THE HOUSE AT POISSY
WHEN Péron met Choin and his company at the corner of the Rue St.
Thomas du Louvre, he had discarded his uniform and wore a dress more
becoming to his actual station in life. It was a simple suit of dark
blue with a short velvet cloak, and sword, and a hat with plumes,
and his collar of rare Flemish lace was one which Madame Michel had
produced from the chests in the attic. The change in apparel made a
marked one in his appearance, and he looked the man of rank rather than
the soldier of fortune. Even Choin noticed it, and glanced keenly at
the well made figure and the handsome face of his quondam pupil. The
maître d’armes had faithfully executed his part of the bargain, and was
waiting with three rough and powerful-looking men-at-arms, who wore
the nondescript dress of mercenary soldiers and had the air of being
indifferent to the nature of their employment so long as it furnished
money for liquor. They had also the two led horses for the women; and
after a brief inspection of his party, Péron proceeded at once to the
Hôtel de Nançay, where his guards were still on duty. They reported
that all was quiet within and without, and that no one had made any
attempt either to enter or to leave the house.
It was with no very pleasant anticipations that Péron knocked at the
door, and he was not surprised at the delay which followed. He had
directed Choin and his men to ride into the lane to the garden gate,
that their errand might be less conspicuous, and he was alone on the
steps except for the sentinel who sat at the threshold, drowsy with
his continuous and unexciting vigil. Péron was forced to knock three
times, and was conscious that he was being scrutinized from the windows
above, as he had been on the day before. At last, the door was opened
reluctantly by a stout young woman with a plain face and sharp black
eyes, who looked at him with a frown of displeasure; evidently she had
been made to undo the latch against her own judgment.
“What do you want?” she demanded, in a sour tone, placing herself
squarely in the opening.
“I am the bearer of a letter for Mademoiselle de Nançay,” Péron replied
sternly, “and I must present it to her at once.”
“You take a high tone, monsieur,” exclaimed the woman, with a toss of
her head; “but you shall not see mademoiselle unless she wishes it,”
and she slammed the door in his face.
Péron drew back half angry and half amused, but seeing the covert smile
on the face of the soldier, he struck his sword peremptorily on the
door, determined to gain admittance in spite of the women. He had not
long to wait, however, and this time the young woman opened the door
wide enough for him to pass through. She was sullen and silent, and
only signed to him to follow up the stairs to the same salon where
mademoiselle had burned the papers. Here Péron found Renée. She was
standing by the window which overlooked the garden, and he saw that she
had been observing Choin and his party at the gate, for she commanded
a view of the lane. She was dressed in gray with a wide white linen
collar, and her golden hair was knotted back more closely than usual.
She was very pale, and looked as simple as a little nun; she evidently
felt the day and night of suspense, but she bore herself with perfect
composure. Her quick glance swept over her visitor, noting every detail
of his changed appearance, and there was a little surprise in her eyes.
He saluted her gravely, and without a word handed her the cardinal’s
letter. She inclined her head as she took it, her manner as grave as
his, but he observed that her hand trembled a little as she opened it.
She read it through, and Péron saw her anger rising as she read; her
eyes sparkled and a little spot of color came into each cheek, and once
she stamped her foot on the floor. When she had finished--and she read
it twice--she tore it in fragments and flung them on the ground. Péron
expected an outburst; thought that she would refuse to go, and began
to wonder what arguments he would use to persuade her. But he had no
conception of what was really passing in mademoiselle’s quick mind. She
had just read the king’s imperative orders for her to go to Poissy; her
refusal would--so the letter said--imperil her father’s life. She knew
well enough why she was to go to the house of the Image of Notre Dame,
and she was cudgelling her brains for a device to defeat monsignor. She
knew her adversary and she set all her woman’s wits to work. She had no
thought of refusing to go; the risk was too great while her father was
in the toils, but she intended to thwart his enemies. She stood for a
while looking out of the window, while Péron expected her refusal to
comply with the cardinal’s orders. To his surprise, she turned at last
to consent.
“I will go, monsieur,” she said haughtily; “a prisoner must obey her
jailor, but I will not go without my woman.”
“That is as you desire, mademoiselle,” Péron replied, much relieved;
“you will choose your own maid, and you will be treated with all due
consideration.”
She made him a mocking curtsey.
“I thank you humbly, monsieur,” she said, with a contemptuous curl of
her lip; “if you will permit me a half-hour, I will wait on you at the
garden gate, where I see you have already four cut-throats to attend
me.”
She walked past him, without waiting for a reply, and left Péron
standing alone in the great salon. He did not remain; his face was
scarlet with anger, and he went into the garden and sat down in the
rustic seat, under the lime-tree, to wait her pleasure. From his
reception, he could easily conjecture what the journey was likely to
be, and he set his teeth hard at the thought. After all, had he not
been foolish not to leave her to the mercy of some other soldier of the
cardinal? Manifestly, she was the same as she had been when a child
in the Château de Nançay, though it seemed that now she had lost the
softness which had made her run out to the terrace to tell him she was
sorry. He regretted his errand bitterly, and reproached himself for a
fool to have thrust himself into her way again. He was still occupied
with these unpleasant reflections, when the door at the rear of the
house opened and she came out with the insolent woman who had admitted
him. Both wore cloaks and hoods, and mademoiselle’s face was hidden by
a black mask which gave her a mysterious look. Neither spoke, and Péron
rose as they advanced, and preceding them to the gate, unfastened it.
Choin was there with the horses, and in silence he and Péron assisted
the two women to mount. When they were falling into position to begin
their journey, mademoiselle spoke for the first time.
“Ninon rides with me,” she said, as Péron would have assigned the maid
to a place behind her mistress.
No opposition was offered to this arrangement, which seemed to surprise
and disappoint mademoiselle, who was in the humor to pick a quarrel
over a nutshell. So they started two abreast, where the streets were
wide enough, and after they left the city limits, Péron rode on the
other side of Renée de Nançay, while Choin and his three men followed
close at their heels. They rode in silence, and nothing worth noting
occurred until they came within sight of Cours la Reine, where were
the iron gates which closed this end of the three alleys planted with
trees by the queen-mother for the pleasure of her court. As they passed
to the right to take the road to Poissy, Péron noticed a man standing
near the gates. He looked to be the retainer of some grandee and would
not have attracted the young man’s attention except for the pale blue
knot on the shoulder of his black cloak. The stranger was staring hard
at the party, and Péron gave mademoiselle a quick glance, but she made
no sign of seeing the fellow, except to put up her hand to adjust her
mask more closely, and Ninon was staring sullenly between her horse’s
ears. Péron watched the man narrowly, but he gave no indication of
intending to quit his station, and they passed on, leaving him as they
had found him.
For the first few leagues of their journey, mademoiselle was stubbornly
silent; the men in the rear conversed in low tones, but Péron did not
speak. Renée de Nançay, however, was busily engaged in meditating over
her own plans, and it was necessary for her to know more about the
young soldier riding beside her, and something of his intentions. After
awhile, therefore, he was surprised by hearing himself addressed by her.
“Will you stop at Ruel, monsieur?” she asked, turning her face toward
him, and he was conscious of the brilliance of her dark eyes looking
through the holes in her mask, which effectually concealed her
expression.
“Nay, mademoiselle,” he replied, “we shall push on to Poissy, which we
must reach to-night.”
“You are a hard taskmaster, monsieur,” she said; “’tis a long ride, and
Ninon and I have not been in the saddle since Christmas. Surely, you
will give us a breathing space upon the way.”
Péron hesitated. “Mademoiselle de Nançay,” he said, “my orders
are exacting, but it may be we can rest awhile this side of St.
Germain-en-Laye.”
“St. Germain-en-Laye!” repeated mademoiselle; “why, ’tis but a league
from Poissy, and it is five leagues and more from the Rue St. Thomas du
Louvre to St. Germain-en-Laye.”
“Yet after all, mademoiselle, six leagues is not a great matter,”
remarked Péron; “and I see that you are a fine horsewoman.”
“I will stop at Ruel,” she declared haughtily. “We shall reach Poissy
in better time than you will wish for,” she added with a bitter little
laugh, the meaning of which he was not slow to interpret.
“Mademoiselle,” he replied, “my instructions were especially directed
against a halt at Ruel.”
“But I wish to stop there,” she said, in a tone of surprise at his
daring to contradict her wishes.
Péron set his face sternly. “I am sorry,” he said calmly, “but we will
not stop at Ruel.”
“I am sorry too, monsieur--I do not know your name?” she added, pausing
for his reply.
He thought a moment and rightly conjectured that she would know nothing
of the manner of her father’s elevation.
“My name is Jehan de Calvisson,” he said quietly.
“I am sorry then, Monsieur de Calvisson,” she said, “but we will stop
at Ruel.”
Péron looked at the erect figure and the firm little chin showing below
the mask, and felt that it would be a struggle; but he was determined
to win. He did not reply but merely bowed gravely, and she was quick to
interpret it as an assent.
“We are near Ruel now, are we not?” she demanded. “I should know the
way.”
“We are within a league of it, mademoiselle,” he replied quietly, and
then turned back to give Choin a few directions; when he again rode up
to her side, his face wore a more composed expression.
“It is cold,” she complained, “and the wind blows; monsignor should
try the journeys he recommends for others.”
“’Tis certainly not so pleasant as in the summer,” Péron replied
dreamily; “I can remember my first ride from Paris on this road, when
the fields were green and the violets bloomed at Poissy.”
“You are familiar with this road then?” she remarked, giving him a keen
glance; “you know the way to Nançay?”
“It was to Nançay that I went, mademoiselle,” he replied, “with my
foster-father, the clockmaker of the Rue de la Ferronnerie.”
For a moment mademoiselle was silent, then she looked at him and
laughed a soft little laugh unlike the unmusical sounds with which she
had mocked him.
“I know you,” she said; “I was sure that I had seen you before; you are
little Péron.”
“Ay, mademoiselle,” he replied, with a smile, “and I have still the
bunch of violets from Nançay.”
He could not see her face behind her mask, but he saw a little flush of
color come across her chin and throat.
“The violets of Poissy, sir,” she said lightly. “I little thought that
you would be the one to take me there against my will; truly, the
tables are turned.”
His face flushed now and he was tempted to tell her that had he not
come she would have been in worse hands; but that would be an appeal to
her gratitude, and he held his peace.
“That is my misfortune, mademoiselle,” he said, “rather than my fault.”
“Sir, I think we have few misfortunes that are not our fault,” she
retorted sharply.
He smiled. “A few, mademoiselle,” he said; “for instance, to be born
poor and forced to seek a fortune with the sword or the spade.”
She shrugged her shoulders. “’Tis better to be born poor than born a
fool,” she retorted tartly.
“But worst of all to be born both poor and a fool,” he replied calmly.
They were riding through a long lane lined on either hand with trees,
and before them stood a cross which marked a certain turn in the road.
At the sight of it mademoiselle drew rein so suddenly that she threw
the little party into confusion. She wheeled in her saddle and looked
over her shoulder.
“This is the wrong road,” she said; “where is Ruel?”
“We have passed it, mademoiselle,” Péron replied, with a composed face,
but a smile lurked in his eyes.
She sat erect and motionless, but he knew that behind her mask she was
in a storm of passion, for he saw her hand grip the bridle fiercely.
She was debating in her mind whether to attempt to go back and risk
the opposition of the four stout men behind or to make the most of
defeat and go on with the best grace she could. Her temper, naturally
high, was fully roused, and to yield a point was bitter. Moreover, she
saw the amusement in Péron’s eyes. Her woman reminded her of their
situation.
“Come, mademoiselle,” she said bluntly, “you know we must go one way or
the other.”
Renée turned on her quickly. “Hush!” she said sharply, and striking her
horse briskly, she rode at a canter down the lane ahead of the party
toward Poissy.
She had surrendered the point, and her escort drew a sigh of relief as
he quickened his own pace to keep up with her, and all of them moved
at a better gait. As his horse came abreast of hers, she gave him a
sidelong glance.
“Manifestly, you were not born a fool, M. de Calvisson,” she said, “if
you were born poor.”
Péron smiled in spite of himself.
“It was only strategy, mademoiselle,” he said.
“I do not yet know how we passed Ruel,” she replied angrily, “though I
have travelled over this road a thousand times.”
“You did not observe the cross-roads when we reached them,” he replied
smiling; “there is this way by which Ruel can be entirely avoided.”
“I am dull,” she said; “I should have known that there are ever many
ways around the hole of a fox.”
Péron turned his face away to hide a smile at her covert thrust at
Richelieu’s house at Ruel.
After this they rode a long way in silence; she was obviously in an ill
humor and vouchsafed only monosyllables in reply to any remark of her
escort. As night approached it grew colder too and more unpleasant;
a thick mist settled on the more distant landscape, and the meadows
near at hand lay dark and deserted, while the trees loomed gigantic
by the way. The moon was in its first quarter and set early, leaving
a starry sky in which only a few light clouds drifted. There was no
sound but the even beat of their horses’ hoofs on the hard road. It was
already pitch dark when they passed through St. Germain-en-Laye, and
mademoiselle stubbornly refused to halt, having now veered around to
a steady desire to reach Poissy with all speed. They trotted down the
main street of the town, passing the inn, where the revellers were
in full sway, and were out on the highroad to Poissy again. Their way
now lay through thick forest, and Péron was not without uneasiness,
seeing her mood and not knowing the exact extent of the risk they ran
of defeat. He would infinitely have preferred the clash of swords to
this silent ride through unknown perils, with the responsibility of
controlling a wilful and quick-witted young woman who was bent on his
discomfiture.
It was with a sharp sense of relief that he saw the lights of Poissy
ahead, and he unconsciously quickened his horse’s gait, which brought
the others up at a trot. As they reached the gates of the town,
mademoiselle held out her hand to him.
“Will you wear this watch?” she said; “I am fearful of losing it, for
the chain has broken and I value it; it belonged to my mother. I pray
you keep it for me until to-morrow.”
Péron took it with surprise; he could not refuse, though he was
suspicious of her motive. He fastened it on a chain that he wore and
thrust it into the bosom of his doublet, not without misgivings. The
next moment they had entered the gates and he drew rein to make some
inquiries for the house he sought. She heard him and laughed.
“I can lead you, monsieur,” she said, and touched her horse with her
whip.
Péron followed, afraid to give her a chance to outride him; but as
they came near the Golden Pigeon, he caught sight of a tall house in
the distance and knew it to be their destination. To reach it without
passing the public house was easy, and Péron had no desire to attract
notice; he laid his hand on her horse’s rein.
“Not so fast, mademoiselle,” he said; “we can turn here and avoid the
inn.”
She shook her bridle free. “I will go my way here, M. de Calvisson,”
she replied haughtily; “this is not Ruel!” and she rode straight on
in full view of the loungers in the court of the Golden Pigeon. Péron
urged his horse to keep abreast of hers, but all the while he kept
a sharp lookout for possible signals; but he could observe nothing
unusual, and the tavern seemed less crowded than he had seen it on
previous occasions. Beyond the inn they turned down a narrow lane,
mademoiselle still leading, and came at last to a high, narrow house
which wore a black and forbidding aspect. The men with Choin were
provided with torches which they lighted now with difficulty in the
rising wind, and by their flaring light Péron saw the rude stone figure
over the door which gave the house its name; but its appearance was
so forbidding that he remained, for a few moments, motionless in his
saddle. It seemed a poor place at which to invite a delicately reared
young woman to dismount on a cold and gloomy night, and for such a
cause.