She drew a deep breath and looked at him with furious eyes.
“Sir,” she said scornfully, “you are no better than a house-breaker; but go your way—search the house, and much good may it do you and those who sent you!”
As she spoke, she turned and walked straight into a room at the head of the stairs. Not knowing what else to do, and anxious to keep her in sight, Péron followed. It was a large salon furnished with luxurious magnificence, the tessellated floor covered with rugs of Flemish carpet and the walls hung with tapestries of fine cloth of gold from the famous workers of the Hôtel de la Maque. There were several inlaid cabinets in the room, and to these Péron directed his attention, finding them fairly well filled with papers and books. Mademoiselle meanwhile had taken her position near the hearth, where a fire was burning, and she was watching him with a glance of angry disdain. He had searched two cabinets with small results, the documents being all of an innocent nature, and he had just gone to the third, which took him to the end of the room, farthest from her, when he heard a slight noise and the apartment was suddenly illumined by the blaze in the chimney. He turned quickly and saw Mademoiselle de Nançay holding some papers on the logs with the tongs.
Péron sprang across the room, and taking the young girl lightly around the waist set her aside as he would have lifted a child. Then he thrust his hand into the flames; but it was too late: the charred and blackened remnant bore no likeness to a manuscript and crumbled to ashes in his fingers. Bitterly disappointed and mortified, he rose to his feet and looked around at his quick-witted adversary. He was astonished at the change in the haughty demoiselle; she was laughing and clapping her hands with the wicked glee of a child who has won a victory. He stood looking at her with a flushed face; it was not anger that he felt: a sudden recollection had brought back to him the flower-decked terraces and the laughing, beautiful face of little Renée de Nançay.
At that moment he was not thinking of the cardinal or his own wrongs; he only wondered if that bunch of faded violets still lay in the cupboard on the Rue de la Ferronnerie.
Misunderstanding his pause and his confused silence, mademoiselle swept him a mocking curtsey.
“Monsieur will continue his arduous labors,” she said triumphantly, “without my assistance;” and she ran lightly from the room and left Péron standing by the hearth, entirely routed.
CHAPTER XII
MADAME MICHEL’S STORY
HALF an hour later, Péron had completed his fruitless search. He had expected no results from it, after mademoiselle’s manœuver, but had faithfully executed his orders. She, meanwhile, had retreated to the garden, where she sat under a lime-tree, her cloak muffled about her, and refusing to budge until the intruders left the house. From the other inmates Péron met with no opposition, neither was there any further assault upon the door. It was indeed so quiet outside that he was at a loss to understand it, and supposed that the Sieur de Vesson had determined to wait for him in the street. But this was not the case; in the midst of the tumult, when de Vesson and his friends were boisterously demanding admittance, a messenger arrived on horseback. This man called the others aside, and after a hurried and excited conference they all withdrew, leaving the musketeers in undisputed possession of the premises. The crowd, drawn by the disturbance, then speedily diminished until only a handful remained staring at the guards, who were posted at every entrance of the hôtel.
When the search was completed, Péron descended into the garden and bowed gravely before mademoiselle, who only gazed at him defiantly over the folds of her mantle.