The usher shut his lips tightly and stood his ground, so that there was no alternative for Péron. He could not engage in a brawl with a servant in such an assembly, and was forced to stand there in his plain dress, amidst the gay throng, where every man wore satin or velvet, and the women were as gayly attired as the roses in a June garden. He looked down the long gallery, observing the scene with curiosity and frequent surprises, as he noted first one and then another of the guests. There was M. de Soissons, known to be unfavorable to Richelieu, and Madame d’Effiat, the mother of Cinq Mars, and yonder was the Prince de Condé, and M. de Montbazon. In a throng in the center of the room was Monsieur, clad in white satin, his breast covered with jewels and his long curls falling on his shoulders. Péron looked at him with strange recollections of the adventurer in the house at Poissy, of the poltroon who had been ready to sacrifice all his friends at Ruel, to save himself. Monsieur, however, was calm and smiling, the picture of his true self,—selfish, indolent, and unstable, with nothing of his father in him.
All these great personages whispered and laughed and made merry, awaiting the entrance of the cardinal, who, rumor said, was ill and not likely to be better, though the indomitable spirit would not yield. There were many there who heard this talk not only without regret but with much secret joy. They hated him as heartily as they feared him, and would have come to his funeral with greater joy than to his levées. Yet on every side there were expressions of anxiety for monsignor’s health and of almost tender regard at its delicate condition; for it is the world’s profession to lie, and to lie gracefully.
The atmosphere of the crowded place, the murmur of ceaseless talk, the gay indifference of these creatures, who courted power for the love of it, all oppressed Péron. His simple childhood, his hardy training, had made him dislike such scenes and feel their mockery, knowing as he did how often the cardinal had been deserted when he seemed tottering to his fall, how quickly he would be deserted now if the king’s favor failed him. He recollected hearing Madame Michel tell of the death of the gay favorite, Albert de Luynes, and how for one day or more his body lay neglected, and his grooms played cards upon his bier.
Suddenly the door at the other end of the gallery opened, and an usher cried loudly: “The cardinal! the cardinal!”
There was a stir, necks were craned, skirts rustled, fans swayed; great dignitaries jostled one another to see if this man was indeed near death. The gay throng parted in the middle, leaving a long aisle down which monsignor slowly walked, leaning heavily on Father Joseph. Richelieu, was ill indeed, and his step was heavy, like that of a man who bore a burden, but the indomitable spirit was unquenched; his face showed white as a corpse in contrast to his blood-red robes, but his dark eyes glowed with wonderful brilliancy, as though the fires of his soul burned brighter as the body weakened. To look at the great minister was to be convinced that while the flesh was mortal, the soul was indeed immortal. He came slowly, pausing to speak first to one and then another, but without a smile, his cold, proud manner losing nothing of its hauteur by momentary intercourse with others. He who trusted no man, and knew and manipulated hundreds, had only a deep suspicion and disdain for the sycophants who fawned upon his feet at one hour and were ready to cut his throat the next. The great cardinal,—the Huguenot cardinal as he has been called, because he was great enough to be at once liberal and far-sighted,—who loved France as he also loved power, knew the men with whom he had to deal.
He came so slowly down the gallery that it seemed a long time to Péron before those dark eyes lighted upon him; but no sooner did the cardinal see his musketeer than he beckoned to him. Then facing around, he looked back at the gay throng, laying his hand on the young musketeer’s shoulder. There was a pause, every eye turning toward these two standing together, in strange contrast, before the crowded room. It was very still when Richelieu spoke in a clear voice that penetrated every corner of the gallery and was heard by the guards at the doors.
“My friends,” he said, leaning heavily on Péron, “but lately I told you of a great wrong done to a noble gentleman. It is now my duty to announce to you his majesty’s pleasure in regard to the son. I present to you, therefore, Jehan François de Calvisson, Marquis de Nançay.”
CHAPTER XXVIII
A CHANGE OF FORTUNE
IT was the evening of the day following that on which Péron was proclaimed Marquis de Nançay, and he sat at a small table in the pastry shop on the Rue des Petits Champs. He was waiting for Père Antoine, who had promised to meet him there with tidings of mademoiselle. Pilâtre de Marsou, the late M. de Nançay, had been privately buried from the Church of St. Nicholas des Champs, no one following his corpse to the cemetery but his daughter and M. de Vesson—so easily is a fallen man deserted, even at the last hour. Péron was anxious to hear of Renée, to know how she had received the tidings of the fearful change in her rank and condition, and to be assured that she fully understood that he was innocent of her father’s death. All these things Père Antoine had undertaken, promising to comfort mademoiselle in her affliction, and to clear the new marquis of blame. With all his confidence in the good father, Péron was uneasy and perplexed. He would gladly have gone to Renée in her trouble had not delicacy forbidden an intrusion, but he had sent one message to her by Père Antoine, and that was to assure her that both the Château de Nançay and the house on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, though properly his, were at her service for an indefinite period, and that her possession would not be disturbed. However, he knew mademoiselle well enough to expect only a proud defiance of his kindness, though his heart ached for the houseless and penniless orphan whom the grim justice of the cardinal had put in the place that he had occupied when a poor boy on the Rue de la Ferronnerie, dependent on the charity of Jacques des Horloges.
Certainly a great change had come over his own circumstances since the announcement in the gallery of the Palais Cardinal. He had been received with flattering demonstrations of friendship; princes and great ladies, noblemen and courtiers, had crowded around him with effusive cordiality. The unknown musketeer of monsignor’s guard was the lion of the Marais. All the morning he had been beset with pages and serving-men bearing invitations. M. le Marquis was wanted to dine, to sup, to dance, to play cards, to hunt; the cardinal had presented him to the king; the queen had given him her hand to kiss; M. le Grand had greeted him as a long-lost friend; Monsieur had smiled, forgetful of the house in Poissy; and the Prince de Condé had shown genuine pleasure in his former protégé’s good fortune. It was overwhelming and a little bewildering; but none of it pleased the new marquis so much as the tearful joy of good Madame Michel, the honest delight of Jacques des Horloges and Archambault, and above all the blessing of Père Antoine.