There could be no longer any doubt of his identity; there was the full eye, the hooked nose, the full round chin of the Bourbons. The likeness that Gaston d’Orléans bore to the king and to the queen-mother could not be easily mistaken, even in the plain dress he wore as a disguise. Péron had seen him many times before and knew him well; he saluted gravely and stood irresolute; the cardinal’s orders had not mentioned a prince of the blood, indeed he had told M. de Nançay that the Duke of Orleans would make his terms with the king. Had Richelieu been deceived, or had he duped the marquis? These were perplexing questions, and they flashed in rapid succession through Péron’s mind, as he stood looking at the flushed and angry face of the prince. Orleans was not noted either for courage or fortitude in supreme moments. Finding himself fairly checkmated, he had but one thought, and that was for his own safety. He turned and began to upbraid mademoiselle.
“How came you here, girl?” he demanded peevishly. “Has that precious father of yours turned coward and deserted his friends?”
Renée’s eye flashed. “Monsieur,” she said haughtily, “my father is no traitor to his allies; he has never betrayed a man who perilled his life and honor for him!”
The thrust went home; the fate of the unhappy and noble Montmorency was not yet forgotten, and the prince gnawed his lip in silence. But mademoiselle was not done.
“My father is now a prisoner,” she said, “in the hands of that man who is alike pitiless and supreme, and I was sent here at the king’s orders to decoy your friends to this house. I tried to prevent it—I made the signal, and indeed I am sure that no one else will come; but monsignor has certainly made one successful cast of his net to-night;” and she smiled scornfully, as she looked at the handsome, vacillating face of Gaston d’Orléans.
“Pardieu!” he muttered, “I am lost. The king’s orders! Your father in the hands of the cardinal, and my mother in Brussels! I am lost! I am lost!” and he paced up and down the room, wringing his hands like one possessed. He who never decided anything was suddenly forced to face an exigency which demanded decision.
It was a strange scene: Péron stood like a statue by the door, his drawn sword in his hand, and near him Ninon was gazing wide-eyed at the prince as he paced to and fro. By the fire, Renée stood erect, her face pale but her eyes aglow with indignation, the most composed person present.
Presently Monsieur halted in front of Péron.
“Put up your sword,” he said pettishly. “I am a prince of France, and you dare not oppose me. I shall go out of this house as I came—alone!”
Péron had been revolving many thoughts in his mind during the brief time since the discovery of his prisoner’s identity, and he had to come to a decision.