IN THE FOREST OF CHANTILLY
IT was one o’clock when Péron rode through St. Denis, and a light
spring rain was falling; through the mist he saw the blurred lights
of the guardhouse and he heard the tolling of the abbey bell. It was
dreary enough, and so were his meditations; at the very moment when
he seemed to have succeeded, misfortune again assailed him. He had
staked his honor and his life upon the mission to Brussels, and he had
executed it only to lose all that he had gained by this last trick of
fate. It seemed as if peril, conspiracy, and murder had tracked his
footsteps ever since the night when good Madame Michel had held him in
her arms in the woods of Nançay, praying and weeping by turns over the
bereaved infant. His peaceful childhood on the Rue de la Ferronnerie,
the happiness of his boyhood with Condé, were after all but intervals
in the drama of his eventful life. The hour, the rain, the lonely road,
all depressed his usually buoyant spirits and chilled his blood; he
recalled a story which Jacques des Horloges was fond of reciting--of a
noble family in which every male died a violent death. It required an
effort to shake off his lethargy, to direct his attention to his horse,
which stumbled more than once in the mire, and to concentrate his mind
upon his errand. If Archambault’s story was true, he had seven or eight
hours the start of the conspirators, and it would go hard with him if
he did not defeat them; in any event, there was a hope left, and that a
strong one, that Père Matthieu would never be outwitted.
With all this, fate beset Péron on every side. He had been willing to
sacrifice himself for Renée de Nançay, to endure an injustice rather
than crush her with the shame of her father’s villainy, but was he
prepared to do the same for Madame de Bièvre? And why not? Had he
ever dreamed of wedding mademoiselle? Surely not; to wed her he must
proclaim his rank; and if he proclaimed it, they would be separated
forever. Then, he argued, if he could not marry her, doubtless she
would have married in any case, and why should he find it hard to
shield her as a wife? Ah, but he did! The difference was there, and
sharp enough to make him wince.
In the midst of these reflections there came a more common-place
anxiety. His horse stumbled again and went lame. He had saddled the
beast in the dark, without making any examination of him, and he
now realized his error; for if anything went wrong with the horse,
he would meet with disastrous delays. He dismounted and tried to
discover the trouble, but in vain; he was without means of making a
light, and could not see. There was no alternative therefore but to
resume his seat in the saddle and go on with caution until daybreak;
but he no longer dared to keep up the pace at which he had started,
no matter how much he chafed under the delay. To change horses on
the road was no part of his design, especially since the horse left
behind would prove an excellent clew by which he could be tracked.
This compelled him to spare the animal, and he was further impeded by
the soft condition of the roads, still muddy from the heavy weather;
so he made but poor progress, and was still a league from Chantilly
when the black rain-clouds lifted in the east showing a keen line of
silver, like the edge of a naked sword, where dawn cut the night in
twain. Before him the woods of Chantilly took fantastic shapes through
the mist, and around him the meadows were undulated like the gray
billows of the ocean. The estate of Chantilly, once the property of the
house of Montmorency, had been forfeited by the rebellion of the last
unfortunate duke and was now in the hands of the Princesse de Condé, a
gift from the king.
As soon as the light was sufficient, Péron found that his horse was
suffering from a loose shoe on one of his forefeet, and that the animal
must be attended to before he could proceed on his journey to Flanders.
This made it imperative for him to stop at the town in search of a
smith, much against his own wishes; for he would be readily recognized
if he came across any of the retainers of Condé, who were all more or
less acquainted with the former protégé of the prince. However, there
was no help for it, and making the best of a bad business he turned
his horse’s head toward the spot where he remembered that there used
to be a smithy. He had no difficulty in finding the forge, but there
was no fire; and the blacksmith was evidently asleep over his shop,
for the place was quiet. Péron knocked so loudly, however, that he
finally succeeded in rousing the inmates, and the smith came down with
reluctance to answer his summons, having no wish to go to work so early.
“No horses will be shod here for two good hours,” he said bluntly,
eying his visitor from head to foot with a scowl of disapproval.
He was a big, brawny fellow; a Gascon from his tongue, and the smut on
his face added to his natural ugliness; but Péron remembered him as a
not ill-natured retainer of Condé. A delay of two hours would be fatal
to the musketeer’s interests, and he did not hesitate to use every
argument at his command.
“Do you not know me, Ferré?” he said; “you taught me once to shoe a
horse, and it was from you that I first learned to strike a straight
blow from the shoulder.”
“Pardieu, ’tis monseigneur’s boy!” exclaimed the smith, with a change
of expression. “I did not know you, Péron, in your black cloak, and
with the air you have of a great gentleman. So, ’tis you that cannot
shoe your horse? You have forgotten some useful lessons, and I am
minded to let you wait for your pains; I have had no breakfast, and I
am not the man to work on an empty stomach.”
“Yet do me this favor, good Ferré, for old times’ sake,” Péron urged;
“I am bound on a pressing errand, and if I delay there may be bad
results--for me.”
The smith still hesitated, looking from the musketeer to his horse.
“Leave the beast with me,” he said gruffly, “and get a new horse at the
inn; you dress like a man with a purse.”
“But it does not suit me to change horses,” Péron replied; “and though
I am not the rich man you take me for, I will pay well for this piece
of work.”
Ferré gave him a sharp look. “I see,” he said bluntly, “you are either
in mischief or some one else is--good, then, I will shoe the horse. But
I care nothing for your money; I do this for old friendship.”
“So you do it, I will not quarrel,” Péron replied, relieved at his
success; for Ferré was noted for his stubborn independence, and, at
first, it seemed likely that he would do nothing until he was ready to
begin his day’s work.
The conciliation of the blacksmith was not the end of the trouble,
however, for the fire must be built and the anvil prepared for the
task. This meant no little delay, and while Ferré set about his
business Péron decided to go to the inn and get something to eat, that
there might be no further need of halting until noon. He had little
apprehension of attracting any notice at the public house at that hour,
and repaired thither at once. He was met with the same difficulty which
had assailed him at the smithy; but here his purse prevailed, and in a
little while he had procured a simple meal and eaten it in the solitude
which he coveted. The delay had been sufficient to permit Ferré to make
good progress, and when Péron returned, the big blacksmith was putting
the finishing touches to his work.
“There,” he said, looking up as the young musketeer approached, “’tis
well done, and the animal can travel now without discomfort; your city
smiths make a poor show, if this was a sample.”
“Not many men could hope to equal you, Ferré,” Péron retorted, smiling;
“I remember that M. de Condé thought no man could shoe a horse like
you.”
The blacksmith’s face relaxed a little; he stood with his great arms
folded while Péron mounted, and he would accept no pay.
“Keep your money,” he said, with a shrug, “I fancy you are not so rich
as I am, for all your fine clothes. I remember you, too, as a little
lad in a blue taffety jacket well worn at the elbows; it would shame
me to take a guerdon from you, boy.” He paused, glancing down the road
toward the château. “You have had a friend here looking for you,” he
added, “or a foe, I know not which.”
Péron started. “What do you mean?” he asked sharply.
“A man has been here in your absence,” the smith replied, “and he
seemed to know your horse; he asked where you were, but I would not
tell him, and he took the road to the château.”
“What sort of a man?” Péron asked, with a momentary thought of Choin
which was destroyed by the answer.
“A man of middle size, fair, and, I think, a soldier,” replied Ferré,
“though he wore the dress of a merchant rather than a man-at-arms; and
he was muffled in a green cloak and rode a dun-colored mare.”
“I do not recognize the man as a friend,” Péron remarked thoughtfully.
“A foe, most likely,” retorted Ferré, with a shrug.
His auditor was absorbed in thought.
“Can I take a short cut from here to the highroad, and avoid the way by
the château?” he asked at last.
“And so outstrip the green cloak?” asked Ferré, with a grim smile. “Ay,
take yonder cut through the brushwood and ride into the forest. The way
is easy enough, but you must ford the Thève.”
Péron thanked him heartily and rode off at once, convinced now that the
delay that had been forced upon him might be far more serious in its
consequences than he had at first supposed. He did not recognize the
description of the green-cloaked rider, but he felt certain that it was
not a friend, and that his best chance was in an effort to outstrip
the stranger on the road or to overtake him; he trusted that he could
easily dispose of a single antagonist. He took the path pointed out by
Ferré and was soon in the depths of the forest of Chantilly, where once
a year the festival of St. Hubert was celebrated. The heavy rain-clouds
were dispersing, and by the time he had reached the Thève the sun was
shining. In the peaceful depths of the forest it seemed impossible
to look for conspirators; the new greens of spring clothed it with
beautiful verdure, and on the mossy banks the violets were blooming,
recalling to Péron the violets of Nançay and the little golden-haired
girl who had tossed him a cluster. Here and there through green arcades
he caught glimpses of the lakes of Commelle, and in the distance was
the Château de la Loge, built by the mother of St. Louis. The sweet
perfumes of the woodland were in the air, the moss was soft beneath his
horse’s feet, and overhead a bird’s song cleft the stillness with a
clear, sweet note of joy.
He avoided the village of Commelle, and came out upon the highroad at
a spot where there were woods on either side and much brush and growth
of vines which made a thicket. He cast a sharp glance at the mass of
feathery trailing green and overhanging boughs, for it seemed the very
place for an ambuscade; but he saw nothing, and looking back down the
road toward Chantilly there was no green cloak, and he believed that
he had outwitted his pursuer. Congratulating himself on his success,
he took the road between the thickets, only using the precaution of
loosening his sword in its scabbard and drawing his pistol; but nothing
stirred. He rode forward briskly, and had reached the turn where two
paths met before anything occurred. Then there was a sudden crackling
of boughs and underbrush, and in a moment he was surrounded,--one
masked horseman on either side and one in front. In a moment or two
they were joined by the man with the green cloak, whom Péron observed
just as its wearer called to him to surrender. For reply the young
soldier fired at the stranger, and so excellent was his aim that the
man reeled in his saddle and the next moment lay on the ground, while
his horse galloped off into the woods. A space was clear, and Péron
urged his own horse forward, trusting to escape.
“Take the fool or kill him!” shouted one of his other assailants; and a
bullet whistled close to his ear. Péron turned in his saddle and fired
again, but missed, and his enemies were now all three close upon him.
His fate seemed sealed, and would have been but for a sudden
diversion,--an assault from the rear which compelled the three masks
to defend themselves. There was a shout, a clash of swords, and Péron
recognized Choin. Thankful now for Archambault’s quick wit, Péron
turned back to aid his rescuers and saw Choin shoot down the tall
man who seemed to be the leader. For five minutes the fight was hot,
but there were now but two to four, for the Italian had brought two
comrades. Two of the miscreants lay dead or unconscious and the other
two were readily secured. When the fight was over the fencing-master
wiped his forehead.
“Pardieu!” he said, “we were in the nick of time. I have not had such
fun since the cardinal made duelling a capital offence. What carrion
have you there?” he added, seeing Péron examining the fallen men.
“’Tis a stranger to me,” he replied, unmasking him of the green cloak.
“I owe you my life, Choin. How came you so soon?”
“Archambault got us off two hours after you left,” said the Italian;
“and in sooth you do owe me your life, for I shot that tall ruffian
yonder just as he was about to put a bullet through you. Who is the
villain?”
Péron did not reply; he had just unfastened the dead man’s mask and was
looking, with mingled surprise and horror, on the dark, handsome face
that he could not forget, that he had seen last in the Palais Cardinal,
the face of M. de Nançay. And on the dead man was the cardinal’s ring.
“Mère de Dieu!” he said softly to himself, “my enemy--and her father!”
Choin had dismounted now and stood looking in the face of his victim,
his own ruddy countenance growing paler as he gazed.
“Santa Maria purissima!” he exclaimed, relapsing into his mother
tongue, “’tis that devil of a marquis whom monsignor let loose but now,
and I am undone!”
Péron signed to him to speak lower and to keep his men away. When the
two were alone with the body, he drew the fatal ring from the finger of
Richelieu’s foe, then he turned to the anxious Italian.
“This is a bad business, Choin,” he said gravely, “and we must hide it
until the story is told to the cardinal.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Choin, “the cardinal is the very devil when a man
offends him; I would a thousand times rather face King Louis.”
Péron had been thinking hard; his perplexities increased at every turn,
but he had only one sharp anxiety and that was for mademoiselle.
“Choin,” he said, “I must stay here with the body; take therefore
your two prisoners and your men and go to Ferré, the blacksmith at
Chantilly; he will help you to hide the prisoners there, for my sake,
and he will come with you to take these two bodies. One can lie at
Chantilly, but the other must go to Paris.”
The Italian was too alarmed and worried to gainsay the younger man,
and he seemed glad to escape, even for a while, the presence of the
dead men. He and his men helped to drag the two bodies out of sight
and caught the horses; then, with their prisoners, they rode off to
Chantilly, leaving Péron on guard with the dead and tormented with his
own anxieties.
Never did two hours seem longer than the two which elapsed before he
saw Choin and Ferré coming again with two litters for the corpses,
borne, as he soon learned, by the big blacksmith’s trusted apprentices;
for Choin’s two men had stayed to guard the prisoners. The dead marquis
and his servant were taken secretly through the forest and concealed
in a shed behind the blacksmith’s forge until nightfall, when they
could be brought quietly to Paris. But Péron did not wait for this; he
left them in charge of Choin, and spurred on to the city to tell his
story to the cardinal. That was not the first thing he did, however;
instead, he rode to the church of St. Nicholas de Champs, where he
found Père Antoine and told him of Nançay’s death, begging him to go
at once to the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre to break the heavy tidings to
mademoiselle. Archambault had already carried Péron’s letter, and the
story was not wholly a surprise to the priest; but he listened without
comment. When the young musketeer concluded with his appeal for the
orphan girl, Père Antoine’s blue eyes were suddenly lifted from the
ground and looked searchingly into his face.
“My son,” he said gently, “it is well that this man’s death does not
seem to have filled your heart with the satisfied lust of vengeance,
and that at such an hour your thoughts are of mercy and peace.”
Péron’s honest face flamed scarlet and he looked back steadfastly into
the priest’s kind eyes.
“Mon père,” he said, with the ingenuous frankness of a boy, “I fear
that it is not altogether Christian mercy which has changed my heart.”
Père Antoine smiled.
“Jehan,” he said softly, “love entering into a man’s heart is either
its crucifixion or its crown, and sometimes it is both. I will go
this hour to Mademoiselle de Nançay, and I am deeply thankful that it
was Choin who killed him; it might have been--” He crossed himself,
murmuring a prayer of thanksgiving, to which Péron said amen with a
lighter heart.