinal’s revelation, and
from him he did not withhold the news of M. de Nançay’s arrest. Père
Antoine listened with a grave face to the story of the clock and the
struggle.
“And you did not use your weapon?” he asked quickly.
“Nay, not with such advantage upon my side,” Péron replied.
“I am thankful,” said the priest, in a tone of relief; “I would have
you a brave man and no coward. I cannot imagine how M. de Nançay
permitted himself to be taken in the toils.”
“You have not been in the household of the cardinal, as I have been,
father,” Péron rejoined smiling. “Had you been, you would not have
been surprised. Richelieu’s arm is long, and he has all the adroit
diplomacy, the subtlety of the Italian. I have heard it said that a cat
will charm the bird it intends to devour; that the bird comes to it,
fluttering its wings in its desire to escape, yet drawn by irresistible
fascination. I know not whether this be true or not, but it is much
like this with monsignor. In the years I have been with him, I have
seen many an obstinate traitor tell his own secret. They say it was
thus Chalais was lost; and there have been many others--how many no one
knows but the guards of the cardinal and the keepers of the Châtelet.”
Père Antoine shook his head thoughtfully.
“The cardinal is a great man,” he said. “To you I will admit that I do
not like his methods, but I believe that the state is safe under his
guidance. His heart is single in its love of France. And I believe that
he loves justice well enough to see you righted; it has ever been my
prayer that I might be spared to see you in your father’s place.”
Péron did not immediately reply; he stood looking thoughtfully at
the floor, and Père Antoine was beside him, his hand resting on the
young man’s shoulder. After a moment’s pause Péron looked up into the
priest’s clear blue eyes.
“You were with my father at the last,” he said in a low voice; “did he
think of me at that hour, was there any message?”
“He spoke many times of his little boy,” Père Antoine answered gently,
“and at the last, when we walked hand in hand toward the scaffold, he
sent you his blessing and bade me bring you up a Christian and a brave
man, as your sainted mother would have wished. After that we said a
prayer together, and he ascended the scaffold, repeating the hundred
and twenty-ninth psalm:
“‘Du fond de l’abîme, Seigneur, je pousse des cris vers vous; Seigneur,
écoutez ma voix. Que vos oreilles soient attentives à la voix de ma
prière. Si vous tenez un compte exact des iniquités, Ô mon Dieu, qui
pourra, Seigneur, subsister devant vous?
“‘Mais vous êtes plein de miséricorde; et j’espère en vous, Seigneur, à
cause de votre loi. Mon âme attend l’effet de vos promesses, mon âme a
mis toute sa confiance dans le Seigneur.’”
There was a pause, and then Père Antoine added: “He was a handsome man
always, but on that morning I thought that his face wore more than
earthly beauty; he died with perfect fortitude and at peace with God
and man. The example of his life, clean and courageous, is before you,
Jehan de Calvisson, and, please God, you shall follow it.”