Following his instructions, they resumed their journey, Péron again penned in his litter, like a sick woman, and not allowed speech with any one. Thus they rode through Beauvais, without halting, and took the way to St. Denis with all speed. At midday they halted to eat and to bait their horses, and then it was that Péron was surprised by the actions of Guerin Neff. Since the discovery of mademoiselle’s watch the fellow had shown a certain awe and respect for his captive, and now when he alone was on guard, he took the opportunity to thrust the trinket into Péron’s hand.
“Take it,” he said gruffly. “I know not how you came by it, but I will not meddle with it. I have seen more than one honest man lose his head for meddling with the business of Madame la Mère; I will none of it.”
Péron took the trinket without reply; he had the cardinal’s message again in his mouth and could not speak, if he would, and Neff interpreted his silence as a mere continuance of his sullen mood.
After that, the prisoner was left undisturbed; only once was any food thrust into the litter, and that also was given by Guerin Neff. It was a weary journey, but Péron had cause to congratulate himself on his success: no one as yet even suspected the cause of his persistent silence, and but for the discomfort of the device, it seemed an easy and simple means of duping the enemy. All things come to an end, however, and he could not avoid some dreary speculations upon the probable termination of his adventure. Shut in as he was, he could not discover their road or where they intended to go, except that the general direction was toward Paris; and he was aware that they finally crossed the Seine not far from Rouen, which showed that they had quitted the road to St. Denis, taking a more westerly course. He had nothing to expect but imprisonment or death. He reflected that they were not likely to let him escape to bear the tidings of his capture to Cardinal Richelieu, and to give him the information which they had failed to take from him. Cramped with his bonds, and weary from need of sleep which he dared not take, he lay, at last, indifferent to fate and merely awaiting the end.
It was night when the party finally halted before a château, and after a brief delay Péron was roused from his despair by hearing the others dismount and seeing the flare of torches about his litter. Evidently they had reached their destination, and he rallied his drooping energy to meet the climax. After some time he was taken from the litter and unbound. He shook himself with almost the joy of an animal at feeling his limbs free, and looked about him. They were in a courtyard at the rear of a large house, and the place was quite lively and noisy from the sudden arrival of so large a party. Two torches served to partially dispel the gloom, and he saw that there were several grooms and hostlers running about among the horses and that the light streamed out from the open door of the château. Before he could observe more he was taken by his two guardians and led up the steps into the house. Here were the others, M. de Vesson, his son, and his friends, standing in a group in the center of the hall, talking to a young and beautiful woman, whose brilliant dress showed in the light of many tapers. Péron caught his breath; to his amazement he recognized the proud face and golden hair of Renée de Nançay. In a moment he understood the détour around St Denis; they had come to Nançay, being relatives and fellow-conspirators of the marquis. After the first shock of surprise Péron fixed his eyes on mademoiselle, wondering what would be the outcome of the strange trick of destiny which made him now virtually her prisoner. But Renée made no sign; she was no longer the defiant girl of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, or the plucky little conspirator who had defied him at the house of the Image de Notre Dame. She was the haughty demoiselle, the great lady of the château; she looked at him without recognition, with cold hauteur and indifference. He heard her reply to M. de Vesson’s request for some place to bestow the prisoner.
“Certainly, monsieur,” she said in a clear voice, without another glance at the young musketeer; “the cell in the west wing, near the north tower, is the strongest; my steward will direct your men where to bestow him according to your pleasure.”
Her back was toward Péron now, nor did she turn her head when he was led away to go through long halls and down two flights of stairs and to be locked at last a prisoner in a cell in his father’s house. Thus he was securely locked and bolted in the narrow room and left to reflect upon the strange trick of fate which made him a captive where he should have ruled as master.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE DUNGEON OF THE CHÂTEAU
THE room in which the prisoner was confined was a small one in the cellar of the Château de Nançay, and was strong enough to resist his greatest efforts to effect an escape. That had been his first thought, and, as soon as the bolts were shot and his guards departed, he devoted himself to an exhaustive but unprofitable examination of the place. He was provided with a rushlight, and was thus enabled to make his observations with comparative ease. However, a few moments sufficed to convince him that it was fruitless to look for a possible means of egress. There was but one door, that by which he had entered, and which was sufficiently secure to resist twenty men as well as one, unprovided as he was with any lever to force the bolts and bars; and the only window, situated too high for him to look out of, was two feet long by ten inches in height and barred. Through it an occasional gust of night air chilled the room and made the rushlight flicker. He noticed with some surprise—and strange thoughts of mademoiselle’s charity—that there was only a bench in the cell, and that too short and narrow for a man to lie on. If he slept to-night it must be on the floor; and he was already almost overcome with physical exhaustion from his unremitting watchfulness. A pitcher of water and a bowl of soup had been put upon the bench, and he ate the pottage with good appetite, for his fast had been almost unbroken since he left Amiens. He experienced a sensation of relief, at escaping the vigilance which had tormented him, and being secure of a few hours in which to rest without holding that hard ball between the roof of his mouth and his tongue. He wasted no further time in speculations as to the morrow; he ate his food and drank from his pitcher of water, and then, having hidden Père Matthieu’s message as securely as he could in his clothing, he made a pillow of his cloak and stretched himself on the hard stone floor with a sigh of comfort. There is no sleep sweeter than that which comes to the weary, and he had earned a right to unbroken slumber. However, unconsciousness did not come so quickly as he had expected; he lay for a long while thinking of Mademoiselle de Nançay’s manifest indifference to his fate, and the ease with which she consigned a political enemy to a comfortless dungeon. He could not reconcile this apparent cruelty with the kindness that had given him a token which, in all probability, had saved his life. He was visited, too, by other thoughts and with the recollection of Madame Michel’s description of the manner in which he had been saved, when a helpless infant, from his father’s enemy. He thought, too, of his visit, when a boy, to the château with Jacques des Horloges, of his prayer in his dead mother’s room, of Renée and her bunch of violets on the terrace. As he lay there on the dungeon floor he fancied that he could hear the bell of the great jacquemart, which Michel regulated, ringing for eleven o’clock, and from that his mind went back to the chimes in the little shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie and of his childhood and M. de Turenne. At this his thoughts trailed off into unconsciousness, and the exhausted musketeer slept the sleep of the tired and the innocent.
He did not know how long he had slumbered, but it seemed scarcely an hour, when he was awakened by the opening of the door of his cell. The bolts were rusty, and they slipped back with a grating sound which roused him at once. His rushlight had gone out, but the persons who opened his door bore a taper which served to reveal them to his startled eyes. He had expected Guerin Neff or one of the retainers of Nançay, but instead of these he saw two women: one, short and thick, held the taper which shone in her face—it was Ninon; the other, smaller and slighter, he recognized with surprise as Renée de Nançay. At the first sound he had started to his feet, and he stood now regarding them in much perplexity, but without uneasiness in regard to his trust; of two women he had no need to be afraid. Mademoiselle’s treatment of him in the hall had been such that he gravely waited for her to speak. They came in, however, without a word, and closed the door behind them; then he saw that Renée held a sword and a pistol in her hands as well as a mask. All these things she laid upon the bench before she spoke. She was evidently surprised at her reception, and her face flushed deeply as she turned to address him.