The cardinal's musketeer

by Mary Imlay Taylor

One fair day his opportunity came, as all things come to him who waits. Jacques des Horloges was busy in the shop, the apprentices were deeply engaged on a large clock for M. de Rambuteau, and the cat, M. de Turenne, ran away from Péron and hid. The child hunted for his playmate with the zeal born of idleness, and finding the rooms below empty, he clambered up the stairs to the upper floor. When he came to Madame Michel’s room he stood transfixed at the open door. The ladder was at the trap, and he heard madame’s voice in the court, engaged in shrill altercation with a peddler. The child could scarcely believe his eyes. M. de Turenne was forgotten; here was something of far greater interest. He advanced cautiously, not because he felt himself a transgressor, but because he was awed at the possible revelation which lay before him. His heart beat as he set his small foot on the first rung of the ladder, and then he drew back. The stories of the hobgoblins beset him with strange misgivings; he fancied that he heard a soft sound overhead; he hesitated, and a little tremor of excitement ran over him. What would he see up there? Ah, that was the question! He reflected, however, that he would like to see a hobgoblin, and he did not believe that they ate little boys. He was screwing up his courage, admitting to himself that the possibilities were ugly. But curiosity is a strong motive power, and the child was no coward, if over-imaginative, as children so brought up are likely to be. He wavered only a moment or two; decisive action was necessary before Madame Michel returned. He took his life in his hand and climbed the ladder like a young hero; he did not pause again until he reached the floor of the attic, for fear his courage might fail. At the top he drew his breath and stood still; it took a few minutes for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, for there was only one window in the roof, and that a small one. Then he looked about him with a sharp sense of disappointment, for he saw nothing,—that is, nothing of interest to a child. It was a very small room indeed, with the naked rafters above, and, strange to say, in spite of madame’s neatness, a cobweb or two festooned the corners. The window in the roof revealed the rough boards of the floor and nothing more except three large plain chests of solid wood standing in a row on one side. A barren spot to have excited so much curiosity, and certainly not a promising home for hobgoblins. Péron’s first impulse was to go down the ladder again, but he thought better of it and began to move about the attic, examining it until he assured himself that there was nothing to be seen except the chests. Having arrived at this conclusion, he betook himself to these; he tried the lid of the one nearest the trap-door, but it defied even the industrious efforts of little fingers, and he turned away, disappointed and piqued. The next was equally unaccommodating, although he devoted more time to it; he found the lock and applied his eye to it, in a fruitless effort to see inside. Curiosity now was whetted by defeat and he approached the third, his little face more rosy than usual and his lips pinched tightly together. He was destined to succeed at last; the first touch assured him that the lid was unlocked, and he put out all his child’s strength to lift it and peep in. Again a disappointment; he saw only some neatly folded clothing; but something in the color and appearance attracted him and he pursued his investigations. With infinite care and labor he lifted the lid upright and turned it back on its hinges, then stood gazing with pleased eyes at the objects revealed. Nothing very unusual, only the small clothing of a child of two or three years old, but of a quality and color so delicate that little Péron examined them in wonder. They were as beautiful as the gowns of the belles of the Marais. The chest was closely packed, but the boy got no deeper than the upper layer. Here was a little coat of the palest blue, and Péron knew that it was of velvet and satin, and the lace on it seemed to him like the frost-work that he had sometimes seen on the windows at Christmas. He fingered it gently, for he was a careful child, and the tiny roses in the pattern delighted him. It was while he was examining them that he felt something cold touch his exploring fingers, and a tiny chain of gold slipped out from the folds with a locket on the end of it. His attention was at once absorbed by this new object of interest; it was small and round, and Péron thought it was the brightest piece of red glass that he had ever seen. On it was engraved a very curious picture,—curious to him, at least,—a little lion rampant, a wreath or a scroll, and some figures which he could not decipher. He did not know what it was, but he took it nearer the window, when he discovered that the light made it sparkle. The chain did not interest him, and he gently worked at the links until he accidentally detached it, and then he dropped the chain back into the chest and stood shifting the stone in his fingers to catch the changes of light. He remembered seeing one such stone before,—he thought it was on the neck of the Duchess of Rohan,—and he was delighted with his discovery. It was still in the little nervous fingers when Madame Michel came suddenly up the ladder, having approached unheard while he was fascinated with his bit of red glass. At first the good dame did not see the invader of her sanctum, and when she did, she discovered the open chest at the same instant and came forward with an outcry that frightened the child so much that he drew back, clasping his treasure tightly to his breast, and gazing at her angry face in mute, wide-eyed alarm.

“Mère de Dieu!” she cried, running to the open box, and looking in with feverish anxiety, “what have you done, you little rogue?”

She examined the clothes with fierce scrutiny, but she could detect no disturbance of their neat folds, for Péron had handled them so delicately that no harm was done. She slammed down the lid, and, locking it, thrust the key in her bosom before she turned to the child. Her anger was slightly mollified, but there was still some agitation in her face and manner, and she gazed searchingly at the offender.

“How long have you been here?” she demanded sharply.

The boy was still alarmed by her unusual conduct, and he kept the bit of red glass tight in his little fist.

“I do not know,” he said, shaking his head; “I was looking for M. de Turenne, I—”

“Mon Dieu!” cried madame, looking about behind the boxes, “is that beast here? If he had got into the chest, he would have torn up everything.”

“He is not here,” replied Péron soberly. “I could not find him, and I came up the ladder.”

“What did you want to come up here for?” asked the woman suspiciously, having satisfied herself that M. de Turenne was not in hiding.

“I wanted to see the hobgoblins,” rejoined the child calmly, his agitation departing as her anger subsided.