The cardinal's musketeer

by Mary Imlay Taylor

“I do not recognize the man as a friend,” Péron remarked thoughtfully.

“A foe, most likely,” retorted Ferré, with a shrug.

His auditor was absorbed in thought.

“Can I take a short cut from here to the highroad, and avoid the way by the château?” he asked at last.

“And so outstrip the green cloak?” asked Ferré, with a grim smile. “Ay, take yonder cut through the brushwood and ride into the forest. The way is easy enough, but you must ford the Thève.”

Péron thanked him heartily and rode off at once, convinced now that the delay that had been forced upon him might be far more serious in its consequences than he had at first supposed. He did not recognize the description of the green-cloaked rider, but he felt certain that it was not a friend, and that his best chance was in an effort to outstrip the stranger on the road or to overtake him; he trusted that he could easily dispose of a single antagonist. He took the path pointed out by Ferré and was soon in the depths of the forest of Chantilly, where once a year the festival of St. Hubert was celebrated. The heavy rain-clouds were dispersing, and by the time he had reached the Thève the sun was shining. In the peaceful depths of the forest it seemed impossible to look for conspirators; the new greens of spring clothed it with beautiful verdure, and on the mossy banks the violets were blooming, recalling to Péron the violets of Nançay and the little golden-haired girl who had tossed him a cluster. Here and there through green arcades he caught glimpses of the lakes of Commelle, and in the distance was the Château de la Loge, built by the mother of St. Louis. The sweet perfumes of the woodland were in the air, the moss was soft beneath his horse’s feet, and overhead a bird’s song cleft the stillness with a clear, sweet note of joy.

He avoided the village of Commelle, and came out upon the highroad at a spot where there were woods on either side and much brush and growth of vines which made a thicket. He cast a sharp glance at the mass of feathery trailing green and overhanging boughs, for it seemed the very place for an ambuscade; but he saw nothing, and looking back down the road toward Chantilly there was no green cloak, and he believed that he had outwitted his pursuer. Congratulating himself on his success, he took the road between the thickets, only using the precaution of loosening his sword in its scabbard and drawing his pistol; but nothing stirred. He rode forward briskly, and had reached the turn where two paths met before anything occurred. Then there was a sudden crackling of boughs and underbrush, and in a moment he was surrounded,—one masked horseman on either side and one in front. In a moment or two they were joined by the man with the green cloak, whom Péron observed just as its wearer called to him to surrender. For reply the young soldier fired at the stranger, and so excellent was his aim that the man reeled in his saddle and the next moment lay on the ground, while his horse galloped off into the woods. A space was clear, and Péron urged his own horse forward, trusting to escape.

“Take the fool or kill him!” shouted one of his other assailants; and a bullet whistled close to his ear. Péron turned in his saddle and fired again, but missed, and his enemies were now all three close upon him.

His fate seemed sealed, and would have been but for a sudden diversion,—an assault from the rear which compelled the three masks to defend themselves. There was a shout, a clash of swords, and Péron recognized Choin. Thankful now for Archambault’s quick wit, Péron turned back to aid his rescuers and saw Choin shoot down the tall man who seemed to be the leader. For five minutes the fight was hot, but there were now but two to four, for the Italian had brought two comrades. Two of the miscreants lay dead or unconscious and the other two were readily secured. When the fight was over the fencing-master wiped his forehead.

“Pardieu!” he said, “we were in the nick of time. I have not had such fun since the cardinal made duelling a capital offence. What carrion have you there?” he added, seeing Péron examining the fallen men.