The cardinal's musketeer

CARDINAL RICHELIEU FROM THE PORTRAIT BY PHILIPPE DE CHAMPAIGNE, IN THE GALLERY OF THE LOUVRE
THE Cardinal’s Musketeer
BY M. IMLAY TAYLOR AUTHOR OF “ON THE RED STAIRCASE,” “AN IMPERIAL LOVER,” “A YANKEE VOLUNTEER,” “THE HOUSE OF THE WIZARD”
CHICAGO A. C. McCLURG & CO. 1900
Copyright By A. C. McClurg & Co. A.D. 1900 All rights reserved
The Cardinal’s Musketeer
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.
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.