“Who is the lad?” suddenly asked the cardinal. He had been a silent spectator of the scene, his keen face showing no sign of his thoughts.
“A protégé of mine, the son of a clockmaker,” replied Condé, not without some pride in his selection.
“Of Jacques des Horloges,” said Richelieu, deliberately. “What is the boy’s name?”
The prince called to the victor, who had retired among his comrades.
“Come hither, Péron,” he said, “and salute Monsignor.”
His face still suffused with blushes, his curls disordered, and with an air of deep embarrassment, Péron advanced. The summons overwhelmed him with confusion; the shy, proud boy had always shrunk from the presence of this august personage, and he was awkward and agitated now that he felt those piercing black eyes upon him. It was not the trembling obsequiousness of the sycophant, but the shrinking of pride, and the cardinal read him like an open page.
“This is Péron, monsignor,” said Condé, as the lad made his obeisance.
“Péron?” repeated Richelieu, thoughtfully. “What is the last name?” he added, addressing the boy abruptly, as he looked searchingly at the blushing and ingenuous face.
“I have no other,” replied Péron, with a simple dignity of manner, rousing himself from his embarrassment.
“Ah!” ejaculated the cardinal, his eyes still fixed on the boy, “you are then only the adopted son of the clockmaker of the Rue de la Ferronnerie?”