THE INN AT AMIENS
WHEN Péron returned from his errand to the stables, he found the
public room of the inn full to overflowing. There was a fair at the
horse-market, and it had crowded all the hostelries, chiefly with
country folk and traders from both sides of the Somme; but there were
also other guests, and some of distinction; and it was even whispered
that M. de Bouillon was there, in the private apartments above. This
caused no little undercurrent of gossip, for it was suspected that
there was some plotting between this duke and the queen-mother,
in which Monsieur was concerned. And this was really true; for a
little while afterwards when M. de Bouillon was sent by the king
to take command of the Italian army, he was drawn into the plot of
Monsieur and Cinq Mars, and pledged the town of Sedan--of which he
was prince-sovereign--as a refuge for the plotters in case of defeat.
More than once in the talk, Péron’s attentive ear caught the name of
M. le Grand, to his surprise, for he believed--with many others--that
“the king’s rattle” was also the cardinal’s tool. The idle talk
increased the young soldier’s uneasiness, and he ate his supper with
small appetite, thinking of M. de Bouillon and his party overhead and
wondering how directly their presence might concern him. Meanwhile,
the rattle of crockery, the jingle of glasses, and occasional snatches
of song filled the place with an almost deafening noise and commotion.
Every table was crowded and even the window-sills were doing service,
and Péron found himself squeezed in at the lower end of a long table,
between two men,--the one on the left a horse-dealer, and the one on
the right wearing the habit of a clerk of the Sorbonne. Both repelled
the young musketeer, the horse-dealer by his loud and half-intoxicated
talk, the clerk by his evil expression, having across his nose an
ugly scar which seemed to belie his calling. However, he was a civil,
smooth-spoken man, and Péron could find no excuse for turning his back
upon him, as his first impulse prompted. He began to talk as soon as
Péron was seated, opening his remarks by a reference to the storm and
the delays caused by the heavy roads. The musketeer replied shortly
and with indifference; however, this did not discourage the clerk,
who continued to converse in low tones, not always audible amidst the
bustle and noise of the place.
“You are going south, I presume,” he remarked cheerfully, in spite of
his neighbor’s coolness.
“In that direction, yes,” Péron retorted curtly, applying himself to
his supper with the intention of escaping so soon as it was despatched.
“To Paris, perhaps?” inquired the persistent stranger.
“Probably to Paris,” replied Péron.
“In that case, we may ride together,” remarked the clerk. “I go to
Sorbonne and shall be glad of company; in these unsettled times the
roads are not always safe for a solitary traveller, and you are, I take
it, a soldier by profession.”
Péron had registered a mental vow that the scarred clerk would not ride
with him, but he thought it best to dissemble.
“You live in Paris, sir?” he inquired, more courteously.
“Yes, since I have entered the Sorbonne,” the other replied; “and you?”
“I go there on private business,” Péron said.
“We will ride together,” said the stranger. “I proposed starting early
on the morrow, but I am not in haste, and I can make my time suit your
inclination.”
Péron took a moment for thought.
“I shall not leave until noon,” he rejoined; “I am a stranger in
Amiens, and I can occupy the morning with profit in looking about the
town.”
“Permit me to be your guide,” said the clerk, courteously; “I was born
here in Amiens--though I left it twenty years ago. My name is Guerin
Neff.”
Péron bowed gravely, but made no response. At the same moment he
received a nudge from the elbow of the tipsy horse-dealer, who had been
strangely quiet for the last few minutes.
“His name is Guerin Neff,” mumbled this worthy, thickly, “but look you,
comrade, he is the biggest rogue in Amiens, ay, on this side the Somme.”
In the confusion, the clerk did not catch the low-toned remark,
although he cast a suspicious glance at the horse-dealer, and Péron
smiled. Of the two, he felt more confidence in the drunkard; but
happily, having finished his meal he rose from the table, hoping
thus to escape both. However, he could not so easily shake off Neff,
who followed him across the crowded room to ask at what hour he
would go out in the morning. Inclined to believe the warning of the
horse-dealer, and deeply annoyed at the man’s persistence, Péron
was tempted to cut short the matter, and hesitated only because
of the extreme necessity for caution. If anything lay behind the
stranger’s pursuit of him, it was wisest to dupe him with a semblance
of complaisance; and so, much against his natural inclination, Péron
replied with courtesy, appointing an hour later than the time at which
he secretly intended to leave Amiens. This agreement seemed to satisfy
the stranger, but he still followed the musketeer out into the hall.
Opposite the public room were two smaller ones, and through the open
door of the first could be seen a group of travellers playing cards
at a table in the center and surrounded by a curious assemblage.
Hoping to shake off his troublesome acquaintance, Péron entered this
apartment and stood a moment on the edge of the circle, looking on.
Four men sat at the table deeply engaged in the game, all dressed
fashionably and like persons of wealth. Two looked like many of the
young men who usually dangled about the court, the other two were
masked. The black masks with only the round holes for the eyes and
covering all the face but the chin, presented a strange appearance in
the light of the tapers on the table, and gave a certain mysterious
interest to the game, especially as these two were partners. They
were all unusually silent, and their manner had its effect upon the
spectators; these looked on eagerly, for the contest was keen and the
stakes high, but they forbore to interrupt the solemn decorum of the
game. There was something fascinating in the masks and the profound
stillness, while the jewelled hands of the four players moved with
such wonderful celerity and skill. Péron became interested at once
in spite of himself, and drew nearer to the table, followed by the
officious clerk, who stood close at his side, looking on with interest
apparently as keen as any of the others. Not a word was said; there
was no sound but the light clip of the cards, except the noise which
came from the dining-room across the hall. The two masks were winning,
winning heavily, and the other two played desperately, as losing men
will. Suddenly there was a change of luck, one of the losers began
to win, and his opponents bore the reverse with less equanimity. The
taller of the masks flung down his card, the knave of clubs, with an
oath. As he did so, Péron’s watchful eyes caught the superscription,
and he started. A statute of Henri III. had laid down the law that all
master-cardmakers should thereafter inscribe their names, surnames,
signs, and devices on the knave of clubs; a statute unrepealed by Louis
XIII. But on this knave of clubs Péron saw the single word “Sedan,” and
he could not fail to attach a peculiar significance to it; for it was
the name of the stronghold of M. de Bouillon, whom men believed to be
involved both with Monsieur and the queen-mother against the cardinal.
Whether there was or was not a secret meaning to this game of cards,
Péron could not decide; but he needed no second warning; he determined
to withdraw quietly from this dangerous vicinity. However, this
resolution was more easily made than executed. In his first interest in
the game, he had unconsciously drawn nearer to the table and stood in
the front row of spectators; now he turned to retreat, but as he did so
the tallest mask sprang to his feet and seized him by one arm, just as
Guerin Neff grasped the other. Péron was powerful, and he put out his
full strength to shake them off, but in vain; each held him with a grip
of iron.
“Unhand me, villains!” he exclaimed, in impotent fury.
This sudden onset upon a quiet observer of the game so surprised
the other spectators that they fell back in open-mouthed amazement.
However, the matter could not pass unexplained, and the tall stranger
removed his mask, disclosing the handsome face of a man of middle age
whose looks and bearing were all in his favor. He had used his left
hand to undo his mask, but he was at once compelled to use both to hold
the angry young soldier, who shouted aloud for assistance.
“Help me to escape these villains!” he cried, appealing to the amazed
onlookers, who, however, did not budge, after the manner of people who
will not singe their own fingers for another.
“Gentlemen,” said the cardplayer who had removed his mask, “this is my
son--my poor, mad son who escaped from his keepers a fortnight since
and--”
“You lie!” said Péron, fiercely, struggling so furiously that his two
captors had to be reinforced by the other two players; “’tis a trick to
seize and rob an innocent man. I never saw your face before!”
The other looked gravely concerned and shook his head with a melancholy
air.
“He is ever thus in his paroxysms,” he said mournfully; “he is
apparently sane, gentlemen, but fearfully and cunningly mad.”
“You are a villain, and had I my sword free I would thrust the lie down
your throat,” said Péron. “I appeal to the inn-keeper, who saw me come
here sane; I appeal to these men, who have seen me stand here quiet and
sober. ’Tis a lie so monstrous that it is only absurd! No fool will
believe you!”
But unhappily, though he said this aloud and stoutly, Péron saw that
a doubt of his sanity was growing in the faces around him; he saw the
first expressions of incredulity and amazement giving way to that
terror which the ignorant and the timorous have of madness. He was held
tightly by his captors, though he had ceased his struggles, fearing to
increase their dread of his insanity; but he saw the circle widening
as they drew away, as if he had some pestilence, and he saw, too, the
triumph growing in the faces of the men who held him, and most of all
in the eyes of him who still wore the mask. At this moment the head of
the tavern-keeper appeared in the door, drawn by Péron’s outcry and the
reports of some strange occurrence. These reports had attracted the
curious and the idle, who were already filling both doors and windows.
Péron appealed at once to his host.
“You know me,” he cried angrily; “you dealt with me, and know me to be
sane. Call the watch and make these knaves unhand me, or I will make
you pay dearly for this wild jest.”
But the tavern-keeper did not move, he only stared blankly at the tall
man who had claimed Péron as his son. That personage spoke again with
sad dignity of manner.
“You know me, M. Felix,” he said to the host, “and therefore you can
understand how much I lament my poor, afflicted son’s vagaries.”
“Surely I know you, M. de Vesson,” the inn-keeper replied
obsequiously, “but had I not best send for a doctor for the unhappy
young gentleman?”
“I thank you, no,” replied the other, gravely; “but I pray your aid
to bind this poor boy in a litter that we may convey him safely home.
In these frenzies, he sometimes breaks out and commits murder: he has
slain five of his keepers.”
At this, the spectators fell back yet farther, and there seemed little
hope of a rescue. Péron knew now his peril; this was a Vesson, not the
painted fop of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, but doubtless one of the
same family. He saw, too, that his captors were believed and that he
was already an object of pity and disgust. He made one more appeal:
struggles were useless, it was four to one, and Guerin Neff had already
stripped off his weapons.
“I appeal to any honest man in this room,” Péron said, as calmly as
he could. “I am a sane man; my name is Jehan de Calvisson; I have
never seen any of these men before. They are conspirators, and they
determined to seize me for some reason,--what I know not. A hundred
crowns to any man who will go to a magistrate and get me assistance. A
hundred crowns, I say, and more, for these rogues mean to murder me!”
His words were met with open incredulity: the very liberality of his
offer laid it open to suspicion. Madness--how they feared it. Mon Dieu!
let loose a madman? Never! M. de Vesson saw that he had won; he bowed
his head gravely, looking mournfully at Péron, while his companions
pinioned the young man’s arms behind his back and bound his ankles
together, in spite of his renewed struggles and shouts for help.
“Alas!” M. de Vesson said, with evident grief, “he is at his worst, my
poor, poor boy! Gentlemen, this scene wrings a father’s heart.”
The hall was crowded now, and the courtyard without, and men climbed
on each other’s shoulders for the morbid pleasure of beholding the
lunatic; but no one stirred a finger to aid Péron. He was indeed
almost mad over the hopelessness of his situation. At first, he had
not dreamed that such a ruse could succeed, but, to his amazement,
it worked like a charm. In the crowded hostelry it furnished a much
needed excitement; it was more interesting than M. de Bouillon or Cinq
Mars. Once convinced of the captive’s insanity, they began to recollect
how strangely he had acted; one horseboy recounted his morbid visit
to the stable, another had heard him say the Pater Noster backwards
over his horse’s head. One of the servants, too, declared that he ate
like a crazy man and stared wildly at his knife. Stories flew from
mouth to mouth, and that indifference to a stranger’s fate, so common
and so cruel, kept the doubtful from giving the prisoner the benefit
of their doubts. No one offered either aid or comfort; and to his
surprise and indignation Péron found himself bound between two of M.
de Vesson’s retainers and thrust into a litter, while the whole party
of cardplayers mounted their horses. In half an hour after the first
warning, when the knave of clubs was thrown, they were all riding down
the streets of Amiens with the supposed lunatic in their litter and a
curious throng at their heels. Péron hoped that they would be compelled
to stay in town until sunrise, but he was mistaken. At the guardhouse,
where the party halted, Péron again raised an outcry for help, and
again he was defeated by M. de Vesson’s plausible explanation of his
son’s incurable malady; and after some parley the gates were opened,
and they rode out into the night, leaving the curious rabble from
the Rose Couronnée behind, and with it their captive’s last hope of
deliverance.