The cardinal's musketeer

by Mary Imlay Taylor

“I am,” replied Péron, surprised at the recognition. “What do you want of me at this hour, child?”

“I have a letter for you,” he replied, thrusting a note into Péron’s hands and turning away at once.

“Not so fast,” exclaimed the musketeer, intending to detain the messenger; but the boy was fleet of foot and had fled away in the darkness, without pausing to hear what Péron had to say.

Annoyed and amused by the little vagabond’s manner of delivering missives, Péron had no resource but to enter the house and get a light by which he could read the letter so strangely sent to him. The contents startled him more than the manner in which he had received it. The writing was delicate, like that of a woman, and he recognized the seal. The note was brief and to the point; it ran:—

“M. de Calvisson,—If you will meet the writer at the stone bridge by the Cours la Reine, you will receive the ring which was lately stolen from you. If you come not by nine o’clock on Thursday morning, you will lose the opportunity forever—and the ring.

R. de N.”

The seal and the initials were those of Renée de Nançay; yet Péron was not only perplexed, but doubtful. He had never seen mademoiselle’s writing, but something in the letter raised his doubts; he suspected a trap. This was Tuesday; he had therefore one day in which to endeavor to fathom this mystery, and he resolved to use it. Of one thing he was no longer uncertain: the ring had been stolen. As it was already past midnight and he could accomplish nothing for the next few hours, he wisely spent those in an effort to rest; but he slept little, for now, in addition to his anxiety in regard to the cardinal’s ring, was the fresh perplexity of the note, which might and might not be from mademoiselle. Péron did not misunderstand her; he knew that what she did was prompted rather by her disgust at the treachery that she saw about her than from any kindness toward him, though once or twice he had thought that with all her hauteur Renée was not wholly indifferent to his fate. He knew that in her eyes there was a great gulf fixed between them, which not even her love or his could span. Mademoiselle, the daughter of a marquis, one of the grand demoiselles of France, could scarcely afford to lose her heart to the cardinal’s musketeer. Péron, conscious of his own noble birth, watched the young girl’s proud defiance with a pang at the thought that the revelation of his rank would but widen the breach. As for the note, the appointment at the lonely spot was unlike a woman. On one side of the Cours la Reine, the road to the king’s hunting-lodge at Versailles divided it from the Seine; on the other were ditches which ran between the promenade and a barren plain; and across these ditches was, at one place, a small stone bridge. A spot more lonely at that hour of the morning could scarcely be found, and it seemed wholly unsuited to a visit from a young woman, yet it had the one advantage of being isolated and little visited by those who would be likely to recognize Mademoiselle de Nançay. Whichever way Péron regarded the matter, he found it perplexing, but he never thought of failing to keep the tryst. There was no risk save to himself, and he was not one to hesitate because of personal danger. It lent a zest to every adventure, and he would have lamented its absence.

He devoted some time the following day to a fruitless endeavor to probe the mystery. It was of course impossible to discover the bearer of the letter, and he found it equally difficult to obtain any other information beyond the bare fact that Mademoiselle de Nançay had been in Paris the previous day, at her father’s house on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre. This lent a color of possibility to the incident. Further than this, Péron was unable to push his investigations, and at nightfall on Wednesday he knew as little as ever, but he had fully determined to go to the stone bridge on the following morning, taking only the precaution to wear his hallecrèt and to go well armed and prepared for any emergency.

He supped with Madame Michel at the clockmaker’s shop,—a custom to which he always adhered unless on duty at the Palais Cardinal,—but he returned early to his rooms on the Rue des Bons Enfans. He had kept a persistent watch there since the loss of the ring, having some fancies about the window, which he still suspected as the way by which his quarters had been entered. It was after nightfall, and he had lighted his tapers and sat down at his table to read; for Père Antoine’s early training had cultivated his taste for books. It was while he was thus quietly engaged that he became aware of light footsteps on the stairs outside his door, and the rustle of a woman’s garments. He stopped in surprise and listened, his eyes upon the door. In a moment he heard a whispered consultation, and then something brushed against the panels. He said nothing, waiting to see the sequel or to hear it. Presently there was a timid knock, followed by the low murmur of voices. He waited no longer, for his curiosity was fully roused, and undoing the latch he threw open the door, revealing two cloaked and masked women on the other side. Without hesitation, the smaller of the two entered the room, followed by the other, and signed to him to close the door. He did so in surprise and bewilderment, and was not sure of his recognition until Mademoiselle de Nançay removed her mask. She was very pale, but her eyes sparkled with excitement and resolution, and she scarcely heeded Péron’s salutation.

“M. de Calvisson,” she said, with quiet dignity of manner, “you must think it strange indeed for me to come here—and in this manner—but I learned only an hour since of the snare that had been set for you; that my name had been used for a cruel deception, and I could not rest until I set it right. Monsieur, you received a note purporting to come from me and summoning you to keep a tryst at the stone bridge by the Cours la Reine. That letter was a tissue of falsehood.”