The cardinal's musketeer

by Mary Imlay Taylor

“But, monsieur,” she retorted tartly, “I choose the other for serious reasons. Sirrah, get some fagots and build me a fire,” she added sharply, addressing one of Choin’s troopers who was lounging on a settle in the larger room, which she had now entered.

The man roused himself at her words, and stumbled awkwardly to his feet, but he looked to Péron for orders. Mademoiselle de Nançay stamped her foot on the floor.

“I tell you I will have a fire,” she said angrily.

Choin had entered as she spoke, and her peremptory manner angered the maître d’armes.

“Mademoiselle shall have a fire if our leader orders it; otherwise not,” he said bluntly.

Renée stared at the stout Italian, her great eyes flashing in the loopholes of her mask, but she was quick to recognize honest courage even of the lower sort, and in her heart she forgave Choin for his brusque manner. But before there was a clash between the two, Péron interfered and ordered the soldier to build a fire if he could find fuel enough in the house. Fortunately there was a small supply, the place having been recently occupied, and mademoiselle sat down, still cloaked and masked, to watch the building of the fire, while Péron sent the horses away in the charge of another trooper to the stables of the Golden Pigeon, to be fed and watered that they might be in condition for future use. He then gave his thoughts to the disposition of his men; Choin he posted at the rear entrance to the house, which he had reconnoitered and found opened into a deserted garden surrounded by a low wall. For the time being he allowed the other men to rest in the room which mademoiselle had refused to occupy, and for himself retained the place at the front door, which he believed to be the point of danger. There was a small grille in the upper half of this door, and through this he could dimly see the black outline of the houses across the lane, and above, the far-off glimmer of the stars. It was too dark to see twenty yards away, and the night was very still though it was not yet eight o’clock. The man in command above stairs had told him that the cardinal’s orders were that all shutters should remain tightly closed and no light be shown. This being the case, Péron could not divine how mademoiselle’s presence in the house could be discovered or serve as a decoy for the conspirators. He was sorry that on this point he had not asked for more precise instructions, but remembered that she was not to appear at the window, and he could only suppose that their spies had seen her arrival and would report it. But even on this head he was not satisfied; he thought of her determination to pass in full view of the Golden Pigeon, and he did not know what significance might be attached to that, or if it had any beyond the wilfulness of a spoiled beauty. He had, too, a quick sympathy for her in her unpleasant situation,—her father in the hands of his worst enemy, and she compelled to play the rôle of a traitress to her own party. He could understand and even pardon the bitterness of her mood when he remembered all that she had to undergo. What to do with her, and how to protect her, was a problem which troubled him much; for to try to control her motions was like trying to handle a thistle. He had every expectation of a sharp affray, and it was hardly probable that any number of desperate men would allow themselves to be entrapped without much bloodshed, and he did not know how near or dear some of them might be to Renée de Nançay. What she would do under such circumstances was a perplexing problem. Unless he used force, he could scarcely hope to keep her out of the reach of danger. He had no personal anxieties about the result of the struggle, but what should he do with mademoiselle? Her woman, too, he regarded as mischievous, and she belonged to that heroic build of womanhood which can strike as stiff a blow as most men and better than some. Her stubborn loyalty to her mistress recommended her to him, but he recognized an additional danger in the fire of her fierce black eyes. That she was equal to stabbing one or more of his men in the back while they were engaged with her friends in front, he did not doubt. Yet to lock Ninon and her mistress in a room overhead was a measure which he could not view with favor. He had had no previous dealings with women, and he had a profound dislike of using strong measures toward the weaker sex.

While he was revolving all these matters in his mind, the man who had taken the horses to the Golden Pigeon returned and reported that all seemed quiet enough, though he had observed a number of men gathered in the courtyard of the inn, and he had noticed that all wore knots of pale blue ribbon somewhere about them, either on hat or cloak or sword hilt. But for the rest there was nothing remarkable, and they apparently took no heed of him, although he had noticed two knaves stealing into the stable to stare at his horses. For the moment Péron was uneasy with the thought that these might be stolen, but reflected that the landlord of the Golden Pigeon was too prudent a man to take any risk of having to make good the loss of seven horses with their equipments.

Having disposed his sentinels to his satisfaction, Péron went to see if all was well with his involuntary guests. He had no doubt of the meaning of the pale blue ribbons now, and grew more alert and in better spirits as the danger approached. He was a born fighter, and but for the responsibility of mademoiselle’s presence, would have enjoyed the prospect of a sharp skirmish; an adventure without peril was never to his taste.

He found the two women alone in the room, where the fire was still smoking, having been kindled with partially green wood. There was a plain oaken settle in the room, and two or three stiff chairs; there was no rug on the floor, but it was partly covered with rushes. It was a bare enough place; and he noticed that they had extinguished one of the tapers, leaving the other burning in a niche on the wall. Ninon lay, half reclining, on the settle, her cloak rolled up into a pillow under her head, while mademoiselle sat bolt upright in one of the chairs by the fire, staring angrily into the flames. She had laid aside cloak and mask and was revealed in her simple gray gown, her hair disordered by the ride, lying in loose curls on her shoulders. She had a brilliant color in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled with anger; yet she looked unusually beautiful, the very picture of a wilful, spoiled child of fortune. Péron, standing at the door, bowed to her gravely and asked if he could do anything more to make her comfortable.

“Ay, sir,” she said haughtily; “send for my horse and let me go on to the Château de Nançay.”