THE CARDINAL’S SNARE
MORE than an hour had passed in this tedious watch; the stillness
without was scarcely greater than the stillness within. Mademoiselle
and her woman remained in their quarters, and the soldiers waited
indifferently for the outcome. From his post by the front door, Péron
again and again looked out at the grille and tried to search the
darkness with his anxious eyes, but without result; he was becoming
more and more convinced that Mademoiselle de Nançay had in some manner
defeated the cardinal’s plans. But his labor was not to be as fruitless
as he supposed, and Renée was, in one point, to meet with less success
than usual. Just when the situation seemed least promising, Péron heard
Choin coming on tiptoe toward him. The hall was lighted dimly by a
rushlight sitting on the floor, and he could not see the face of the
maître d’armes well enough to discern his expression. The Italian came
close to him before speaking.
“There is some one in the garden,” he whispered; “I heard the sound of
a horse’s hoofs on the road, and now I hear the brush crackling by the
wall on the east side.”
“Good!” ejaculated Péron, with relief; “I am tired of sitting, like a
rat in a trap. How many horses were there?”
He asked this as they walked swiftly to the rear entrance.
“Only one,” replied Choin, “and there was a long pause after he stopped
at the end of the wall.”
They had now reached the door, and Péron opened the grille softly
and looked out. At first he could see nothing in the darkness, but
after a moment he became accustomed to it and was able to discern
the dark outlines of a man coming cautiously toward the door. Péron
signed to Choin to be silent, and both waited in breathless suspense.
After another pause, evidently spent in reconnoitering, the stranger
advanced more carelessly. To the surprise of the watcher within, he
made straight for the door and tapped softly twice and loudly once. It
was undoubtedly a preconcerted signal, and Péron, by signs, told Choin
to withdraw from sight when the door should be opened; then he answered
with the password given him by the cardinal, which seemed to dispel the
visitor’s doubts.
“Open,” he said in a low tone, “’tis I, Gaston; why do you keep me so
long?”
Without replying, Péron flung the door open, standing well in the
shadow behind it as he did so.
But his caution was unnecessary; the stranger pushed in, seemingly
anxious to be within the house. In a moment the bolts slipped behind
him and he was a prisoner, but he had no suspicion, as yet, of the
trap into which he had fallen. He was a man of medium stature, closely
muffled in a dark cloak, the collar turned up about his face and his
plumed hat set low over his forehead. As he entered, Péron’s quick
eye caught the gleam of golden spurs on the heels of his high leather
boots. He carried his sheathed sword in his hand, as if he were
prepared for any misadventure. He took no heed of the way the door was
closed nor of Péron, and advanced to the middle of the hall before he
observed Choin, who had posted himself with his back against the main
entrance. The noise of his arrival had roused the soldiers in the room
to the left, and two of them came to the door and thrust out their
heads to stare at him. Something in the stillness of the house, in the
strange faces of the men, made him stop short and wheel around to look
at Péron; the light was too dim for him to see plainly, but he was
disturbed. This was not the reception that he had looked for in this
place.
“What is this?” he ejaculated in a high, peevish tone, a tone that
Péron seemed to recognize. “Where is M. de Nançay?”
“He has not come,” replied Péron, promptly, “but Mademoiselle de Nançay
is here.”
He spoke at random and by impulse, but he saw that his words had done
much to remove the stranger’s suspicions.
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, “’tis strange to send only a girl--at such a
time. Where is she?”
“This way, monsieur,” Péron replied, curious to see the result of this
accident, and tempted, too, to confront mademoiselle with her friend.
Ninon opened the door in answer to his summons, and without a word
the stranger thrust past her into the room, cloaked and bonneted as
he was. Péron followed too quickly for Ninon to shut him out, for he
had no mind to leave this new-comer to talk privately with Renée de
Nançay. In spite of her woman’s angry glances, he closed the door
behind him and leaned against it, watching the other two. He was not
prepared, however, for the sequel. When they entered, mademoiselle was
sitting by the fire, with her back toward them, and she only glanced
up carelessly, expecting Péron. At the sight of the stranger, however,
she sprang to her feet, and as he dropped the edge of his cloak and
uncovered his head, she recoiled with a cry of terror.
“Mon Dieu!” she exclaimed, “why did you come here? I made the signal to
warn them away.”
“Mordieu!” he cried in a tone of consternation. “What is this? I was to
come here alone, I have seen no one else; into what trap have I fallen?”
“They must have sent a messenger to you,” Renée said, recovering her
composure; “you must have missed him on the road. Mère de Dieu!” she
added with fresh trepidation, “and they will think you in Paris; and
yonder,” she pointed at Péron, “is the cardinal’s musketeer!”
The stranger turned as she spoke, and, throwing his cloak partly over
his face, made a spring for the door. Péron drew his sword, and as he
did so, Renée shrieked aloud.
“Stop, in heaven’s name!” she cried; “do not touch him, M. de
Calvisson, it is Monsieur!”
Péron dropped the point of his sword, but stood firm.
“You cannot pass, monsieur,” he said. He was doubtful of the truth of
mademoiselle’s assertion, thinking she intended to deceive him; but at
his words the stranger let fall his cloak.
There could be no longer any doubt of his identity; there was the full
eye, the hooked nose, the full round chin of the Bourbons. The likeness
that Gaston d’Orléans bore to the king and to the queen-mother could
not be easily mistaken, even in the plain dress he wore as a disguise.
Péron had seen him many times before and knew him well; he saluted
gravely and stood irresolute; the cardinal’s orders had not mentioned
a prince of the blood, indeed he had told M. de Nançay that the Duke
of Orleans would make his terms with the king. Had Richelieu been
deceived, or had he duped the marquis? These were perplexing questions,
and they flashed in rapid succession through Péron’s mind, as he stood
looking at the flushed and angry face of the prince. Orleans was not
noted either for courage or fortitude in supreme moments. Finding
himself fairly checkmated, he had but one thought, and that was for his
own safety. He turned and began to upbraid mademoiselle.
“How came you here, girl?” he demanded peevishly. “Has that precious
father of yours turned coward and deserted his friends?”
Renée’s eye flashed. “Monsieur,” she said haughtily, “my father is no
traitor to his allies; he has never betrayed a man who perilled his
life and honor for him!”
The thrust went home; the fate of the unhappy and noble Montmorency
was not yet forgotten, and the prince gnawed his lip in silence. But
mademoiselle was not done.
“My father is now a prisoner,” she said, “in the hands of that man who
is alike pitiless and supreme, and I was sent here at the king’s orders
to decoy your friends to this house. I tried to prevent it--I made the
signal, and indeed I am sure that no one else will come; but monsignor
has certainly made one successful cast of his net to-night;” and she
smiled scornfully, as she looked at the handsome, vacillating face of
Gaston d’Orléans.
“Pardieu!” he muttered, “I am lost. The king’s orders! Your father in
the hands of the cardinal, and my mother in Brussels! I am lost! I am
lost!” and he paced up and down the room, wringing his hands like one
possessed. He who never decided anything was suddenly forced to face an
exigency which demanded decision.
It was a strange scene: Péron stood like a statue by the door, his
drawn sword in his hand, and near him Ninon was gazing wide-eyed at
the prince as he paced to and fro. By the fire, Renée stood erect, her
face pale but her eyes aglow with indignation, the most composed person
present.
Presently Monsieur halted in front of Péron.
“Put up your sword,” he said pettishly. “I am a prince of France, and
you dare not oppose me. I shall go out of this house as I came--alone!”
Péron had been revolving many thoughts in his mind during the brief
time since the discovery of his prisoner’s identity, and he had to come
to a decision.
“It is true that I might risk the king’s displeasure by opposing your
highness,” he said quietly, “but consider for one moment the situation.
I am not in supreme command in this house. There is here a capitaine de
quartier. I heard his voice on the stairs a moment since, and the place
is full of soldiers. If you step out into that hall--if you attempt to
go away--they will seize you, and it will be a public matter in five
minutes.”
“But, mon Dieu!” cried the prince, in a faint voice, “what can I do?
My brother will never forgive me. The cardinal will ruin me! They will
know I am here, if I stay! Where is the advantage?”
“If your highness will think a moment, you will see,” Péron answered
more calmly, as he saw the other’s absolute impotence in the face of
a crisis. “If you remain quiet, no one need know your identity but
Mademoiselle de Nançay and myself.”
Gaston peered at him eagerly; his face had grown pinched and not unlike
the king’s when Louis was suffering from one of his seasons of ill
health.
“How can I trust you, man?” he moaned fretfully. “I can trust no one;
every one betrays me and every one suspects me, even my own brother!”
“Because you betray every one,” was on Péron’s lip; but he restrained
himself, though, looking beyond Monsieur’s cowering figure, he saw the
contempt and hatred on mademoiselle’s proud young face.
“You may trust me, your highness,” Péron replied quietly. “I pledge my
honor that no man shall know you if you will stay in the room across
the hall until daybreak, and then ride with me to Paris.”
Monsieur’s face, already white, turned the color of ashes.
“To Paris!” he cried, collapsing into a chair. “To monsignor?”
“To monsignor, your highness,” said Péron, grimly. “My orders are
absolute.”
The prince covered his face with his hands, and there was a moment of
silence. In it Renée’s eyes met the young soldier’s with a sympathetic
flash of contempt for the crouching heap in the chair. Monsieur’s thick
curls fell disordered around his face, and his white hands trembled as
he held them over his eyes. Suddenly he rallied and sat up, looking
defiantly at Péron.
“You can prove nothing against me, sir musketeer,” he said. “I came
here, it is true--but how do you know my errand?”
“It is true that I do not know it, your highness,” he replied gravely,
“neither do the men without know you; there is your advantage.”
“Tush!” said Gaston, with rising courage, “’tis all a trap of
Richelieu’s; a clear evidence of his persecution of me. My brother
shall know it!”
He rose from his chair and felt in his pockets for a comb, which he
found, and began to arrange his curls.
“Your pardon, mademoiselle,” he said peevishly. “I could not see for
my disordered hair.” Then he turned to Péron. “Now, sir,” he added, “I
will go to your prison until daybreak, but you shall all suffer for
this!”
Péron laid his hand on the latch.
“I pray your highness to assume your disguise,” he said; “we must cross
the hall, and it is now full of soldiers.”
The prince resumed his cloak and hat with some muttered imprecations,
but he was careful to muffle his face before the door was opened. As
Péron had said, the entry was full of troopers, but at a sign from
him they all fell back and allowed the prince to cross the hall to a
room on the other side, which his captor took care should be secure
before he left him there to rest for the few hours that remained before
daybreak.
Meanwhile Péron found enough to do to make his arrangements and keep
his pledge to the Duke of Orleans. However, the others were tolerably
satisfied with the ease with which they had secured the prisoner, and
did not press the question of his identity, after their leader told
them that he was not at liberty to reveal it. Whatever their suspicions
were, they did not soar as high as the truth, and Péron felt confident
that all would go well, if there was no attempt at a rescue by the
other conspirators.
But all the while another matter troubled the mind of the young
soldier. Monsieur was a dangerous prisoner. He had been in numerous
plots against his brother and the cardinal, and in open rebellion
before, and never yet had offended beyond the king’s forgiveness.
What would be the result of carrying such a prize to Richelieu?
It was a question which no man could answer. And Monsieur had all
the spitefulness and ill temper of his mother. More than this, had
the cardinal purposely spread his net for this royal fish, or had
he believed one of d’Orléans’s numerous confessions? The last was
clearly impossible; monsignor knew the prince too well. Manifestly,
the declaration of Monsieur’s reconciliation had been made to entrap
de Nançay; and now the point remained--would the capture of Gaston be
welcomed, or would his captor suffer for it? Péron found it impossible
to decide, and set about his duty with a heavy heart; it seemed that
this fish might be large enough to break the meshes of his net or drag
him into the deep sea.