The cardinal's musketeer

by Mary Imlay Taylor

Before he could prevent it, she caught his hand and kissed it.

“M. le Marquis,” she exclaimed, joyful in the midst of her tears, “praise be to the saints, you shall be recognized at last!”

“’Tis for me to kiss your hands, my mother,” Péron answered gently. “I am too touched, too overwhelmed with my obligations to you to know how to express my gratitude, but be assured that the boy you sheltered will never forget his childhood in this shop at the sign of Ste. Geneviève.”

“M. le Marquis,” she began, “the—”

“To you I am Péron,” he said, interrupting her; “and I am not a marquis at all, only Jehan de Calvisson, for my father’s estates were confiscated to the king. For the time, at least, dear Madame Michel, I am only Péron the musketeer.”

Plainly this did not satisfy her, but she held him in too much affection and respect to dispute his wishes. She went on to tell him that the three chests which she had so carefully guarded contained the evidences of his birth and title. In the hasty flight from Nançay, she had gathered his rich clothing together and packed it with some of the silver and jewels of his mother, and the documents that would in the future establish his identity beyond dispute.

“Ah, Monsieur Jehan,” she said, wiping a tear from her eyes, “it was a dark time: your poor father was dead; they executed him at noon, and Père Antoine was with him. Only Jacques and I and Archambault, the cook, were at the château; the other servants had fled in fright, treacherous too, because of your father’s misfortunes. Jacques was a born retainer of Nançay, as his fathers had been before him; but for a long time he had had this shop, being so expert a clockmaker that the marquis—God rest his soul—set him up here many, many years ago. But Jacques had been married to me, and I had been madame’s maid and yours. In my arms were you laid when you were born; and a beautiful baby you were, Péron; a fine, straight-limbed child, and so red that the marquise was worried. But see how beautiful your skin is now! Well, I was there that night with you and Jacques; we were up in the Tour de l’Horloge looking for Archambault, for he had gone to Poissy for tidings. It was moonlight, and presently we saw him. He was little and fat, even then; we saw him running like mad across the fields, and we knew that something was wrong. He came in gasping, his round eyes starting from his head, and told us that M. de Marsou, who is now called Marquis de Nançay, had sent a band of desperate men to Poissy, and they were coming to Nançay; and Archambault had, too, a message from Père Antoine telling us to save the child from his father’s enemy. We had not a moment to lose, and we decided in a moment what to do. Archambault was as famous then as a cook as he is now; there was a full larder, for we three had not cared to eat, and the cellar was full of wine. He said, M. de Marsou’s ruffians were drinking at Poissy and might be late, thinking their prey certain; and down he went and began to cook and set out a feast while Jacques carried up wine from below, and I packed all I could into the three chests. We had one good horse—it belonged to Jacques—yet in the stable and a cart; and presently he and I carried out the three chests and put them into the cart while Archambault cooked and cooked. Oh, what a night it was! We dared not start right off, for we should surely meet them, and we had no place to hide but in Paris, and they were between us and the city. You were asleep, and we wrapped you in blankets and carried you out to the cart, and then Jacques drove us off to the woods and hid us among the thick trees and went back to help Archambault. I sat in the cart with you on my lap and prayed. It was a long time, and I could just see the château. By the sudden illumination, I knew they had come, and it seemed to me that they must hear my heart beat in the woods. Mère de Dieu, how afraid I was that you would wake up and cry! But you were an angel, Monsieur Jehan, and you slept on, out there in the forest, poor, fatherless baby, with no one but a weak woman to defend you. After a long, long time—so long that I was cramped and weary, and the horse, I think, was asleep—I heard some one coming through the underbrush and I was half dead with fear; but it was Jacques, and without a word he sprang into the cart and began to pick his way out of the woods. I did not dare to speak, I only bent my head down on yours and prayed. It was hard work to get down through the brush to the road, out of sight of the house, and it was not until we were driving fast on the highway to Poissy that Jacques spoke. ‘They are drunk,’ he said, ‘every mother’s son of them, and filled with the feast, and Archambault is watching them. We pretended to be false to the dead marquis, and that we had prepared a feast for M. de Marsou. They think us traitors, and that we have disposed of the child. Mon Dieu!’ he added after a minute, ‘Archambault has lied so this night that I was afraid of him; I thought I smelled sulphur!’ Well, that is really all,” she said, smiling tearfully as she looked at Péron’s grave and attentive face; “we drove straight through Poissy, and at St. Germain-en-Laye Jacques spread the report that the late M. de Nançay’s boy was dead. Père Antoine met us on the road near Paris, and for two years we hid you, in constant fear of M. de Marsou; but after a while, I think he really believed you dead.”

After she ceased speaking Péron was silent for a moment, and then he spoke with emotion:

“All that you have told me only increases my gratitude,” he said.

As he spoke Jacques des Horloges came in from the shop and his wife told him that the cardinal had divined their carefully concealed secret and revealed it to Péron. The clockmaker listened to the young soldier’s earnest thanks with strong feeling showing in his rugged face, but he made light of what he had done.