“Your name is Jehan François de Calvisson,” he replied, “and but for the strange vicissitudes of destiny, you would be to-day Marquis de Nançay.”
“Mon Dieu!” cried Péron, with passion, “and that man, whom I have seen and passed a dozen times, is my father’s murderer!”
“Your father’s accuser,” corrected the cardinal, quietly. “His name is Pilâtre de Marsou, Sieur de Briçonnet, but he bears your father’s title and holds his estates at the pleasure of the king.”
Péron took two short turns across the room, his breast heaving and his lips compressed. Richelieu watched him narrowly; doubtless his purpose would be accomplished.
“I beg your pardon, monsignor,” Péron said, pausing before him, “but a man can scarcely hear such a tale with composure.”
The cardinal glanced at the clock.
“In a quarter of an hour now,” he said, “M. de Nançay comes here to see me on a secret summons. You will take your place, therefore, in the clock, and remember your instructions.”
The fire leaped up in Péron’s eyes, and he laid his hand on his dagger.
“Pardieu!” he cried, “I pray your eminence to make the signal!”
Richelieu looked toward the door; his quick ear had caught the sound of a footstep in the gallery.