PÈRE MATTHIEU
HAVING secured the strong door of the house of the iron cross, the
priest lighted Péron through the hall and up the narrow stairs to the
second floor, where, in a front room, a table was laid for supper. It
was a bare, gloomy place, illumined by only one taper until the priest
set the one he carried beside the other on the table. By the window
was a young man dressed like a clerk, who rose respectfully as they
entered. After setting down his light, the elder man turned and scanned
Péron’s face and figure closely; he seemed to be satisfied with his
inspection, for his own expression relaxed.
“So you are the cardinal’s messenger?” he said, “a younger man than I
looked for; but monsignor makes few mistakes. I am Père Matthieu, and
this is my clerk, Paschal Luce. We expected you and have laid a place
for you at the table; therefore put aside your cloak and sit down,
for I have ever found that a soldier is less ready for business with
an empty stomach, and from your looks, monsieur, I take you for a
soldier.”
“I have been one of the cardinal’s musketeers ever since I was old
enough to bear arms,” Péron replied, “but I have seen less of service
in the field than I should have liked.”
“There is time enough for that,” Père Matthieu said grimly; “France is
like to need every strong arm she has to defend her, and that, too,
more against her secret foes than her open enemies. When a queen of
France is willing to plot with Spain to gratify her own malice, it is
time that every Frenchman looked to his sword.”
“That charge has been made openly against both queens in Paris,” Péron
remarked.
“Ay, and with truth,” retorted the priest, “could we have wrung the
evidence from the man Laporte; but Mademoiselle d’Hautefort was too
quick for even monsignor. But we have enough here in Brussels; the
queen-mother has never resigned herself to obscurity.”
“I saw her but now,” Péron said.
Père Matthieu started and gave him a searching look.
“You saw the queen-mother?” he repeated sharply, “where and wherefore?”
Péron smiled at the priest’s quick attitude of suspicion.
“By accident only, mon père,” he said, and went on to relate briefly
the story of the meeting near St. Gudule and the subsequent events.
“It was Guyon,” said Paschal Luce; “I have seen him twenty times,
pacing up and down in the parvis of the cathedral, but I never divined
his errand; hereafter, I will watch him.”
The priest had listened in silence, his face grave and thoughtful.
“You will have trouble,” he said to Péron; “it was ill timed and
reckless to follow the man. Queen Marie de’ Medici is the center of a
troublesome and dangerous hive, and she is plotting with Monsieur and
with Spain to overthrow the cardinal and to gain control of the king
and his affairs. The way is long from here to Paris, and these fellows
may yet do you a serious mischief. You have taken your own life in your
hand, and unhappily I cannot devise any means to protect you. You must
get out of Brussels before sunrise to-morrow; it may be that they have
not yet located you, and they will not expect you to leave so soon.”
“For my personal safety, I am not so concerned,” Péron replied calmly;
“while I have a sword and pistol, I can at least make a fair fight; but
I am sorry to have imperilled the safety of any packet I may bear.”
“I must find a way to fashion your message in such form that it can be
easily disposed of,” the priest said; “and then you must trust rather
to the speed of your horse than the strength of your sword. There are
spots enough between here and St. Denis where a man might be made away
with and no one be the wiser. Like enough, too, the men who came after
you into that house were from Paris and have been at your heels all the
time. When you have finished your supper, Paschal, go out and see if
the house is watched.”
Péron’s face flushed. “At least I may do that much to amend my own
carelessness,” he said.
“Nay, you will go to sleep,” Père Matthieu said sharply; “you will
need to be in the saddle early, and you have a stretch before you
which requires fresh strength and steady nerves. Moreover, Paschal
understands this work, and you are not built for it,” he added, with
a smile, measuring Péron’s strong figure and frank face; “you are a
better musketeer than a diplomat, monsieur.”
“I confess that I have no taste for intrigue,” Péron replied, with a
shrug.
“Nor I,” said the priest dryly, “yet without it more heads would be
broken. I see you have finished your supper, it is well; there is a
taper, and in the room beyond you will find a bed. Take what rest you
can, for you must leave at daybreak to-morrow to elude pursuit.”
“But my instructions,” Péron said; “had I not better receive them
to-night?”
The priest shook his head. “Nay,” he replied, “you will remember them
better in the morning, and they are simple. It is my work to-night to
prepare the message in a shape that may escape detection.”
Thus summarily dismissed, Péron had no excuse to remain, and obeyed
the priest’s directions. The bed in the next room was a mere pallet of
the hardest sort; but the traveller was weary, and he was not sorry to
stretch himself upon it. In spite of his anxieties and the prospect of
a dangerous journey on the morrow, he soon sank into a sound sleep,
disturbed only by confused dreams of the trinket and Renée de Nançay.
He was awakened before dawn by Paschal Luce, who stood by his bed
holding a taper in his hand.
“Wake up, sir musketeer!” he said brusquely, “you lie like a log. A
man could rap you over the head without risk for his pains. It is time
you were up and dressed; your horse is saddled and your breakfast is
waiting.”
Péron rose hastily and began to put on his clothing while Paschal was
speaking.
“Is the house watched?” he asked eagerly.
The clerk shook his head. “Nay,” he replied, “not that I can discover;
yet I cannot believe we shall elude them, for I think they have long
been suspicious of this house.”
“Do you go with me?” Péron asked, noticing the pronoun.
“Only a league beyond the gates,” the other rejoined; “then I return
over our tracks to see if I can discover aught of interest.”
By this time Péron was ready, and the two went into the next room,
where he speedily despatched the breakfast that had been prepared for
him. He had scarcely finished when Père Matthieu came in.
“Paschal,” he said, “go down and bring your mule and the horse to the
back door; you must start immediately.” Then as the clerk left the
room, he turned to Péron: “Here, sir, is this pellet which, I charge
you, guard with your life.”
Péron looked in amazement at a tiny ball of silver which the priest
held out to him; it was scarcely larger than a filbert and looked like
a solid ball of metal. Seeing his amazement, Père Matthieu smiled.
“That trinket holds a message for monsignor,” he said quietly; “it has
been cunningly devised for just such an emergency. Take it and carry it
as the most precious thing you have except your own soul; conceal it
from all, and if the hour come when you are close pressed, put it in
your mouth before you fight.”
“And if I find that I shall be overpowered,” said Péron, taking the
silver pellet and looking at it strangely, “what then?”
“Swallow it,” said the priest, sternly, “if it choke you to death.”
“In that case they could cut it from my throat.”
Père Matthieu shrugged his shoulders. “’Twould be better so than that
they took it while you were alive,” he returned grimly. “It is enough
to tell you that it contains the evidence of secret dealings with
Spain, the number of men that the French traitors ask to destroy their
own country, and it will materially aid monsignor in his efforts to
destroy these plots.”
Père Matthieu did not add that the message really contained evidence
against Cinq Mars, “the king’s rattle,” as the cardinal called the
grand equerry. It was the beginning of that plot which brought M. le
Grand to the block and involved Monsieur once more in an effort to
bring the Spaniards into France.
Péron asked no more questions, but rose and buckled on his sword and
pistols and partially concealed his hallecrèt with his cloak.
“Which way did you come?” asked the priest, as they descended the
stairs.
“By the way of Laon and Namur,” Péron replied.
“Then return by Arras and Amiens,” said Père Matthieu; “’tis better to
turn out of the way a little than to fall into a trap.”
At the rear door, they found Paschal Luce already mounted on a stout
mule and holding Péron’s horse. The priest shook hands with the young
musketeer and gave him his benediction.
“God speed you, my son,” he said less grimly than usual; “your life is
in His keeping.”
With these words still ringing in his ears Péron sprang into the saddle
and followed Paschal through the byways and lanes of Brussels to the
gates, in the gray light of dawn. At that hour, the city was quiet
enough: no one was abroad save those who, having no home, had slept in
the doorways and in vacant porches all night, and arose now and walked,
shivering in their rags, and having no hope of better comfort until the
sun arose. These wretched creatures, whom the rich passed indifferently
when they went to early mass, were the first upon whom God’s light
shone every day, but the last to whom man’s benefits extended. As Péron
passed, he threw some money among them, not that he had it to lavish,
but his heart was tender, and the stony face of poverty appeals most
sharply to those who have known trouble themselves; and his life had
had its trials. The gates were not yet opened, but Paschal Luce found
means to overcome this difficulty; after some parley in the guardhouse
he came out triumphant, and the two rode out of the city together. So
far all was well; they had no cause to suppose that they were followed,
and they proceeded along the highroad at a brisk gait with lighter
hearts. Three leagues out from the town, Luce bade Péron farewell and
returned to report to Père Matthieu.
Left to himself, with a clear road behind and with the hope that all
was well in front, Péron continued his journey with some satisfaction.
He had reached Brussels in safety, and accomplished his mission; he had
now only to return with equal good fortune and expedition to Paris,
and he seemed in a fair way to do so. He had examined girth and saddle
well before starting, his weapons were in good condition, his horse a
fine one, and there appeared to be no reason for him to fail. The sun
rose and dispelled the gloom in the woods by the wayside, and the scene
was at once cheerful and encouraging. Spring was coming; already the
green turf showed on the hillocks, and the trees were budding on every
side. As the day advanced, he began to pass parties of merchants and
other travellers bound for Brussels, as well as peasants carrying in
provender for the city. But no one appeared to excite either alarm
or suspicion; he made good progress before night, and his tired horse
compelled him to make a halt. His journey continued almost monotonously
uneventful to Arras, where he was delayed six hours by a heavy storm,
and afterwards he found the travel more difficult on account of the bad
roads.
As he drew nearer Paris, his thoughts again recurred to M. de
Nançay. What had been his fate? Knowing monsignor, he could imagine
but one result, and fell to musing over the probable consequences
to mademoiselle. Thus his thoughts turned on one pivot, and his
natural abhorrence of Pilâtre de Nançay was modified by pity for his
daughter. As to his own future, he could make no plans except that he
was unwilling to make his elevation to rank and fortune the cause of
another’s misery.
It was not until he was approaching the Somme that he saw anything
to arouse his suspicions, and then he thought he observed a party of
travellers in advance who acted strangely. However, he lost sight of
them at the ford of Blanche Tache, and he went on to Amiens without
again discovering them. He arrived at the town just at sundown and
had some difficulty in reaching the gates before they were closed.
Once in the city, Péron looked about sharply for his travellers, but
saw none resembling them. The place was crowded with visitors, and he
reflected that not only could they elude him but he could also avoid
them. So, with more assurance, he rode to an inn, the Rose Couronnée,
recommended by Paschal Luce; and there he found accommodation, although
the landlord at first protested that every apartment was filled and it
would cost a crown to sleep upon a table in the public room. At last,
however, he found a bed for the new arrival and sent his horse to the
stables, whither Péron followed to see that the beast received proper
care.