“Monsieur Jehan,” he said bluntly, “but for your family, mine might have remained in the ditch. What I am I owe to the late marquis. I had a plain duty to perform toward his child, nothing more. It has been on my mind often, of late, to tell you the truth; but Père Antoine was fearful that you might be tempted to commit some rash act and so fall victim to the intrigues of Pilâtre de Nançay, as he is pleased to call himself.”
They sat for a while longer talking of old times and of the future, the clockmaker and his wife manifestly disappointed that the cardinal had not immediately set up the new Marquis de Nançay. Péron forbore to tell them of M. de Nançay’s arrest, keeping that as monsignor’s secret.
The time drew near for the young musketeer to report for instructions, as directed by Father Joseph, and bidding his two humble friends an affectionate adieu, he set out for the palace. But he did not go directly there; he turned out of his way to the Rue de Bethisi and climbed the stairs to the lodgings of Père Antoine. He knew that the priest was at home, for he saw a light shining under his door. Péron tapped on it three times, using the signal of his childhood, and immediately Père Antoine opened it and stood with outstretched hands on the threshold. His hair was snow white now and his gentle face was lined with care. His figure looked tall and thin in the simple black habit of his order, and he stooped a little more with the weight of added years. Péron told him the story of the cardinal’s revelation, and from him he did not withhold the news of M. de Nançay’s arrest. Père Antoine listened with a grave face to the story of the clock and the struggle.
“And you did not use your weapon?” he asked quickly.
“Nay, not with such advantage upon my side,” Péron replied.
“I am thankful,” said the priest, in a tone of relief; “I would have you a brave man and no coward. I cannot imagine how M. de Nançay permitted himself to be taken in the toils.”
“You have not been in the household of the cardinal, as I have been, father,” Péron rejoined smiling. “Had you been, you would not have been surprised. Richelieu’s arm is long, and he has all the adroit diplomacy, the subtlety of the Italian. I have heard it said that a cat will charm the bird it intends to devour; that the bird comes to it, fluttering its wings in its desire to escape, yet drawn by irresistible fascination. I know not whether this be true or not, but it is much like this with monsignor. In the years I have been with him, I have seen many an obstinate traitor tell his own secret. They say it was thus Chalais was lost; and there have been many others—how many no one knows but the guards of the cardinal and the keepers of the Châtelet.”
Père Antoine shook his head thoughtfully.
“The cardinal is a great man,” he said. “To you I will admit that I do not like his methods, but I believe that the state is safe under his guidance. His heart is single in its love of France. And I believe that he loves justice well enough to see you righted; it has ever been my prayer that I might be spared to see you in your father’s place.”
Péron did not immediately reply; he stood looking thoughtfully at the floor, and Père Antoine was beside him, his hand resting on the young man’s shoulder. After a moment’s pause Péron looked up into the priest’s clear blue eyes.