Archambault received him that evening with open arms, setting forth his best wine and most choice dishes for his old patron’s son; but Péron discouraged all display, pleading his desire to be for a while unobserved. He wore his plain suit of clothes,—the same which he had bought for his journey to Flanders,—and being still but little known among the gay set frequenting the pastry shop, he was allowed an hour of quiet, sitting unobserved in a corner of the public room where he could most easily watch for Père Antoine. As the evening advanced the place filled rapidly, and in the bustle and confusion he escaped notice. It was a meeting-place of fashion, and on every side the new marquis was surrounded with his future associates and with the train of sycophants and little people who follow and imitate the leaders. Sitting in his quiet corner he observed the scene with more interest than usual. Was he indeed now one of these? It did not seem possible. He had none of the characteristics of these darlings of fortune; here were faces as carefully painted and powdered as women, curled and scented hair, white jewelled hands, and dress of the most flashy as well as the most elegant fashion of the day. The musketeer looked down at his own broad, brown hands and the mighty strength of his arm, and smiled; he was certainly no match for the curled and painted fops of the Louvre. The room was full now; M. de Condé was yonder with M. de Soissons; there, too, was M. de Bassompierre, and Montbazon, and fifty more. Near Péron were three young exquisites, dining together, and his attention was first drawn to them by hearing his own name. They were discussing the scene at the Palais Cardinal, which was the gossip of the hour, and Péron would have closed his ears had he not caught a sentence which riveted his attention.
“’Tis a strange trick of fortune,” remarked one of the group; “what think you of it, M. de Bièvre?”
“That it is a bit of cursed ill-luck,” he retorted curtly, “and that I wish Pilâtre de Nançay had shot the varlet at Chantilly.”
This, then, was Renée’s fiancée. Péron looked at him curiously, and saw only a slightly made man with good features and a cold expression, with long curls falling about his face, and with a dress in the height of fashion, ruffles of rich lace at throat and wrists and knees, and his fingers glittering with jewels. He looked in a sullen mood and scowled at his companions, who seemed bent on teasing him.
“Ah, the shoe pinches!” said the first speaker, laughing. “Mademoiselle loses not only her father but her name and her fortune. Did you know how he came to his title?”
“No,” replied de Bièvre angrily; “I may be a fool, but I am not a rogue; I would have let him alone had I suspected. Monsignor keeps these secrets to spring them to our torment. Curse him, had I known he was no marquis, de Nançay might have rotted ere I gave him any promises. You were the man who introduced me, M. d’Étienne, and I do not thank you.”
“I did not know the facts,” M. d’Étienne hastened to say. He was the third one of the party, and he had not spoken before. “’Tis unfortunate, but Pilâtre was a clever man and brave, and his daughter’s beauty may, in a measure, compensate you for her father’s sins.”
“St. Denis! do you take me for a fool?” asked de Bièvre, with a sneer.
“You do not care for the beauty without the rank and fortune, then?” suggested the younger man.
“I do not care a jot for the fortune,” M. de Bièvre said loudly, for he was angry; “but do you take me to be fool enough to marry Mademoiselle de Nançay—the daughter of a rogue, and like enough taking her father’s faults? Mon Dieu! I told the girl yesterday that I would never wed the beggarly child of a villain!”