The cardinal's musketeer E-Book

Mary Imlay Taylor

• Herausgeber: Librorium Editions
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

ON the Rue de la Ferronnerie, near the end of the Rue St. Honoré, where Henri Quatre was stabbed, stood the clockmaker’s shop. In the days of the thirteenth Louis, the streets of Paris were narrow; the windows of one dwelling peeped curiously into those of its opposite neighbor, and especially was this true of the old Rue de la Ferronnerie and of the shop of Jacques des Horloges, the famous clockmaker, at the sign of Ste. Geneviève. It was shop and house united, the upper story overhanging the lower, and under the eaves of the gabled roof the swallows built their nests. It was a quaint little house, the weather stains upon its front and the narrow windows speaking plainly of its antiquity. The strong oak door, black with age, had iron clamps which formed crosses at the top and bottom, while in an alcove above was a rough stone image of Ste. Geneviève.Within, on the lower floor there were three rooms; the one in front was the shop, next to this was the living-room for the clockmaker’s family, and in the rear the kitchen. In the second story there were three small apartments, and above these again was the attic in the gabled roof. From the interior of the house this garret could be reached only by a ladder, put through a trap-door in the floor; but there was another entrance by a stone staircase which ascended to the roof on the outside of the house, from the court in the rear. From these steps two doors opened into the interior, one at the second story and one, a small one, in the roof; the first was frequently opened, the latter was always securely fastened.

Leseprobe

THE CARDINAL’S MUSKETEER

CARDINAL RICHELIEUFROM THE PORTRAIT BY PHILIPPE DE CHAMPAIGNE, IN THE GALLERY OF THE LOUVRE

THECardinal’s Musketeer

BYM. IMLAY TAYLOR

© 2024 Librorium Editions

ISBN : 9782385745875

CONTENTS

THE CARDINAL’S MUSKETEER

CHAPTER I THE CLOCKMAKER’S SHOP

CHAPTER II THE SECRET OF THE GARRET

CHAPTER IV THE PASTRY SHOP ON THE RUE DES PETITS CHAMPS

CHAPTER V THE CHÂTEAU DE NANÇAY

CHAPTER VI A BUNCH OF VIOLETS

CHAPTER VII PÉRON AND PÈRE ANTOINE

CHAPTER VIII PÉRON’S FIRST VICTORY

CHAPTER IX THE CARDINAL’S CLOCK

CHAPTER X IN THE TOILS

CHAPTER XII MADAME MICHEL’S STORY

CHAPTER XIII THE CARDINAL’S INSTRUCTIONS

CHAPTER XIV THE HOUSE AT POISSY

CHAPTER XVI THE CARDINAL’S SNARE

CHAPTER XVII MONSIEUR AND MONSIGNOR

CHAPTER XVIII MADEMOISELLE’S TRINKET

CHAPTER XIX MADAME LA MÈRE

CHAPTER XX PÈRE MATTHIEU

CHAPTER XXI THE INN AT AMIENS

CHAPTER XXII A GREENWOOD TRIBUNAL

CHAPTER XXIII THE DUNGEON OF THE CHÂTEAU

CHAPTER XXIV THE CARDINAL’S RING

CHAPTER XXV ARCHAMBAULT’S INFORMATION

CHAPTER XXVI IN THE FOREST OF CHANTILLY

CHAPTER XXVII AN ACT OF JUSTICE

CHAPTER XXVIII A CHANGE OF FORTUNE

CHAPTER XXIX MADEMOISELLE’S DISAPPEARANCE

CHAPTER XXX THE HOUSE ON THE RUE DE PARADIS

The Cardinal’s Musketeer

CHAPTER ITHE CLOCKMAKER’S SHOP

O

N the Rue de la Ferronnerie, near the end of the Rue St. Honoré, where Henri Quatre was stabbed, stood the clockmaker’s shop. In the days of the thirteenth Louis, the streets of Paris were narrow; the windows of one dwelling peeped curiously into those of its opposite neighbor, and especially was this true of the old Rue de la Ferronnerie and of the shop of Jacques des Horloges, the famous clockmaker, at the sign of Ste. Geneviève. It was shop and house united, the upper story overhanging the lower, and under the eaves of the gabled roof the swallows built their nests. It was a quaint little house, the weather stains upon its front and the narrow windows speaking plainly of its antiquity. The strong oak door, black with age, had iron clamps which formed crosses at the top and bottom, while in an alcove above was a rough stone image of Ste. Geneviève. Within, on the lower floor there were three rooms; the one in front was the shop, next to this was the living-room for the clockmaker’s family, and in the rear the kitchen. In the second story there were three small apartments, and above these again was the attic in the gabled roof. From the interior of the house this garret could be reached only by a ladder, put through a trap-door in the floor; but there was another entrance by a stone staircase which ascended to the roof on the outside of the house, from the court in the rear. From these steps two doors opened into the interior, one at the second story and one, a small one, in the roof; the first was frequently opened, the latter was always securely fastened.

The family of the clockmaker was small; it consisted of only three persons and the great gray cat, called M. de Turenne. There were Jacques des Horloges, properly called Jacques Michel, a man of middle age and a master of his trade; his wife, an excellent woman; and one adopted child, the boy Péron. To this child, the long narrow room which constituted the shop, was a chamber furnished with as many marvels as any grotto of fairy lore. Jacques Michel, who had supplied the clocks for the Louvre, who regulated the great clock on the tower of the old Palais de Cité, the first clock that ever told the hours in Paris, and who could make watches like the famous “Nuremberg eggs,” had a marvellous collection in his shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie. There were many greater and wiser than little Péron who contemplated these elaborate pieces of mechanism with amazement. Horology had advanced by strides since the days when the caliph Aroun-al-Raschid presented the famous water-clock to Charlemagne; yet Jacques Michel did not scorn to imitate that curious machine, and one of his clocks, which especially delighted Péron, had, too, twelve horsemen, armed cap-a-pie, who appeared at twelve doors beneath the dial when the hour was struck. Here, too, in a dim corner stood a miniature of the great jacquemart of Dijon, which Philip the Bold of Burgundy carried away in carts from Courtray, the fruit of his victory at Rosbecque. In solemn rows upon either side of the shop, and in double tiers at the ends, stood tall clocks and short clocks, old-fashioned and new; here were clocks with the old steel spring enclosed in a little barrel, and others with the fusee with its catgut attachment; and here were some of the first with weights and flies. On the right was one with the signs of the zodiac on its face; to the left stood another on which perched a golden rooster, who crowed when the hour struck. There was one also, with silver doors below its solemn face, which opened to reveal the images of the Virgin and St. Elizabeth. There were watches, too, so diminutive that the child never ceased to marvel that they could tell the time; in a cabinet was a watch, shaped like a cross and set with jewels, said to be the one worn by M. de Guise when he was stabbed in the presence of Henri III. Here, too, was a watch set in a ring, which struck the hours; and here was the almond-shaped timepiece carried by two of the house of Valois and discarded, to come at last into the clockmaker’s hands; and here were marvellous little pieces of mechanism which set in motion figures of the Virgin, the apostles, and the saints. The clockmakers of Paris occupied a dignified position, protected by the statutes of Louis XI. and Francis I. They enjoyed rights and privileges of their own; nor could a man become a master of the trade unless he had served eight years as an apprentice and produced a chef-d’œuvre under the eyes of an inspector of the corporation. Jacques des Horloges was a past master of the art, and he had accumulated a sufficient fortune to gratify his taste for these antique and wonderful machines. Many of the timepieces in his quaint shop were kept continually in motion, and the soft tick and the loud tick rapped out their noisy contention hour after hour; the cock crew, the jacquemart struck the silver bell, and the twelve horsemen rode out, to the entertainment and delight of the lonely child, who sat day after day gazing at these marvels, and telling himself stories of what the clocks said to one another. He and the great cat, M. de Turenne, seemed to find their chief amusement in this occupation. Péron told himself that the deep-toned jacquemart was a great warrior, and that the Image de Notre Dame had the voice of a saint; and away over in the corner his quick ear heard the little voice of M. de Guise crying out that he was slain. The child was full of fancies, and many a tale he wove from the talk of the clocks. It was his custom whenever he crossed the Pont Neuf to go and look at the Tour de l’Horloge of the Palais de Cité, for to him the face of that clock had many expressions: when it smiled, little Péron was happy; when it frowned, he was sure to have ill luck. It was only the overgrown imagination of a solitary child, for the boy was very solitary; his only companions were Jacques Michel and his wife, his only playmate M. de Turenne. At this time he was eight years old, a handsome, sturdy, little fellow with a rosy face and golden brown hair, a thoughtful expression in his large dark eyes, and the sober, old-fashioned manners of a child who lived chiefly with his seniors and whose play was of the most sober sort. Although Jacques des Horloges was the possessor of a comfortable fortune, little Péron was plainly dressed; his short jacket was usually a well-worn blue taffety, and his breeches were of coarse wool, except on Sundays and saint-days, when he had the honor of appearing in a complete suit of black taffety with a collar of heavy lace. There was a still greater distinction reserved for Easter and Christmas,—a hat with a long curled plume, and then Péron felt that even Monsieur was not more grandly arrayed. At such times the child felt a certain shyness even of M. de Turenne, and walked about stiffly until the solemn occasion was past and he was at home again in the old blue jacket. Little Péron was scarcely known to the visitors to the shop, although Jacques Michel had many grand patrons, from the queen to the Prince de Condé. Great ladies came there in their coaches and descended the carriage steps, assisted by liveried footmen, entering the shop with the rustle of marvellous satin and brocade gowns, little velvet cloaks on their shoulders and great ruffs of lace standing up to their ears. They moved about admiring, wondering, criticising; one loved the clock that was inlaid with gold, another wanted only the Valois watch, which was not for sale. All the while they furnished rare entertainment to the wondering child, who crept back between the tiers of clocks and watched them secretly, because he liked to look at their pretty faces and beautiful clothing; but he detested the airs with which they noticed him if he came out from the hiding-place. They either had haughty glances for him or condescending pleasantry, and the child, who was shy and proud, fled from both. He only peeped out at the great dames surreptitiously, and wove fanciful romances about them as he did about the beloved clocks which were his playfellows. And he saw all the beauties of the Marais; the Princesse de Condé came there, and Leonora Galigai, the favorite of Marie de’ Medici, and Catherine de Vivonne, and Mademoiselle de Montmorency, and even the Princesse Marguerite of Lorraine. Little Péron knew them all by sight, and he told the cat, M. de Turenne, in confidence, his opinion of each; but there was one visitor, an infrequent one it is true, but still a visitor, who made the child shrink back yet farther with his cat in his arms. This was a man whose very presence seemed to change the atmosphere of the shop, and who was received with great courtesy by Jacques des Horloges; a priest, clad in the habit of a bishop, with a pale, keen, Italian face, his eyes having a brilliance and penetration which always startled the child. Péron was not the only one, however, who was fascinated by the presence of the future ruler of France, Armand Jean du Plessis, Bishop of Luçon. The boy shrank and yet was attracted, creeping after awhile into some position of vantage where he could watch the pale, haughty face, the handsome, slender hands, the wonderful, dark eyes; but the bishop never saw his small admirer. Indeed, Péron had a reason besides his shyness for avoiding the customers; he felt instinctively that he was not wanted at such times. Jacques Michel seldom called upon the child for any service, and even dismissed him roughly in the presence of these visitors from the Marais. When more humble callers were there, he was unheeded, but the arrival of a nobleman was often the signal for his departure. Yet at other seasons the boy was not only kindly treated, but was privileged beyond other children of his years and condition. His hands were soft and white, for he had never been called upon for any menial service, and seldom even for errands; his bed was soft, and the clothing upon it was finer and more luxurious than that on the bed of Madame Michel herself. He had the little room next the workshop, because the rear apartment on the second floor, the one which opened on the stairs from the court, was full of apprentices. Péron’s room had a bit of tapestry on the wall, the picture of a stag hunt—the stag pulled down by a savage dog and the hunters in full career toward it; and there was a white curtain in his window, and over his bed was a silver crucifix. He had, too, a tiny square of Arras carpet on the floor, and a velvet cushion on which he kneeled to count his beads. He enjoyed the best at table, also: many a dainty found its way to his plate which was not shared either by the clockmaker or his wife; yet he was not indulged in all directions. He was kept indoors when he longed to run out in the sunshine and play with the children of the Rue de la Ferronnerie; he was forbidden playmates of his own age, and he seldom went anywhere except to the Rue de Bethisi to learn his lessons from Père Antoine, a truly sober diversion. At first he rebelled against these rules, but after awhile he accepted them, and turned for consolation to M. de Turenne and the jacquemarts. He peopled his world with fanciful personages, among whom there always moved a slender figure clad in a bishop’s robe. He was an observant child, and studied everything about him, watching the apprentices for hours and making endless little models of clocks out of paper or wax,—a dull life for a child certainly, yet not an unhappy one, for he was naturally dreamy and old for his age, and he had no troubles. No one crossed him, he had never received a blow in the whole course of his existence, and never a sharp word, except in the presence of Jacques Michel’s great visitors. As for Madame Michel, he was—though he knew it not—the very apple of her eye, and it was one of her chief joys to train the soft, golden brown curls on the boy’s head. Many an hour did she spend washing and pinning out on a cushion the great lace collar he wore on fête days, and she sighed in secret over the linen one, and the worn blue taffety jacket of daily wear.

CHAPTER IITHE SECRET OF THE GARRET

T

HE little Péron enjoyed every privilege of the clockmaker’s house, but there was one spot in it which he had never entered. That was the garret under the gabled roof. It was not forbidden him, perhaps because the mere prohibition was unnecessary, when it was impossible to penetrate that mysterious corner. For mysterious it was, not only to Péron, but also to the apprentices; and there was no little gossip about the closely fastened door in the roof, and the child heard it when he wandered into the workshop to watch the men manufacturing the marvellous machinery for his well-beloved jacquemarts. No one went to that garret but Madame Michel, and she went only at stated intervals; entering sometimes by the outer staircase, but more frequently by the ladder which went up to the trap-door in the ceiling of her own room. When she was up there, the apprentices always knew it, as well as Péron, for they could hear her steps overhead on the loose boards of the attic floor. What she did there was the subject of much idle, half-jesting conjecture. It could scarcely be a store-room, for she went up and came down empty-handed; they knew this, for the more curious had surprised her in her entrances and exits more than once. It was suggested that she sought this retired spot for the purpose of devotion, but it was further observed that she was usually out of temper after these excursions, and always belabored with her tongue any one whom she caught spying upon her, which did not support the theory of prayer and meditation. The more simple explanation, that she went there to clean and dust the attic, did not suit them either, although natural enough; for the goodwife was scrupulously neat, and had more than once wrought mischief with her dust brush among the curiosities of the shop, until she had been driven out by Jacques des Horloges.

Many a jest was made about that garret, and when the apprentices found that little Péron shared their curiosity, they were only too ready to fill his mind with wonderful tales. The child began after awhile to feel a certain awe mingled with his interest in the secret chamber. The men amused themselves telling him of the hobgoblins who lived under the roof and blew the smoke down the chimneys into the house on days when they were angry. They dressed them up to please their own fancy and amaze the boy. Sometimes the goblins were little and grotesque and lived on eggs stolen from the swallows’ nests under the eaves; again they were large and fat, and sat squat on the ground like toads, and devoured only curious little boys who peeped into their dens in the attics. Again, they told him that the queen of the fairies lived there and ate nothing but cream of clouds à la Zamet. And so the garret became a wonderland to Péron, and he dreaded to see it as much as he longed to explore, with all a boy’s eager fancy for adventure. He was a sober-minded child, too, although so fanciful, and he did not altogether believe the tales that were told him. However, between belief and unbelief, his curiosity waxed strong, and he made many expeditions up the stone stairs from the court to try the handle of the door in the roof; but it was never unfastened, although he sat in the court below and watched it often. Nor was his success better with the trap-door; he could not reach this to try it, for the ladder was always locked up in a closet, except on the auspicious days when Madame Michel ascended. He asked once to accompany her, and was refused more sharply than he had ever been refused any favor before. He was not a child to fret or cry because of a denied pleasure; he neither repeated the request nor asked the cause of the refusal, but accepted the rissole that madame gave him, on her return, as an apology and peace offering. Indeed, all the rest of that day she was unusually indulgent and apologetic to him, and in the evening took him to the pastry shop of Archambault on the Rue des Petits Champs to purchase some of his favorite bonbons and a marvellous dove of sugar, with green eyes which sparkled like jewels. Yet, although she was unaware of it, she had not propitiated him, for the desire of his heart was now, boylike, to see the attic. He pattered along at her side without revealing his thoughts, however; and a strange couple they were on the streets. The good dame was Norman French, a Rouennaise by birth, and a big, broad-shouldered woman with a keen, brown eye and a pleasant, broad face, her black hair brushed smoothly back under her wide-winged white cap; and her dress was that of a well-to-do tradesman’s wife, and withal scrupulously neat. But there was no beauty about her, while about the child there were both beauty and grace of movement. Even in his plain clothes his little figure was striking, and he had a fine, fully developed head for his years. His reserve, his quaint air of dignity, were unlike the manners of the children at play in the streets. Indeed, he had a fixity of purpose which was to prove troublesome to Madame Michel. He accepted her blandishments—but he remembered the attic.

One fair day his opportunity came, as all things come to him who waits. Jacques des Horloges was busy in the shop, the apprentices were deeply engaged on a large clock for M. de Rambuteau, and the cat, M. de Turenne, ran away from Péron and hid. The child hunted for his playmate with the zeal born of idleness, and finding the rooms below empty, he clambered up the stairs to the upper floor. When he came to Madame Michel’s room he stood transfixed at the open door. The ladder was at the trap, and he heard madame’s voice in the court, engaged in shrill altercation with a peddler. The child could scarcely believe his eyes. M. de Turenne was forgotten; here was something of far greater interest. He advanced cautiously, not because he felt himself a transgressor, but because he was awed at the possible revelation which lay before him. His heart beat as he set his small foot on the first rung of the ladder, and then he drew back. The stories of the hobgoblins beset him with strange misgivings; he fancied that he heard a soft sound overhead; he hesitated, and a little tremor of excitement ran over him. What would he see up there? Ah, that was the question! He reflected, however, that he would like to see a hobgoblin, and he did not believe that they ate little boys. He was screwing up his courage, admitting to himself that the possibilities were ugly. But curiosity is a strong motive power, and the child was no coward, if over-imaginative, as children so brought up are likely to be. He wavered only a moment or two; decisive action was necessary before Madame Michel returned. He took his life in his hand and climbed the ladder like a young hero; he did not pause again until he reached the floor of the attic, for fear his courage might fail. At the top he drew his breath and stood still; it took a few minutes for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, for there was only one window in the roof, and that a small one. Then he looked about him with a sharp sense of disappointment, for he saw nothing,—that is, nothing of interest to a child. It was a very small room indeed, with the naked rafters above, and, strange to say, in spite of madame’s neatness, a cobweb or two festooned the corners. The window in the roof revealed the rough boards of the floor and nothing more except three large plain chests of solid wood standing in a row on one side. A barren spot to have excited so much curiosity, and certainly not a promising home for hobgoblins. Péron’s first impulse was to go down the ladder again, but he thought better of it and began to move about the attic, examining it until he assured himself that there was nothing to be seen except the chests. Having arrived at this conclusion, he betook himself to these; he tried the lid of the one nearest the trap-door, but it defied even the industrious efforts of little fingers, and he turned away, disappointed and piqued. The next was equally unaccommodating, although he devoted more time to it; he found the lock and applied his eye to it, in a fruitless effort to see inside. Curiosity now was whetted by defeat and he approached the third, his little face more rosy than usual and his lips pinched tightly together. He was destined to succeed at last; the first touch assured him that the lid was unlocked, and he put out all his child’s strength to lift it and peep in. Again a disappointment; he saw only some neatly folded clothing; but something in the color and appearance attracted him and he pursued his investigations. With infinite care and labor he lifted the lid upright and turned it back on its hinges, then stood gazing with pleased eyes at the objects revealed. Nothing very unusual, only the small clothing of a child of two or three years old, but of a quality and color so delicate that little Péron examined them in wonder. They were as beautiful as the gowns of the belles of the Marais. The chest was closely packed, but the boy got no deeper than the upper layer. Here was a little coat of the palest blue, and Péron knew that it was of velvet and satin, and the lace on it seemed to him like the frost-work that he had sometimes seen on the windows at Christmas. He fingered it gently, for he was a careful child, and the tiny roses in the pattern delighted him. It was while he was examining them that he felt something cold touch his exploring fingers, and a tiny chain of gold slipped out from the folds with a locket on the end of it. His attention was at once absorbed by this new object of interest; it was small and round, and Péron thought it was the brightest piece of red glass that he had ever seen. On it was engraved a very curious picture,—curious to him, at least,—a little lion rampant, a wreath or a scroll, and some figures which he could not decipher. He did not know what it was, but he took it nearer the window, when he discovered that the light made it sparkle. The chain did not interest him, and he gently worked at the links until he accidentally detached it, and then he dropped the chain back into the chest and stood shifting the stone in his fingers to catch the changes of light. He remembered seeing one such stone before,—he thought it was on the neck of the Duchess of Rohan,—and he was delighted with his discovery. It was still in the little nervous fingers when Madame Michel came suddenly up the ladder, having approached unheard while he was fascinated with his bit of red glass. At first the good dame did not see the invader of her sanctum, and when she did, she discovered the open chest at the same instant and came forward with an outcry that frightened the child so much that he drew back, clasping his treasure tightly to his breast, and gazing at her angry face in mute, wide-eyed alarm.

“Mère de Dieu!” she cried, running to the open box, and looking in with feverish anxiety, “what have you done, you little rogue?”

She examined the clothes with fierce scrutiny, but she could detect no disturbance of their neat folds, for Péron had handled them so delicately that no harm was done. She slammed down the lid, and, locking it, thrust the key in her bosom before she turned to the child. Her anger was slightly mollified, but there was still some agitation in her face and manner, and she gazed searchingly at the offender.

“How long have you been here?” she demanded sharply.

The boy was still alarmed by her unusual conduct, and he kept the bit of red glass tight in his little fist.

“I do not know,” he said, shaking his head; “I was looking for M. de Turenne, I—”

“Mon Dieu!” cried madame, looking about behind the boxes, “is that beast here? If he had got into the chest, he would have torn up everything.”

“He is not here,” replied Péron soberly. “I could not find him, and I came up the ladder.”

“What did you want to come up here for?” asked the woman suspiciously, having satisfied herself that M. de Turenne was not in hiding.

“I wanted to see the hobgoblins,” rejoined the child calmly, his agitation departing as her anger subsided.

Madame looked at him in amazement, her eyes very round.

“Ciel! the boy is mad,” she said to herself softly, and then aloud, “You are dreaming, mon enfant, what do you mean? There are no hobgoblins in this house.”

“Mais oui, madame!” exclaimed the child wisely, “there are, here under the roof; they said so;” and he pointed downward.

“They?” repeated the good woman, bewildered; “who are ‘they’?”

“Jehan and Pierre, the apprentices, and Manchette, too,” he replied; “it must be true!”

“Ah!” ejaculated madame sharply; “so they gossip about this place, do they?”

Gossip was a long word for little Péron; he wrinkled his brows.

“They told me of the hobgoblins,” he repeated stoutly.

Madame Michel’s face cleared a little.

“Ah, only nonsense to frighten the child!” she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. “Sainte Geneviève! I thought—” But she did not finish the sentence; she laid a heavy hand on Péron’s shoulder.

“Listen to me,” she said, in a sharp, clear tone. “I have never whipped you, mon enfant, but if you say one word of this attic to Jehan, Pierre, Manchette, or any one else, I will surely whip you, Péron, and you shall have no dinner; neither shall you go to the Rue des Petits Champs;—do you understand me, eh?”

Péron looked up at her red face and his childish courage quaked; but he was a proud child, and he inwardly resolved that he would never bear a blow—he would run away first.

“Why do you not speak?” she cried angrily; “you hear me, enfant!”

“I will not tell, madame,” the boy answered gravely, “but you will not whip me!”

She let go of him, amazed at the look on his face, an expression of almost shame coming over hers. She knelt down on the garret floor and kissed the child’s hand, the picture of humility.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” she said, tears in her voice; “you are right, I will not whip you.”

There were tears in her eyes also. A moment later she rose, and brushed the moisture from her eyelashes with the back of her broad, strong hand.

“I am an old fool!” she said, giving the boy a push toward the ladder; “go away, mon enfant, there is nothing here but some old chests, old clothes, and old hopes!”

At this moment her eyes fell on the form of M. de Turenne, who was sitting placidly at the top of the ladder, licking his gray fur, the end of his tail moving in a charmed circle.

“Scat!” she cried, stamping her feet, “between the cat and the child I shall go mad,” and she drove them both down the ladder and slammed down the door after them.

All the while the piece of red glass had remained tightly clasped in Péron’s hand. In his agitation he had held it unconsciously, and now he was afraid to tell Madame Michel, dreading a repetition of the scene. He crept away with it to his own little room and examined it with a tremor of excitement. It was so pretty, and it had so nearly precipitated a terrible calamity; for he felt that had madame struck him, he should have died of shame. He was afraid to return the stone and afraid to play with it, and it became a fresh cause for embarrassment. However, he finally solved the problem by determining to hide it away. In a little cupboard in the corner of his room there was one shelf devoted to his treasures,—wax and paper models of jacquemarts, broken watch-springs, some fancifully shaped pebbles, a number of marvellously useless valuables, and here Madame Michel never meddled. Therefore he loved it with the pride of sole proprietorship, and here in a dark corner he stowed away the bit of red glass wrapped in a soiled sheet of paper. For a few days he took it out surreptitiously and played with it, and then he forgot it and it lay there unheeded and unsought; for as yet Madame Michel had not discovered her loss.

CHAPTER IIIPÈRE ANTOINE

A

FTER Péron had gratified his curiosity in regard to the garret and found it such a bare and unprofitable spot, he speedily forgot it, and only once again during his childhood was he to startle Madame Michel with the mention of it. This was on the occasion of a conversation which took place some months later in the shop. The house at the sign of Ste. Geneviève was too small to harbor any of the apprentices at night, so after work hours they took their departure, leaving the members of the little family to themselves. As none of his patrons ever visited him in the evening, Jacques des Horloges was then at liberty to entertain his personal friends. The clockmaker was a quiet man, not much addicted to conviviality, and he had few visitors at such times, occupying himself frequently with studies connected with his work or in straightening his accounts. It was the family custom in the evening to gather around the table in the living-room, which was cheerfully lighted with tapers. Madame Michel was always knitting, her needles flying with marvellous celerity, while her eyes were equally alert in observing Péron and M. de Turenne. Jacques des Horloges was a broad-shouldered, stalwart-looking man, a native of Picardy, his rugged face and honest, kindly eye commending him to the observer. He had a powerful build for one of his profession, and looked better suited to bear the sword than to wind the machinery of delicate watches. His dress was suited to his station in life and showed no signs of the fortune which, it was whispered, he had accumulated. His only ornament was a chain of gold around his neck which supported a tiny, cruciform watch, so ingeniously manufactured that it not only struck the hours but showed also the day of the month.[1]

It was on one of these evenings, when Jacques and his wife and little Péron sat around the table, that a knock at the shop door disturbed the quiet scene. Madame Michel rose and went to answer it, still knitting, even when she walked across the dimly lighted shop, not even dropping a stitch as she made her way between the tiers of clocks. When she opened the door she curtsied low and greeted the visitor with reverence as well as affection. A moment later she returned to the living-room conducting a tall, thin man wearing the plain black habit of a priest,—a man of middle age, stooping slightly in his bearing and with a face of unusual sweetness and refinement of expression. Michel greeted the new-comer with as much cordiality as his wife had shown; and even little Péron ran to draw forward a chair for him, while the cat rubbed himself against his cassock with evident affection. There are some persons to whom all animals turn with instinctive trust and affection, and there is no better sign, as there is no worse than the aversion shown to others. The instinct of an animal is more unerring than human perception: it recognizes both brutes and traitors.

The priest smiled an equal welcome upon all, but there was perplexity in his blue eyes. He sat down and laid his broad-brimmed hat on the table and clasped his hands on his knee; and he had handsome hands, slender and nervous, with delicate finger-tips. His face was pale, with lines about the thin lips and under the large eyes, showing care, anxiety, midnight vigils; he had the face of a student, and the hair, already gray at the back of his head, was white on the temples. His gaze rested now on the child, who, having seated the visitor, had resumed his own place on the floor, where he was cutting out a paper clock. The priest watched him attentively, while Jacques des Horloges and his wife waited in respectful silence for him to open the conversation. Something about little Péron interested Père Antoine so much that it was some moments before he looked up, and when he did, it was with a grave face.

“I have strange tidings,” he said softly, glancing from Jacques to his wife. “M. de Bruneau has been arrested and will be condemned to death.”

Michel stared at him in blank amazement, and madame uttered a cry and dropped her knitting-needles. The priest made a sign with his hand toward the child on the floor, and it had its effect at once; both his auditors restrained their agitation.

“I cannot understand,” Jacques des Horloges said. “What was his offence? Not a plot against the king, surely?”

“Ay,” Père Antoine replied soberly, “something of that sort, although a much exaggerated charge, manufactured, I fear, by his enemies. He was taken on the Rue St. Denis, on information furnished by one high in the favor of Albert de Luynes.”

“Who is he?” asked Michel eagerly.

The priest glanced again at the child.

“It is M. de Nançay,” he said, in a low voice; “one of the witnesses against the accused is his cousin, Lemoigne de Marsou.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Jacques des Horloges, nodding his head slowly.

“A trap, of course, mon père,” Madame Michel exclaimed, leaning forward in her interest, her knitting forgotten.

“It would seem so,” Père Antoine replied thoughtfully. “M. de Bruneau was led into making some admission. There has been too much sharp practice in tracing plotters. I truly believe that de Bruneau may be innocent of all treason, but it cannot be proved. Since his majesty reached his majority, madame his mother has been discontented with her position. She cannot accept any place but the first. She has ruled so long during the king’s childhood that she is not willing to give up. It is said publicly by her partisans that she has been admitted to the council merely for the sake of appearances and has no voice in anything, though her name is used, and the people hold her responsible for affairs in which she has no part. The young men of her party are therefore constantly plotting to reinstate her in authority, and her jealousy of her son fosters these intrigues both here and in her court at Blois. It is some affair of this kind in which de Bruneau is implicated, but I think that M. de Nançay is far more likely to have burned his fingers than this young man.”

“It is strange,” remarked Jacques des Horloges; “M. de Bruneau is the last man of whom I should expect such disloyalty; he could not have been in his senses.”

“He says that he had been drinking when the confession was forced from him,” Père Antoine rejoined; “it was at Archambault’s pastry shop.”

“You have seen him, then?” asked Madame Michel eagerly.

“I went immediately to the Châtelet,” the priest replied; “I found him much as I expected. He has not the fortitude to meet such a calamity.”

“He has powerful patrons, mon père,” the goodwife said; “is there no hope of intercession?”

The priest shook his head.

“None,” he answered; “there have been too many plots, too many intrigues; they will make an example of him. The whole weight of the Marquis de Nançay’s influence, never greater than now, will be thrown into the scale against the prisoner.”