The cardinal's musketeer

by Mary Imlay Taylor

Two hours later Péron had again assumed the scarlet uniform of the cardinal’s musketeers and was making his way to the shop at the sign of Ste. Geneviève with a light heart, having successfully executed his commission and conscious that he stood well with Richelieu, who was ever chary of his praise, though quick to censure neglect and unforgiving of disobedience.

It was the fête of St. Barnabas, and the shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie was empty when Péron entered it, but at the sound of his footsteps Jacques des Horloges came out of the inner room followed by Madame Michel. In both their honest, kindly faces Péron read disappointment and surprise as they saw him in his old uniform; these simple folk longed to hail him by his proper title, to see him in his father’s place, and they could not understand what seemed to them his lack of ambition. However, they greeted him with their accustomed cordiality and affection, and the shop being vacant, the three sat down amid the tall clocks and the short clocks, which stood in the same close tiers as in the days of Péron’s childhood; and as the cat, a gray one too, came out from behind the jacquemart and rubbed himself against them, it seemed to the musketeer that the years had not been, and that he was still the clockmaker’s adopted child, with his speculations about the mysterious attic and his legends of the many clocks; and his eyes rested dreamily on the cross-shaped watch of M. de Guise. He was not permitted to enjoy this revery; for they had a hundred questions to ask, and he strove to answer them to their satisfaction, for his heart was warm with grateful affection for this faithful couple. They heard all that he felt at liberty to tell them of his journey,—its perils and its happy termination. Madame listened between tears and smiles, clasping her hands and murmuring an occasional thanksgiving as she heard of his narrow escape. Jacques was differently affected. He had been reared a soldier, and the account of such adventures stirred his blood; there was a gleam in his eye, a tightening of the lips that told, more plainly than words, how he wished he had been there to strike a good blow at the opportune moment. The scene in the old shop was full of homely interest, the beautiful and quaint clocks forming a picturesque setting for the three figures,—the stalwart clockmaker leaning on the counter, his gray head a little bent as he listened, Madame Michel sitting in a low chair, her hands clasped and her broad, brown face illumined with affection and amazement under the white wings of her wide cap, and opposite the graceful figure in its scarlet uniform and the handsome face of the musketeer, who held the gray cat on his knee absently caressing it as he talked. When he told of mademoiselle’s trinket, Jacques immediately showed a new interest and asked to see it; he held it a moment in his hand, looking at it attentively, and then he smiled.

“I know this watch well,” he said; “I made it myself.”

“I thought I knew something of watches,” Péron remarked, “and I took that for one of the Valois period.”

“That shows my skill,” replied the clockmaker, in an amused tone. “It is a copy of a Valois watch belonging to the queen-mother. I made twenty of these, though I only dimly divined their purpose, and all have this secret spring.” As he spoke he pressed the side of the watch and it opened to reveal a miniature. With a smile he held it out to Péron, “You know its secret virtue now,” he said.

The miniature, though exceedingly small, was an excellent representation of the Italian features and round eyes of Marie de’ Medici.

“I should never have made this discovery,” Péron said, “nor do I think that Guerin Neff opened it.”

“There was no need,” rejoined Jacques, pointing to the cover; “they all bear that tiny fleur-de-lis upon them, and are all of exactly the same size and shape.”

The trinket had to be handed to Madame Michel to examine, and while she was marvelling at her husband’s skill, he went on to speak of other things.

“M. de Vesson is a half-brother of Pilâtre de Nançay,” he said, “and like enough to be up to the elbows in the same business. ’Tis strange that monsignor let that rogue go.”