AN ACT OF JUSTICE
AFTER leaving Père Antoine, Péron stopped only long enough at his
lodgings to remove the stains of travel, and still wearing his plain
suit of dark blue taffety, he bent his steps toward the Palais
Cardinal. His perplexities and adventures had been so numerous in the
last few hours that he tried to keep his thoughts from them that his
mind might be clear to deal with his exacting patron. He could not
conjecture what would be Richelieu’s reception of the tidings, but he
anticipated a sharp reprimand for the loss of the ring even though
it was recovered. As for M. de Nançay’s death, he suspected that it
would not be unwelcome to monsignor, for he was not wholly blind to
the natural results which the wily Italian must have expected on the
day on which he posted Péron in Catharine de’ Medici’s clock, after
revealing the secret of his father’s execution. Nor did he fear any
trouble for Choin; he knew the cardinal to be just, if remorselessly
stern. However, the prospect of the interview was far from pleasing,
and he walked slowly through the gardens behind the palace, noting
the lime-trees and wondering which one had shaded M. de Nançay and
M. de Vesson at their conference which monsignor’s eavesdropper had
overheard. Péron only partially divined the extent of the plot which he
had helped to reveal; he did not know that it was but the forerunner
of a greater one which would bring M. le Grand to the block, and that
Monsieur, the queen-mother, and M. de Bouillon were but hatching
another conspiracy on the wreck of the lesser one.
Péron entered the palace by a back staircase and found his way to
Father Joseph la Tremblaye. To him he briefly recited the whole matter,
keeping nothing back and saying nothing to extenuate his own fault in
failing to deliver the ring immediately on his return from Brussels.
Father Joseph listened without comment, merely bidding the young
musketeer await the cardinal’s pleasure where he was, and giving no
indication of what he might expect.
Péron waited a long time after the priest retired, and he walked to
and fro in the small room--which was Father Joseph’s closet--trying to
conjecture what would happen next. The situation was so peculiar, the
policy of the court so fluctuating, that he knew not what might be the
end. M. de Nançay was dead, and Father Joseph had the ring,--but what
might not be the results of such a web of conspiracy? Well did he know
that there would be a scapegoat, and why should it not be he? There
was no one to interfere, and it might be the most convenient way in
which to hush up a great scandal. He was therefore in a gloomy frame
of mind when one of the cardinal’s ushers, clad in the livery worn at
the levées, came to summon him to attend upon monsignor. He noticed the
man’s elaborate dress with surprise; but as the man was a new member
of the household, he asked no questions, but followed him in silence.
As they passed rapidly through the apartments which led to the eastern
gallery where Richelieu most frequently received his visitors, Péron
noticed that the guards were all on duty, and that there was an unusual
stir in the palace. He could not imagine why he should be summoned to
this public place for a private interview, nor could he account for the
deferential manner of his conductor. At the door of the salon stood two
of his comrades, the cardinal’s musketeers, and both saluted at his
approach. The usher opened the door and Péron entered the great gallery
alone. He halted at the threshold, convinced that there was some
mistake,--that he was not wanted here. The long apartment, furnished
with the magnificence of royalty, was thronged with noblemen and
princes and great ladies of the court. Péron stepped back in confusion,
and addressed the usher.
“Friend, you have blundered,” he said; “the cardinal does not send for
his musketeer at such a time as this.”
The usher shook his head, standing before the door that Péron might not
escape.
“My orders are precise, monsieur,” he replied; “you are to await
monsignor’s pleasure here.”
“You must be in error,” Péron persisted angrily, for he felt many
curious eyes upon him.
“You are M. Jehan de Calvisson, are you not?” asked the usher quietly.
“Ay, blockhead!” retorted Péron with impatience, “but I am only the
cardinal’s musketeer, and here are half the grandees of France.”
“My orders are precise,” said the other stubbornly, “and by St. Denis
you shall not leave until monsignor comes.”
Péron shrugged his shoulders. “On your own head be it!” he said; “’tis
a stupid blunder.”
The usher shut his lips tightly and stood his ground, so that there was
no alternative for Péron. He could not engage in a brawl with a servant
in such an assembly, and was forced to stand there in his plain dress,
amidst the gay throng, where every man wore satin or velvet, and the
women were as gayly attired as the roses in a June garden. He looked
down the long gallery, observing the scene with curiosity and frequent
surprises, as he noted first one and then another of the guests.
There was M. de Soissons, known to be unfavorable to Richelieu, and
Madame d’Effiat, the mother of Cinq Mars, and yonder was the Prince de
Condé, and M. de Montbazon. In a throng in the center of the room was
Monsieur, clad in white satin, his breast covered with jewels and his
long curls falling on his shoulders. Péron looked at him with strange
recollections of the adventurer in the house at Poissy, of the poltroon
who had been ready to sacrifice all his friends at Ruel, to save
himself. Monsieur, however, was calm and smiling, the picture of his
true self,--selfish, indolent, and unstable, with nothing of his father
in him.
All these great personages whispered and laughed and made merry,
awaiting the entrance of the cardinal, who, rumor said, was ill and not
likely to be better, though the indomitable spirit would not yield.
There were many there who heard this talk not only without regret but
with much secret joy. They hated him as heartily as they feared him,
and would have come to his funeral with greater joy than to his levées.
Yet on every side there were expressions of anxiety for monsignor’s
health and of almost tender regard at its delicate condition; for it is
the world’s profession to lie, and to lie gracefully.
The atmosphere of the crowded place, the murmur of ceaseless talk, the
gay indifference of these creatures, who courted power for the love
of it, all oppressed Péron. His simple childhood, his hardy training,
had made him dislike such scenes and feel their mockery, knowing as he
did how often the cardinal had been deserted when he seemed tottering
to his fall, how quickly he would be deserted now if the king’s favor
failed him. He recollected hearing Madame Michel tell of the death of
the gay favorite, Albert de Luynes, and how for one day or more his
body lay neglected, and his grooms played cards upon his bier.
Suddenly the door at the other end of the gallery opened, and an usher
cried loudly: “The cardinal! the cardinal!”
There was a stir, necks were craned, skirts rustled, fans swayed;
great dignitaries jostled one another to see if this man was indeed
near death. The gay throng parted in the middle, leaving a long aisle
down which monsignor slowly walked, leaning heavily on Father Joseph.
Richelieu, was ill indeed, and his step was heavy, like that of a man
who bore a burden, but the indomitable spirit was unquenched; his
face showed white as a corpse in contrast to his blood-red robes, but
his dark eyes glowed with wonderful brilliancy, as though the fires
of his soul burned brighter as the body weakened. To look at the
great minister was to be convinced that while the flesh was mortal,
the soul was indeed immortal. He came slowly, pausing to speak first
to one and then another, but without a smile, his cold, proud manner
losing nothing of its hauteur by momentary intercourse with others.
He who trusted no man, and knew and manipulated hundreds, had only
a deep suspicion and disdain for the sycophants who fawned upon his
feet at one hour and were ready to cut his throat the next. The great
cardinal,--the Huguenot cardinal as he has been called, because he was
great enough to be at once liberal and far-sighted,--who loved France
as he also loved power, knew the men with whom he had to deal.
He came so slowly down the gallery that it seemed a long time to Péron
before those dark eyes lighted upon him; but no sooner did the cardinal
see his musketeer than he beckoned to him. Then facing around, he
looked back at the gay throng, laying his hand on the young musketeer’s
shoulder. There was a pause, every eye turning toward these two
standing together, in strange contrast, before the crowded room. It
was very still when Richelieu spoke in a clear voice that penetrated
every corner of the gallery and was heard by the guards at the doors.
“My friends,” he said, leaning heavily on Péron, “but lately I told
you of a great wrong done to a noble gentleman. It is now my duty to
announce to you his majesty’s pleasure in regard to the son. I present
to you, therefore, Jehan François de Calvisson, Marquis de Nançay.”