THE HOUSE ON THE RUE DE PARADIS
THERE was one thing that Péron noticed in his walks with Père
Antoine--whom he had followed like a shadow--and that was that they
passed so frequently through the Rue du Chaume, although it was not
always the shortest way to their destination. It was indeed more
often out of their way, yet the priest would walk slowly through that
street from the Rue des Vieilles-Haudriettes to the Rue de Paradis,
though he had to turn back to the church of St. François d’Assisi.
This peculiarity in Père Antoine’s conduct finally aroused Péron’s
suspicions; he said nothing to the priest, but he too walked through
this quarter, scanning the houses. On the corner of the Rue du Chaume
and the Rue de Paradis was the Hôtel de Guise, built originally for
the Connétable de Clisson, a great house with gardens which reached
the Rue Charlot in the rear. Across from this, on the other corner of
the Rue de Paradis, was a smaller and plainer building with a turret
which commanded the Rue du Chaume. On either side of the street were
houses, some grim and some gracious, but all inscrutable to Péron; nor
could he discover any reason for Père Antoine’s predilection. After a
careful examination of the exteriors, he made some inquiries about the
inmates, but none were satisfactory. He had not relaxed his efforts to
find mademoiselle, but he was disheartened; he had heard a rumor at
Archambault’s that she had gone to an aunt in Languedoc, and he began
to believe that there was truth in this report. He tried to devour his
chagrin in silence, and told himself constantly that he must be odious
in her eyes, as the man who had first been almost a jailer, and had
carried her against her will to Poissy, and now took possession of her
name and estate.
It was the day before Christmas, and Péron had been with Père Antoine
to the church of St. François d’Assisi. They were coming away when he
saw a familiar figure among the crowd leaving the church; he could not
be mistaken in the walk and dress of the woman; it was Ninon. Without a
word, he left Père Antoine and hurried after her. His first impulse was
to accost her, but remembering her uncertain temper, he determined to
follow her, convinced that she would show him the way to mademoiselle.
The woman had no suspicion of being followed; she was alone and walking
rapidly, evidently in haste to reach her destination. Péron suited
his pace to hers, keeping on the opposite side of the street and some
distance in the rear. She made straight for the Rue de Quatre Fils, and
Péron’s spirits rose as he saw her turn into the Rue du Chaume. She
kept close to the wall of the gardens of the Hôtel de Guise and walked
rapidly along to the other corner of the Rue de Paradis. Here she
paused and looked sharply up and down the street but apparently without
observing him, and then she entered the house with the turret.
Péron did not hesitate, but quickening his steps was at the door a few
moments after she had disappeared. As luck would have it, she had left
it ajar, and pushing it open he walked boldly into a narrow hall with
stairs ascending directly in front of him. Here he paused to listen for
a possible indication of her whereabouts, and hearing a door overhead
open and close, he no longer hesitated, but ascended the stairs. At the
top were two doors, one to the right and one to the left, and he stood
again in doubt, but only for a moment. A slight noise as of some one
moving in the room to the left decided him; he tapped smartly on the
door, and a woman’s voice bade him “Come in.” He opened the door gently
and saw a small, plain room lighted by one window, near which stood
Renée de Nançay alone. Mademoiselle, in a plain black robe, her golden
hair coiled loosely at the nape of her neck and her face as white as a
lily, looked at him in intense surprise.
“At last I have found you!” he cried, forgetting all but his joy at the
sight of her.
“You must pardon me, M. le Marquis,” she said, sweeping him a curtsey,
“I did not look for visitors.”
The formality of her tone and her proud manner, reminding him of their
first encounter on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, chilled him. He
reflected that it was possible that she was not only not glad to see
him but actually displeased. The thought that he had thrust himself
upon her covered him with confusion.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “I sent a message to you through Père Antoine
and I was deeply pained that you thought it best to quit your house on
my account.”
“Not my house, monsieur, but yours,” she answered with proud calm.
“Yours,” he said softly, “for I have never set foot in either since you
left them, Mademoiselle de Nançay.”
“You give me a false name,” she said, and there was a break in her
voice; “I am Renée de Marsou. It is you who are a de Nançay.”
“I am Péron the musketeer,” he answered gently, “for I will never bear
the title save under one condition.”
There was a pause; she stood proudly, her golden head erect and her
eyes upon the ground, while he looked at her with a flushed face,
embarrassed and uncertain; the old gulf seemed to have yawned between
them. He did not realize his own exaltation and her mortification; she
seemed to him still the great demoiselle and he the soldier of fortune.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “it pains me to think how you must interpret
my conduct. It seems as if I came to your house on the Rue St. Thomas
du Louvre--”
“To your house, M. le Marquis,” she corrected him quickly.
“Nay, to yours,” he went on, “with the intention of driving you out
of your own, that I must have seemed a ruffian when I escorted you to
Poissy, that you must look upon me as one who planned your misfortune.”
She gave him a quick glance from under her long dark lashes and then
looked down again demurely.
“You are mistaken, monsieur,” she said, “the cardinal himself told
me that you did not wish to claim your own. It is I who should feel
reproach though I am innocent; but Mère de Dieu! my father--”
She broke off, covering her face with her hands. Péron looked at her
with shining eyes.
“Mademoiselle,” he said softly, “there is only one thing that makes me
rejoice in my rank.”
She looked up through her tears. “There is usually much cause for joy
in such a case,” she said.
“But not in mine,” he answered softly. “When we first met at Nançay I
was the clockmaker’s boy, and there seemed a great gulf fixed between
the mistress of Nançay and a poor orphan; and ever since that day it
has remained until now, mademoiselle, when I also can claim noble
birth.”
He paused, and she did not reply, but the color of a rose glowed
faintly in her pale face.
“Mademoiselle,” he said very low, “can you forgive me? Can you let
me speak the truth? The clockmaker’s boy, the musketeer, and the
marquis--all three are one in their love for you.”
“M. le Marquis,” she said proudly, “you say this to me because you
pity my condition. I am a friendless orphan, the child of a disgraced
father, with only a stained name to bear; I am no longer Renée de
Nançay.”
“I told you but now,” he said, “that I would never bear my title except
on one condition, and that, mademoiselle, is that you bear it too.
Unless you will be the Marquise de Nançay, I will be still Péron the
musketeer.”
She stood looking at him, her face turning from red to white and her
lips trembling.
“M. le Marquis,” she cried, with a sudden outburst of passionate
emotion, “you pity me!”
He caught her hands and covered them with kisses.
“Renée,” he said, “I love you! Have you no love for me?”
She hung her head. “Monsieur,” she said, “you forget my father and
yours!”
“Renée,” he answered tenderly, “I love you, and that suffices.” He
drew her toward him, trying to look into her face. “My darling,” he
whispered, “do you scorn the marquis too?”
She looked up into his face, her own aglow despite the tears in her
eyes.
“It was not a marquis I loved,” she answered very low, “but--the
cardinal’s musketeer!”
He caught her in his arms and kissed her, and in their happiness they
did not hear a step without nor see the door open gently as Père
Antoine looked in. They were standing in the middle of the room, and
the sunshine touched her golden hair and illuminated Péron’s glowing
face.
Père Antoine hastily closed the door and went down the stairs. He was
smiling, and there was a tender light in his blue eyes. It was not
until he reached the street door that he wiped a tear from his cheek
and crossed himself. He had had a gentle vision of Françoise de Nançay,
as he saw her last, with little Jehan in her arms, and the old wound
ached; but then he looked up and saw the sun shining and remembered
that to-morrow was Christmas.
THE END.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] Watches striking the hour and moving symbolic figures were
manufactured as early as the sixteenth century.
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By M. IMLAY TAYLOR
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.