“You know the alternative, monsieur,” he retorted indifferently; “I have but to raise my finger and you will be arrested.”
“Shall I?” cried de Nançay passionately, springing to his feet and drawing his sword. “Not until I have my revenge, monsignor!”
He sprang toward the cardinal, overturning the table in his impetuosity, and his weapon was at Richelieu’s breast when Péron caught his arm with an iron grasp. The sudden apparition of the young musketeer took de Nançay completely by surprise, and as he turned to shake him off, he looked full into Péron’s face.
“Mon Dieu!” he cried, falling back, his own face turning the color of ashes, and his gaze fascinated by this image of his dead victim. It seemed—for one wild moment—that François de Calvisson had returned, in the full flush of youth, to keep his reckoning. He stared wildly at Péron, his breath coming short.
“Mon Dieu!” he cried again, “do the dead haunt me?”
“Ay, M. le Marquis,” said Richelieu, in his smoothest tones, “they live ever in the consciences of those who have compassed their ruin.”
The marquis rallied at the sound of the voice he hated, and the truth flashed upon him.
“So,” he said bitterly, “’twas for this that you hatched this scheme to entrap me.”
In his first astonishment, Péron had snatched his sword from his hand, but Nançay was now a desperate man, and he made a sudden dash forward, trying to evade the young soldier and reach the door. But it was in vain. Péron closed with him on the instant, and, not having drawn his own weapons, clenched with him in a deadly embrace. The musketeer had the advantage of greater agility and more coolness, and he pressed his antagonist steadily back toward the window.
Richelieu had risen from his chair at the attack of M. de Nançay and he now stood by it, watching the struggle with composure and making no attempt to summon any one to Péron’s aid, although for a while the victory seemed in doubt. However, assistance was not needed, for the soldier succeeded in tripping the marquis and threw him at full length on the floor. He fell heavily and lay unconscious, his rich dress in disorder and his rigid face distorted with passion.