Péron entered the palace by a back staircase and found his way to Father Joseph la Tremblaye. To him he briefly recited the whole matter, keeping nothing back and saying nothing to extenuate his own fault in failing to deliver the ring immediately on his return from Brussels. Father Joseph listened without comment, merely bidding the young musketeer await the cardinal’s pleasure where he was, and giving no indication of what he might expect.
Péron waited a long time after the priest retired, and he walked to and fro in the small room—which was Father Joseph’s closet—trying to conjecture what would happen next. The situation was so peculiar, the policy of the court so fluctuating, that he knew not what might be the end. M. de Nançay was dead, and Father Joseph had the ring,—but what might not be the results of such a web of conspiracy? Well did he know that there would be a scapegoat, and why should it not be he? There was no one to interfere, and it might be the most convenient way in which to hush up a great scandal. He was therefore in a gloomy frame of mind when one of the cardinal’s ushers, clad in the livery worn at the levées, came to summon him to attend upon monsignor. He noticed the man’s elaborate dress with surprise; but as the man was a new member of the household, he asked no questions, but followed him in silence. As they passed rapidly through the apartments which led to the eastern gallery where Richelieu most frequently received his visitors, Péron noticed that the guards were all on duty, and that there was an unusual stir in the palace. He could not imagine why he should be summoned to this public place for a private interview, nor could he account for the deferential manner of his conductor. At the door of the salon stood two of his comrades, the cardinal’s musketeers, and both saluted at his approach. The usher opened the door and Péron entered the great gallery alone. He halted at the threshold, convinced that there was some mistake,—that he was not wanted here. The long apartment, furnished with the magnificence of royalty, was thronged with noblemen and princes and great ladies of the court. Péron stepped back in confusion, and addressed the usher.
“Friend, you have blundered,” he said; “the cardinal does not send for his musketeer at such a time as this.”
The usher shook his head, standing before the door that Péron might not escape.
“My orders are precise, monsieur,” he replied; “you are to await monsignor’s pleasure here.”
“You must be in error,” Péron persisted angrily, for he felt many curious eyes upon him.
“You are M. Jehan de Calvisson, are you not?” asked the usher quietly.
“Ay, blockhead!” retorted Péron with impatience, “but I am only the cardinal’s musketeer, and here are half the grandees of France.”
“My orders are precise,” said the other stubbornly, “and by St. Denis you shall not leave until monsignor comes.”
Péron shrugged his shoulders. “On your own head be it!” he said; “’tis a stupid blunder.”