“He is in higher hands than ours,” replied the priest sadly, making a sign as though he blessed the child, before he bade them good-night and went on his solemn errand to the Châtelet.
CHAPTER IV
THE PASTRY SHOP ON THE RUE DES PETITS CHAMPS
IT was one of Péron’s few privileges to pay an occasional visit to the pastry shop of his friend Archambault. A privilege which he prized most highly when he could go without Madame Michel, because he was then certain to be the recipient of various little gifts of sweetmeats, of which he did not receive so large a share in her presence. But the permission to go alone was so rare that it was scarcely obtained in a twelvemonth, and then only when the goodwife was so occupied that she could not spare the time either to make or to fetch some dainty for the dinner of Jacques des Horloges. But it was only a few weeks after Père Antoine’s evening visit that one of these rare opportunities presented itself, and little Péron trotted off as fast as his sturdy legs could carry him to the Rue des Petits Champs. He was clad in his every-day clothes, and his taffety jacket was beginning to show threadbare spots at the elbows; but his apparel did not disguise the child’s native grace, and his dark eyes shone with happiness. He walked swiftly, not stopping to speak to any one, ignoring the children at play, according to his instructions, and clasping a livre tightly in his rosy fist; for madame had bidden him be careful of it and bring her the change, and he knew well that she made much ado over the careless spending of a denier or a sou. It was a great thing for him to be trusted with so stupendous a sum as a whole silver livre, and he felt the responsibility, resisting the temptation to disobey orders and stop to watch the youngsters at play in the Rue de l’Arbre Sec, which was right in his way. With a strong appreciation of his own virtues, he kept straight upon his course, and arrived at the pastry shop, above the door of which swung the sign of Les Trois Champignons. In this establishment there were two rooms,—the outer one, which Péron entered, furnished with a long counter in front of the kitchen door, and full of small tables for the accommodation of a motley crowd of visitors; and the inner apartment, on the opposite side from the kitchen, which was for the entertainment of persons of consequence. No one was more quick to recognize the most ethereal differences in rank or social degree than Archambault, the cook, and like all vulgar people he was noisy in his eagerness to serve the rich and the great; yet—with all the faults natural to his class—the honest fellow had a good heart, and fed the poor at his back door as liberally as he fed the rich at his front. For which he was not to blame, as it is a common fault of human nature to prefer to receive the poor at the back door. St. Teresa and her two sous had the help of God, but doubtless she would have had a low seat at the pastry cook’s.
When little Péron entered the shop, the outer room was well filled with guests, scattered in groups at the various tables. The greater number of them were soldiers, and there was a good deal of noisy talk and laughter. The attendants were moving about at a rapid pace, endeavoring to fulfil the demands made on them from every quarter, and there was no one behind the counter when the boy reached it. A little embarrassed by the crowd and the noise, the child stood waiting for some one to attend to his wants, watching meanwhile the groups nearest at hand. At a table close by sat three young soldiers wearing the dress of musketeers. They had reached a course of sweetmeats and pastry, which they were washing down with a liberal supply of good red wine. A soldier is always interesting to a boy, and little Péron gazed at these men with eager curiosity; their rich uniforms, their fiercely curled moustaches, their polished accoutrements, all pleased his eye. After awhile, a few words of their conversation attracted his attention, and he listened trying to understand, for the name of M. de Bruneau was one that he remembered hearing from Père Antoine. The men were discussing in low tones the trial of the latest political offender; they were talking also of M. de Luynes and of the king, and it seemed as if the fate of de Bruneau, for some reason, excited unusual interest. It was evident that no one quite believed in his guilt, although no one could prove his innocence.
“M. de Bruneau died like a gentleman at noon to-day,” remarked one of the musketeers, eating a citron with a certain placid enjoyment of the sweetmeat and his gruesome subject.
“I heard that his knees shook and he was sadly frightened at the sight of the block,” said another, shrugging his shoulders.
“Parbleu! I do not blame him,” cried the third; “’tis one thing to die in a fight, or even to fall by a sword-thrust on the Place Royale, quite another to walk up to the block to be bled like an ox. No one seems to know what was the full charge against him either, except the accuser.”
“Who is a cousin of M. de Nançay, whereby hangs a tale as long as a sermon,” said the first speaker.
“And Bruneau was the cousin of the dead marquis, was he not?” asked the second soldier.
“Ay,” responded the other, “which is the handle of the tale.”