“What is your errand here, sir?” she demanded disdainfully, “and how dare you thrust yourself into M. de Nançay’s house with such violence?”
At her first appearance Péron had saluted her with grave courtesy, and he stood now, hat in hand, looking at her in surprise and amusement, for she looked ready in her defiance to fight a regiment of musketeers.
“Mademoiselle,” he replied gently, “I come here with the king’s warrant to secure certain papers. I can assure you that you will receive every consideration at our hands.”
“You have made a strange mistake!” she exclaimed haughtily. “This is the hôtel of the Marquis de Nançay; the king would send no one here on such an errand.”
“I regret that I have not made a mistake, mademoiselle,” Péron said, “but I can show you his majesty’s warrant.”
She looked at it and caught her breath. A horrible suspicion was taking possession of her; for a moment or two she was silent, evidently trying to collect her thoughts. Péron had come there with the bitterest feelings toward M. de Nançay and his family, but, divining who this young girl was, he looked at her with pity and admiration. She was not tall, and her small but graceful figure was richly attired in pale blue; her face was charming and would have been gentle and tender in its style of beauty but for the straight dark brows and glowing dark eyes. She had the white and red complexion of a blonde, however, and her face was framed in a profusion of pale golden hair which rippled in curls on her low brow, and fell, shading her cheeks, to her shoulders; part of it was knotted loosely at the back of her head, but the greater part of the rebellious curls had escaped and were playing riotously about her neck. The sight of the king’s warrant baffled her for a moment only; she rallied and glanced contemptuously at the bearer.
“Where is his majesty’s provost-marshal?” she asked sharply.
“This was committed to me, mademoiselle,” Péron replied.
“A grave mistake, sir,” she said with a forced laugh; “you cannot compel M. de Nançay’s household to respect a warrant in the hands of a nobody!”
Péron flushed scarlet and bit his lip. He had no wish to bandy words with this young beauty, knowing he would be worsted without the means of avenging himself, but he saw that it would be necessary to carry matters with a high hand, and he heard too the increasing tumult in the street. M. de Vesson was thirsting for revenge; no time could be lost.