MADAME LA MÈRE
ON the lonely journey to Flanders, Péron had not only time, but food,
for reflection. He found himself in a singular position: his father
had been deeply wronged and he himself had been made penniless and
almost nameless by the machinations of a wicked man; that man was now
likely to meet his just reward and leave the way open to the lawful
heir, yet Péron found his ambition in that direction choked at birth.
To proclaim himself and petition for his property would be to deal a
crushing blow to the innocent daughter of his father’s enemy. It was
true that he was Jehan de Calvisson, the son of one of the grandees of
France, and she was the child of a man whose ancestors were unknown and
who had gained his place by artifice and treachery. But Péron thought
of his own humble childhood on the Rue de la Ferronnerie, of his simple
training, his long service in monsignor’s household with no better
friend than his sword, and he felt that to him rank and wealth were of
the less value, unless he achieved them by his own valor, as he had
always dreamed that he would. On the other hand, he remembered Renée
de Nançay’s education in the midst of luxury and adulation, her pride,
her probable ambition, her whole life of ease and pleasure among her
equals, and he felt that to bring such distress upon her would be cruel
and unjust; for was she not innocent? Péron was practically a penniless
adventurer, only a musketeer in the service of the cardinal; yet so
little was he envious of the wealth and exaltation of others that it
gave him a sharp pang to think of dispossessing this young girl of all
that she held in esteem. Père Antoine had not labored in vain, when
he and the orphan boy spelled out the Psalter together in that upper
room, on the Rue de Bethisi; the good priest had sown the seed against
this very day, when he foresaw that the outraged son might long to
avenge his own and his father’s wrongs. It is possible that without the
inspiration of Renée’s face and voice, Père Antoine might have failed,
but certainly his teachings were a salve now to Péron’s sore heart. It
was true that while she remained Mademoiselle de Nançay, and he the
cardinal’s musketeer, they were as widely sundered as the poles, yet
not more so than they would be if he were the Marquis de Nançay and she
the daughter of a perjurer and a traitor who had virtually both slain
and robbed the late marquis.
What a strange destiny it was that had brought these two together, and
put Jehan de Calvisson in the light of an inferior: yet in his present
mood he would gladly have saved mademoiselle from humiliation. But
behind all this was the reflection that it did not rest with him to
save her. M. de Nançay was at the mercy of Richelieu, and few had ever
found quarter with that inexorable man. All that Péron could do was to
refrain from claiming her name and her estates, if those were spared
to her, and to refrain also from appearing as her greatest enemy and
despoiler. As he rode along the highways through Normandy and Picardy
on to the Flemish frontier, he became more and more convinced that
he could not take part against Renée de Nançay,--that he had not the
heart to humiliate her innocent pride, to thrust her out as an outcast
upon the world, the penniless daughter of a rogue. She had used him
with little kindness; yet behind her hauteur and her mockery he had
caught glimpses of a genuinely brave and noble-minded woman, and he
was himself too noble to bear her ill-will on account of her father.
The more his mind dwelt on this decision, the more he was satisfied
with it. Yet he thought, with a smile, of the disappointment of the
honest clockmaker, and of the consternation that would overspread
the broad brown face of Madame Michel, and the surprise and disgust
of the pastry cook Archambault. There was only one face in which he
might hope to read approbation of such a course, and that was the
gentle and spiritual countenance of Père Antoine, whose own life, far
different from those of the worldly priests who everywhere gained
preferment and honor, had been one long sacrifice, and who yet believed
that insufficient to expiate his one sin, an unrequited love for the
beautiful Marquise de Nançay, the mother of Jehan. That was the simple
story of Père Antoine’s life, not without its pathos and its beauty,
and full of that long pain which brings forth not only faith but works.
Contrary to Péron’s own anticipations and to those of the cardinal,
he accomplished his journey without delay or mishap. Apparently, his
departure from Paris had been unnoticed and his errand unsuspected, for
no one followed, neither was he stopped by the way, and he reached his
destination as speedily as his good horse could cover the long distance
between that city and the old Flemish town.
It was in the early evening, and the glow of sunset was still in the
western sky, when Péron entered the gates of Brussels and rode slowly
through the streets. He had never seen the place before, and the long
rows of dark, Spanish-looking houses interested him, the people on
doorsteps and balconies diverted him, and he let his horse keep his own
gait as he went. When he had halted to have his passports examined at
the entrance to the town, he had asked and received directions to the
market-place, from whence he thought he could find his own way. He met
with no difficulty in obtaining information; he had picked up a little
Spanish in the household of the cardinal, and it stood him in good
stead. Unconsciously, too, he was attracting a good deal of attention;
his handsome face and figure did not pass unnoticed even in his plain
dress, which he had purposely adapted to that of a poor gentleman
travelling upon some private errand.
With occasional assistance from persons on the street, Péron found
himself approaching the Cathedral Church of St. Gudule, where the
bleeding body of Count Hoorne was carried after his execution. Thinking
of the fate of the two Flemish princes, and remembering his own
father’s, Péron was so absorbed in looking up at the old cathedral that
he scarcely noticed a man standing in the shadow of the parvis, until
he was accosted by the stranger, who spoke in good French.
“You have the time, monsieur?” he asked, approaching Péron.
Without pausing to reflect, Péron drew out mademoiselle’s watch and
opened it.
“It is six o’clock,” he said, “but I am from France.”
“From Paris?” remarked the other. “Ah, I see that I was not mistaken.
Well, comrade, you are late; I was sure of you, but I did not like to
speak until I saw the trinket. Let us lose no more time; follow me.”
Péron was taken by surprise; evidently he was expected, but why had
the cardinal neglected to tell him that some one would watch for him?
Yet was this the man he sought? Then the truth flashed upon him: it
was the trinket, mademoiselle’s watch. At last he seemed on the point
of learning its secret. He was too fond of adventure, too reckless
of personal danger, to hesitate. Without a word, he dismounted and,
leading his horse, followed the man, who seemed disposed to be as
silent as he. They walked at a brisk pace, but Péron had time to
examine his guide, who was undoubtedly a Frenchman. The stranger wore
a suit of black velvet, with a cloak and sword and a low Spanish hat.
There was nothing remarkable, however, in his swarthy face or his
general appearance. He made his way quietly across the great square,
where the cardinal had located the house with the iron cross, and
Péron, though interested in his guide and his unknown errand, did not
forget to look for it. He had no difficulty in locating the Maison
du Roi or the Brodhuys, which stood conspicuously enough in the
market-place; but it was not to the house of the iron cross but beyond
the square and down a long and narrow street that the stranger led the
young soldier. They passed through a crowd in the market-place, and
there were people in the street beyond, which perhaps accounted for
the silence of the guide, who walked a few paces in advance. The lane
they had entered--it was little more than a lane--was a cul-de-sac,
and at the end was a large square house; but it was the rear of this
house which opened on the lane, the front faced on another street.
The stranger made straight for this mansion, and, seeing that it was
their destination, Péron examined it curiously. It was singularly bald
of interest, a square Dutch house with no crossing with the Spanish
architecture. There was a row of windows on the second story, and a
door in the middle of the first, while the tiers of windows here were
shuttered. In one casement above, in the middle of the house, Péron saw
a light burning. As they approached, a little boy, dressed plainly as
a page, came out of the door and took the bridle of the traveller’s
horse, as if he was expected. Still much amazed, but full of a daring
curiosity, Péron followed the man in black velvet through the doorway
and across a square hall to the stairs. It was gloomy in the house in
spite of the tapers set in brackets on either side of the hall, and the
fire in the great chimney smoked dismally when the door was opened. On
the stairs they met another man, wearing the dress of a servant.
“You were long returning, monsieur,” he remarked, addressing Péron’s
guide.
“He was late,” was the reply; “the roads from Paris grow longer every
day.”
The servant laughed and stared curiously at Péron as he stood aside
to let them pass. At the head of the stairs the stranger stopped and
hesitated.
“You ought to have had time to arrange your dress,” he remarked,
with a dubious glance at Péron; “but you were late and she is always
impatient. Well, well, we cannot stop now; if you bring good news,
doubtless your boots will be forgiven.”
Péron made no reply; he was afraid that a mistake might destroy his
chance of fathoming mademoiselle’s mystery. Fortunately the other did
not wait for an answer, he crossed the hall and lifted a heavy curtain
of black velvet; as he did so, a flood of light shone into the hall and
for the moment dazzled Péron, who however heard him say, elevating his
voice,--
“Madame, the messenger from Paris.”
They were standing on the threshold of a moderately large room,
handsomely furnished and lighted by many tapers. As he spoke, there was
a rustle, and a woman rose from a chair by the fire and stood looking
eagerly toward the door. She was tall and fat, with a dark skin and
round, staring eyes, her expression at once vapid and forbidding.
She was dressed in black, and wore her clothes with such ill-grace
that she appeared even larger than nature had made her. Péron did not
need a second glance; he was rudely awakened from his idle spirit of
adventure, for he had no difficulty in recognizing the person whom he
least wished to see, Marie de’ Medici, the queen-mother of France.
He saluted her mechanically, but remained standing awkwardly at the
threshold. In his confusion he did not forget, however, to be thankful
that he bore no papers or anything to betray his errand but the
cardinal’s ring, and that he had concealed in the lining of his coat.
His silence and manifest embarrassment seemed to surprise not only his
guide but the queen. She was the first to speak.
“What ails the man, Guyon?” she demanded with impatience; “is he from
my son or from M. d’Épernon?”
Guyon looked sharply at the supposed messenger.
“Why do you stand like a fool?” he asked him in an undertone; “give her
majesty the packet.”
Péron bowed profoundly. “Madame,” he said, “some mistake has been made;
I am not the bearer of any message from Paris. I came to Brussels on my
own business.”
The queen retreated a few steps, an expression of dismay on her face.
“How came you here then, monsieur?” she asked haughtily; “this is an
unwarrantable intrusion! Guyon, what is the meaning of this?”
Her equerry was staring at Péron with an agitated face.
“I swear to you, madame, that he bears the token!” he cried in an
excited tone.
“How is this, monsieur?” the queen said angrily, addressing Péron; “you
deny your identity, but you bear the token?”
He understood mademoiselle’s trinket now, and for the moment wished it
many leagues beneath the sea.
“I regret the intrusion, madame,” he replied calmly, “but I have not
consciously worn any token which would lead to such an error.”
There was a pause, and both Marie de’ Medici and her attendant regarded
him in surprise and perplexity. It was evident that neither of them
knew what to do next. If he spoke the truth, they were in an awkward
situation; if he was deceiving them, playing them false, their position
was still more perilous. Péron understood their thoughts, and knew that
his only chance of escape was immediate action.
“Madame,” he said, turning again to the queen and speaking courteously,
“having made the mistake,--which I was led to do through this gentleman
here, who seemed to recognize and expect me,--my best apology will
be to withdraw at once;” and making her an obeisance, he withdrew so
quickly that Guyon had no time to intercept him.
No sooner had the curtain fallen behind him, however, than he heard
them engage in an altercation, but he did not pause to listen. He went
swiftly across the hall and began to descend the stairs. As he did so,
there was the sound of the opening of the street door, accompanied
by some talk as if of fresh arrivals, and in a moment a party of
gentlemen came to the foot of the staircase. Péron saw that he must
meet them, and he quickened his steps in the hope of passing for a
messenger hurrying upon his errand. They came crowding up the steps,
three of them, all booted and spurred as if fresh from the saddle, and
he divined that it was the expected message from Paris. They met midway
on the stairs, and all three stared rudely at Péron, and he recognized,
in a flash, the painted, foppish face of the youngest. It was the dandy
of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, Sieur de Vesson. He stared as if
unable to believe his senses, and stopped on the stairs with an oath,
but Péron passed on rapidly and reached the street unmolested. It was
not the time or the place for a quarrel, and he breathed more freely
when he saw the lad still holding his horse.
“You did not tell me what to do,” the child said in an aggrieved tone,
“and I did not know whether to take him to the stables here or not.”
Péron threw him some coins and sprang into the saddle, only too eager
to be safely out of reach of the queen-mother. As he rode out of the
street, he looked back and saw that two men had come out of the house
bareheaded and were standing there looking after him. Evidently, he
had got off in the nick of time, and they had intended to detain him.
With a lighter heart he made his way to the market-place and, finding
the Maison du Roi once more, began his search for the house with the
iron cross, a search made difficult by the darkness of nightfall. He
rode twice up and down on that side of the square, not caring to risk
an inquiry; the third time he found it, having passed it twice before
in the gloom. The house answered the cardinal’s description: it was
ancient-looking and Spanish in type, and below the balcony above the
front door was a small black iron cross set in the stone. Doubtless it
had been the property of a good Papist in the days of Alva; it might
have been the one from which he witnessed the executions of Egmont and
Hoorne. Ah, if houses might only tell their own stories!
Péron dismounted and knocked gently at the door of this forbidding
dwelling, but he had to repeat the summons before it was opened by a
tall, thin man wearing the black habit of a priest. He carried a taper
in his hand, the flame flaring in the draught from the door and showing
a white face with large dark eyes. He looked askance at his visitor
until Péron held out his hand on which he had placed the cardinal’s
ring. The priest recognized it at once, and opened the door wide
enough to admit the traveller.
“Enter, my son,” he said, “and I will have your horse cared for; it is
late and you will have to spend the night.”
Péron entered accordingly, and the priest fastened and bolted the door,
after having first despatched a half-grown lad to take care of the
horse.