A GREENWOOD TRIBUNAL
PÉRON’S captors rode about three leagues beyond Amiens, on the road
to Beauvais, before they halted and loosed his bonds a trifle, that
he might lie more easily in the litter, while his two guards rode at
the sides of it, watching it too closely for any chance of rescue or
escape. Meanwhile, he lay quite still, endeavoring to collect his
thoughts and prepare himself to meet his possible fate. The thought
that a mistake might have been made did not enter his mind; he was
positive that these men had either followed him from Brussels or lain
in wait for his return. What they intended to do with him he could
only conjecture; what they wanted of him was sufficiently clear. That
they did not purpose to treat him with cruelty seemed apparent by the
loosening of his most uncomfortable bonds, which were relaxed more than
they intended, for after some industrious efforts, Péron succeeded in
freeing his left hand, and immediately took the silver ball, containing
the cardinal’s message, from his bosom and held it ready to put into
his mouth. He had no hope of being able to defend himself or his
charge, but he could at least follow Père Matthieu’s directions. He
knew that they had not searched him because that was impracticable in
the darkness, and they had not dared to do it at the inn at Amiens;
but he had no doubt that the search would be thorough when daylight
came. Meanwhile they believed him secure and were content to let that
operation await their leisure. He now devoted himself to endeavoring
to liberate his other hand or his feet, but here he was destined to
disappointment; they had done their work well, and even with one
arm partially free he could not succeed in breaking another bond or
reaching another knot, and he was without a knife to cut the thongs.
Weary at last with his exertions, he resigned himself to his fate, and
waited quietly but watchfully for the moment when he must hold the
cardinal’s pellet in his mouth. His reflections during the hours that
ensued were of the gloomiest, yet he had no reason to blame himself,
for no man could have foreseen the strange artifice which had ensnared
him. Nevertheless he cursed the advice of Paschal Luce which had led
him to the Rose Couronnée, however innocently it had been given. The
more he dwelt upon his situation, the less possibility there seemed of
escape, and he could only hope to defeat their purpose and keep the
secret missive from them.
They halted upon the road after some hours, and rested until morning,
taking turns in watching the litter; but Péron could not close his
eyes, for he was compelled to be prepared for any emergency and to
defend his trust. Never did a night drag more slowly, for he was
convinced that they only waited for light to examine their prisoner
here, in the forest, where there was less danger of interruption.
And he was right, as the event proved; for at dawn his captors were
up and stirring, some of the men preparing breakfast over a fire of
fagots, while M. de Vesson and his friends held a brief conference
and then ordered the prisoner from his litter. Guerin Neff--no
longer wearing the habit of a clerk, but in his proper character as
a ruffianly soldier--and another man succeeded in dragging Péron
before this tribunal. When they first approached the litter, he had
thrust the silver ball of Père Matthieu into his mouth and this made
speech impossible, so he decided to play the rôle of sullen endurance,
refusing either to speak or move at the order of his captors, a part
which they seemed to regard as only natural and not worth their
consideration. The two worthies brought him before M. de Vesson and
the two cardplayers of the inn. With them was the younger Vesson, the
fop of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, and Péron at once concluded that
he had been the other mask, which accounted for the gleam of triumph
in his eyes, the gratified malice of a small nature. The four men
stood on a little mound under a beech-tree away from the highroad, and
surrounded by their followers, numbering in all fifteen stout soldiers.
Péron, bound as he was, stood small chance of escape, but he understood
that a man of M. de Vesson’s rank and character intended no lawless
violence if he could accomplish his ends without it. He saw now that
the two Vessons were father and son, for there was a marked likeness,
although the elder man had a face of far more force and nobility. The
four noblemen wore the rich dresses suited to their condition, and were
in strange contrast to their bound and dishevelled captive, although
Péron measured them with a glance of proud contempt. There was a
significant silence for a few moments after the arrival of the prisoner
and his guards, and then the elder Vesson, who seemed to be not only
the senior but the leader of the party, spoke, addressing Péron in a
tone of haughty command.
“Young man,” he said, “you are known to be a spy and a go-between for
one you wot of. If you will make a full confession of the whole matter
and give up any papers or information which you have, without further
delay, you need fear no personal injury; but if you continue your
stubborn resistance, you must take the consequences.”
He paused, waiting for the prisoner’s reply; but Péron, by force,
was silent, and he assumed an air of sullen obstinacy to suit his
speechlessness. The cavaliers around M. de Vesson were manifestly
impatient and dissatisfied because any leniency was shown, and that
nobleman’s son interrupted the pause.
“He is a stubborn devil as well as a braggart and a bully,” he remarked
scornfully, the recollections of Péron’s treatment of him having left a
sting that rankled. “You will get nothing from him unless you break his
neck.”
Convinced that Péron did not intend to make terms by any act of
treachery, the elder Vesson made a sign to his guards.
“Search him, Guerin,” he said sharply, “and be thorough, for we deal
with one as cunning as a fox in his devices to obtain messages with
impunity.”
The two soldiers did not need his injunctions, and they did their
work so thoroughly that Péron feared that they would even find the
cardinal’s ring in its hiding-place in the lining of his coat, but
they did not; and more to their astonishment there were no papers, not
a scrap of writing on his person. They searched his stockings and his
boots, but in vain, and the noblemen looked on in evident disgust.
“He carries the message in his mind,” remarked M. de Vesson, in a tone
of sharp disappointment.
“Then it is best to make short work of his head and the message as
well,” replied one of the others, fiercely.
“Perhaps he can be bought,” suggested another, in an undertone.
Vesson shook his head. “Nay,” he rejoined in the same low voice, “trust
monsignor for knowing his man; and that young fellow is not made of the
stuff which is easily corrupted.”
“He claimed to be a Calvisson,” said the younger Vesson; “did you hear
him at the inn?”
“I did not heed him,” returned his father, and then added, after a
sharp look at Péron: “Pardieu! Can it be possible? I see a likeness
now--the likeness that has troubled me since I first saw the fellow.
Can it be?--after all these years?”
This conversation was held apart, but Péron saw the change in their
looks and gestures and marvelled at it. Meanwhile, Neff had made a
curious discovery which caused him to stare open-mouthed from the
prisoner to his own superiors.
“M. de Vesson, I have found the token on his person!” he cried, holding
up Renée’s watch in evident amazement.
There was an exclamation of surprise from all the others except M. de
Vesson, who received the statement calmly.
“Yes,” he said, “I remember; it was the token that led to the error at
St. Gudule.”
This speech was all that was needed to convince Péron that these men
were the same he had met in the house of Marie de’ Medici, and he kept
his lips resolutely closed although Père Matthieu’s ball pressed hard
into his tongue.
There was another low-voiced consultation between the leaders, the
three younger evidently urging a course of which M. de Vesson did not
approve, and after some dispute he prevailed.
“To horse!” he said. “A day’s journey without breakfast may do much to
moderate this fellow’s obstinacy. Forward therefore, gentlemen, without
delay.”
Following his instructions, they resumed their journey, Péron again
penned in his litter, like a sick woman, and not allowed speech with
any one. Thus they rode through Beauvais, without halting, and took
the way to St. Denis with all speed. At midday they halted to eat and
to bait their horses, and then it was that Péron was surprised by the
actions of Guerin Neff. Since the discovery of mademoiselle’s watch
the fellow had shown a certain awe and respect for his captive, and
now when he alone was on guard, he took the opportunity to thrust the
trinket into Péron’s hand.
“Take it,” he said gruffly. “I know not how you came by it, but I will
not meddle with it. I have seen more than one honest man lose his head
for meddling with the business of Madame la Mère; I will none of it.”
Péron took the trinket without reply; he had the cardinal’s message
again in his mouth and could not speak, if he would, and Neff
interpreted his silence as a mere continuance of his sullen mood.
After that, the prisoner was left undisturbed; only once was any food
thrust into the litter, and that also was given by Guerin Neff. It
was a weary journey, but Péron had cause to congratulate himself on
his success: no one as yet even suspected the cause of his persistent
silence, and but for the discomfort of the device, it seemed an easy
and simple means of duping the enemy. All things come to an end,
however, and he could not avoid some dreary speculations upon the
probable termination of his adventure. Shut in as he was, he could
not discover their road or where they intended to go, except that
the general direction was toward Paris; and he was aware that they
finally crossed the Seine not far from Rouen, which showed that they
had quitted the road to St. Denis, taking a more westerly course. He
had nothing to expect but imprisonment or death. He reflected that they
were not likely to let him escape to bear the tidings of his capture
to Cardinal Richelieu, and to give him the information which they had
failed to take from him. Cramped with his bonds, and weary from need of
sleep which he dared not take, he lay, at last, indifferent to fate and
merely awaiting the end.
It was night when the party finally halted before a château, and after
a brief delay Péron was roused from his despair by hearing the others
dismount and seeing the flare of torches about his litter. Evidently
they had reached their destination, and he rallied his drooping energy
to meet the climax. After some time he was taken from the litter and
unbound. He shook himself with almost the joy of an animal at feeling
his limbs free, and looked about him. They were in a courtyard at
the rear of a large house, and the place was quite lively and noisy
from the sudden arrival of so large a party. Two torches served to
partially dispel the gloom, and he saw that there were several grooms
and hostlers running about among the horses and that the light streamed
out from the open door of the château. Before he could observe more
he was taken by his two guardians and led up the steps into the house.
Here were the others, M. de Vesson, his son, and his friends, standing
in a group in the center of the hall, talking to a young and beautiful
woman, whose brilliant dress showed in the light of many tapers. Péron
caught his breath; to his amazement he recognized the proud face
and golden hair of Renée de Nançay. In a moment he understood the
détour around St Denis; they had come to Nançay, being relatives and
fellow-conspirators of the marquis. After the first shock of surprise
Péron fixed his eyes on mademoiselle, wondering what would be the
outcome of the strange trick of destiny which made him now virtually
her prisoner. But Renée made no sign; she was no longer the defiant
girl of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, or the plucky little conspirator
who had defied him at the house of the Image de Notre Dame. She was the
haughty demoiselle, the great lady of the château; she looked at him
without recognition, with cold hauteur and indifference. He heard her
reply to M. de Vesson’s request for some place to bestow the prisoner.
“Certainly, monsieur,” she said in a clear voice, without another
glance at the young musketeer; “the cell in the west wing, near the
north tower, is the strongest; my steward will direct your men where
to bestow him according to your pleasure.”
Her back was toward Péron now, nor did she turn her head when he was
led away to go through long halls and down two flights of stairs and to
be locked at last a prisoner in a cell in his father’s house. Thus he
was securely locked and bolted in the narrow room and left to reflect
upon the strange trick of fate which made him a captive where he should
have ruled as master.