A CHANGE OF FORTUNE
IT was the evening of the day following that on which Péron was
proclaimed Marquis de Nançay, and he sat at a small table in the pastry
shop on the Rue des Petits Champs. He was waiting for Père Antoine, who
had promised to meet him there with tidings of mademoiselle. Pilâtre
de Marsou, the late M. de Nançay, had been privately buried from the
Church of St. Nicholas des Champs, no one following his corpse to the
cemetery but his daughter and M. de Vesson--so easily is a fallen man
deserted, even at the last hour. Péron was anxious to hear of Renée,
to know how she had received the tidings of the fearful change in her
rank and condition, and to be assured that she fully understood that
he was innocent of her father’s death. All these things Père Antoine
had undertaken, promising to comfort mademoiselle in her affliction,
and to clear the new marquis of blame. With all his confidence in the
good father, Péron was uneasy and perplexed. He would gladly have gone
to Renée in her trouble had not delicacy forbidden an intrusion, but
he had sent one message to her by Père Antoine, and that was to assure
her that both the Château de Nançay and the house on the Rue St. Thomas
du Louvre, though properly his, were at her service for an indefinite
period, and that her possession would not be disturbed. However, he
knew mademoiselle well enough to expect only a proud defiance of his
kindness, though his heart ached for the houseless and penniless orphan
whom the grim justice of the cardinal had put in the place that he had
occupied when a poor boy on the Rue de la Ferronnerie, dependent on the
charity of Jacques des Horloges.
Certainly a great change had come over his own circumstances since
the announcement in the gallery of the Palais Cardinal. He had been
received with flattering demonstrations of friendship; princes and
great ladies, noblemen and courtiers, had crowded around him with
effusive cordiality. The unknown musketeer of monsignor’s guard was the
lion of the Marais. All the morning he had been beset with pages and
serving-men bearing invitations. M. le Marquis was wanted to dine, to
sup, to dance, to play cards, to hunt; the cardinal had presented him
to the king; the queen had given him her hand to kiss; M. le Grand had
greeted him as a long-lost friend; Monsieur had smiled, forgetful of
the house in Poissy; and the Prince de Condé had shown genuine pleasure
in his former protégé’s good fortune. It was overwhelming and a little
bewildering; but none of it pleased the new marquis so much as the
tearful joy of good Madame Michel, the honest delight of Jacques des
Horloges and Archambault, and above all the blessing of Père Antoine.
Archambault received him that evening with open arms, setting forth
his best wine and most choice dishes for his old patron’s son; but
Péron discouraged all display, pleading his desire to be for a while
unobserved. He wore his plain suit of clothes,--the same which he had
bought for his journey to Flanders,--and being still but little known
among the gay set frequenting the pastry shop, he was allowed an hour
of quiet, sitting unobserved in a corner of the public room where he
could most easily watch for Père Antoine. As the evening advanced
the place filled rapidly, and in the bustle and confusion he escaped
notice. It was a meeting-place of fashion, and on every side the new
marquis was surrounded with his future associates and with the train
of sycophants and little people who follow and imitate the leaders.
Sitting in his quiet corner he observed the scene with more interest
than usual. Was he indeed now one of these? It did not seem possible.
He had none of the characteristics of these darlings of fortune; here
were faces as carefully painted and powdered as women, curled and
scented hair, white jewelled hands, and dress of the most flashy as
well as the most elegant fashion of the day. The musketeer looked down
at his own broad, brown hands and the mighty strength of his arm, and
smiled; he was certainly no match for the curled and painted fops of
the Louvre. The room was full now; M. de Condé was yonder with M. de
Soissons; there, too, was M. de Bassompierre, and Montbazon, and fifty
more. Near Péron were three young exquisites, dining together, and his
attention was first drawn to them by hearing his own name. They were
discussing the scene at the Palais Cardinal, which was the gossip of
the hour, and Péron would have closed his ears had he not caught a
sentence which riveted his attention.
“’Tis a strange trick of fortune,” remarked one of the group; “what
think you of it, M. de Bièvre?”
“That it is a bit of cursed ill-luck,” he retorted curtly, “and that I
wish Pilâtre de Nançay had shot the varlet at Chantilly.”
This, then, was Renée’s fiancée. Péron looked at him curiously, and
saw only a slightly made man with good features and a cold expression,
with long curls falling about his face, and with a dress in the height
of fashion, ruffles of rich lace at throat and wrists and knees, and
his fingers glittering with jewels. He looked in a sullen mood and
scowled at his companions, who seemed bent on teasing him.
“Ah, the shoe pinches!” said the first speaker, laughing. “Mademoiselle
loses not only her father but her name and her fortune. Did you know
how he came to his title?”
“No,” replied de Bièvre angrily; “I may be a fool, but I am not a
rogue; I would have let him alone had I suspected. Monsignor keeps
these secrets to spring them to our torment. Curse him, had I known
he was no marquis, de Nançay might have rotted ere I gave him any
promises. You were the man who introduced me, M. d’Étienne, and I do
not thank you.”
“I did not know the facts,” M. d’Étienne hastened to say. He was
the third one of the party, and he had not spoken before. “’Tis
unfortunate, but Pilâtre was a clever man and brave, and his daughter’s
beauty may, in a measure, compensate you for her father’s sins.”
“St. Denis! do you take me for a fool?” asked de Bièvre, with a sneer.
“You do not care for the beauty without the rank and fortune, then?”
suggested the younger man.
“I do not care a jot for the fortune,” M. de Bièvre said loudly, for he
was angry; “but do you take me to be fool enough to marry Mademoiselle
de Nançay--the daughter of a rogue, and like enough taking her father’s
faults? Mon Dieu! I told the girl yesterday that I would never wed the
beggarly child of a villain!”
Péron rose from his chair and suddenly stood towering above the
speaker, his face ablaze with passion.
“M. de Bièvre,” he said, “a word with you.”
The nobleman surveyed him from head to foot with a scornful glance,
taking in every detail of the musketeer’s plain dress and almost shabby
appearance compared with the others there.
“I am M. de Bièvre,” he drawled indifferently; “and what is that to
you?”
Péron’s cheek flushed scarlet under the other’s insolent stare.
“I am Jehan de Calvisson,” he said haughtily, “and I heard you but now
speak lightly of a young lady in this public place. Monsieur, you will
either apologize as publicly, or you will answer for it to me.”
It was evident that de Bièvre and his party were taken by surprise;
but the former only sneered.
“And who are you?” he demanded tauntingly!--“a poor knave with whom my
late fiancée has doubtless amused herself in her leisure moments--”
He said no more, for Péron had him by the collar, lifting him easily
from his chair. Bièvre struggled, but it was too late; Péron had him
about the waist now and flung him over the table, and he lay like a log.
His friends sprang up with a great outcry, and the crowded room was
in a tumult, but no man laid a finger on Péron. He stood where he
had seized his antagonist, his own face deeply flushed and his eyes
sparkling with anger.
“Seize him,” cried M. de Étienne; “he has injured M. de Bièvre--he is a
ruffian!”
But something in Péron’s face and his appearance of great strength kept
the eager crowd at bay. In the farther corners they sprang upon the
tables and on window-sills to gaze at him and at the unconscious form
of the nobleman, but no one attempted to arrest him.
“I am the Marquis de Nançay,” he said in a firm voice, looking about
him at the ring of curious faces, “and I threw that man over the table
for speaking lightly of a noble lady. Any man who wishes to take his
part, let him come on, and I will pitch him after his friend.”
There was silence for a moment and then a sudden burst of applause.
“Bien!” cried Condé, “throw them all, Péron, it reminds me of Choin’s
defeat in the tennis court. Pardieu! I will see that you have fair
play.”
“And I!” cried M. de Bassompierre loudly, “for yonder fellow was at
best a cowardly fop. But for the cardinal you might have settled it on
the Place Royale; monsignor has left us no appeal save to our fists.”
“I am Soissons,” said the prince, advancing, “and by St. Denis! it was
the cleverest throw that I have seen. There is my hand on it, M. de
Nançay.”
“’Twas not so clever as I intended,” Péron replied dryly, “it should
have broken his neck.”
Following the lead of the Prince de Condé, M. de Soissons, and M. de
Bassompierre, the throng of courtiers were eager to honor the new
marquis.
“Monsieur is a famous wrestler,” cried one, edging closer to Péron.
“You have the arm of Goliath, M. le Marquis,” remarked another, a
little man, who smiled above great ruffles of lace.
“I thank you, monsieur,” Péron replied, with a smile; “I am content to
be Goliath as long as you do not prove to be a David.”
“Your wit is keen and your arm is long, M. de Nançay!” cried another
admirer, while two or three thrust themselves forward with invitations.
“Monsieur will dine with me to-morrow?”
“Sup with me, M. le marquis?”
“Nay, with me, for I sent a note this morning, M. de Nançay.”
“Mon Dieu!” Péron ejaculated, with impatience. “Gentlemen, you
overwhelm me. But yesterday I was a poor musketeer, dining where I
could best afford it. Give me a fortnight, messieurs, to get the
stomach of a grandee!”
He pressed through the crowd to the door, putting aside a dozen
flatterers upon the way, and in the street he was stopped again by a
little man who was dressed in the excess of fashion and who bowed with
profound respect.
“M. le marquis,” he said humbly but with a confidential manner, “I am
Louis le Gros, the famous tailor of the Marais. I serve the king and
Monsieur and M. le Grand. I pray you let me set you out as becomes
your station, sir; and, pardon me--but the fit of your coat is very
bad--very bad indeed!”
For the first time Péron laughed.
“Good, M. le Gros,” he said, “you shall make me a suit; and make it
large, for verily I shall gain in flesh now that I have gained in rank.
I thank you for being the first man to tell me the truth in twenty-four
hours!”