As soon as he had the opportunity to do so unobserved, he examined mademoiselle’s trinket with care and curiosity. It was an exceedingly small, almond-shaped watch, dating from the Valois period; the case was of gold and enamel, the face of gold and mother of pearl, but beyond this he saw nothing about it to indicate any secret virtue. It was a pretty bauble, nothing more, and he had seen a dozen such in the shop at the sign of Ste. Geneviève and could not imagine its significance; yet he felt sure that it had some meaning which did not show on the surface. Remembering mademoiselle’s treatment of him on the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre and at Poissy, he could not understand her change of feeling, her apparent willingness to protect him from her father’s friends. Yet she had surely sent him this trinket for that purpose, unless the woman, Ninon, had deceived him, which seemed improbable. However, he remembered the bunch of violets at Nançay, and thought it possible that Renée still had her moods. But he had little time now to give to these speculations, for he was under the necessity of hastening his preparations for his expedition; and when he reached the city he gave his thoughts entirely to this purpose.
He met with few delays; the cardinal’s purse being amply supplied, he had no difficulty in equipping himself for the journey, and, before sunset, he had again left Paris and taken the shortest road to Flanders.
CHAPTER XIX
MADAME LA MÈRE
ON the lonely journey to Flanders, Péron had not only time, but food, for reflection. He found himself in a singular position: his father had been deeply wronged and he himself had been made penniless and almost nameless by the machinations of a wicked man; that man was now likely to meet his just reward and leave the way open to the lawful heir, yet Péron found his ambition in that direction choked at birth. To proclaim himself and petition for his property would be to deal a crushing blow to the innocent daughter of his father’s enemy. It was true that he was Jehan de Calvisson, the son of one of the grandees of France, and she was the child of a man whose ancestors were unknown and who had gained his place by artifice and treachery. But Péron thought of his own humble childhood on the Rue de la Ferronnerie, of his simple training, his long service in monsignor’s household with no better friend than his sword, and he felt that to him rank and wealth were of the less value, unless he achieved them by his own valor, as he had always dreamed that he would. On the other hand, he remembered Renée de Nançay’s education in the midst of luxury and adulation, her pride, her probable ambition, her whole life of ease and pleasure among her equals, and he felt that to bring such distress upon her would be cruel and unjust; for was she not innocent? Péron was practically a penniless adventurer, only a musketeer in the service of the cardinal; yet so little was he envious of the wealth and exaltation of others that it gave him a sharp pang to think of dispossessing this young girl of all that she held in esteem. Père Antoine had not labored in vain, when he and the orphan boy spelled out the Psalter together in that upper room, on the Rue de Bethisi; the good priest had sown the seed against this very day, when he foresaw that the outraged son might long to avenge his own and his father’s wrongs. It is possible that without the inspiration of Renée’s face and voice, Père Antoine might have failed, but certainly his teachings were a salve now to Péron’s sore heart. It was true that while she remained Mademoiselle de Nançay, and he the cardinal’s musketeer, they were as widely sundered as the poles, yet not more so than they would be if he were the Marquis de Nançay and she the daughter of a perjurer and a traitor who had virtually both slain and robbed the late marquis.
What a strange destiny it was that had brought these two together, and put Jehan de Calvisson in the light of an inferior: yet in his present mood he would gladly have saved mademoiselle from humiliation. But behind all this was the reflection that it did not rest with him to save her. M. de Nançay was at the mercy of Richelieu, and few had ever found quarter with that inexorable man. All that Péron could do was to refrain from claiming her name and her estates, if those were spared to her, and to refrain also from appearing as her greatest enemy and despoiler. As he rode along the highways through Normandy and Picardy on to the Flemish frontier, he became more and more convinced that he could not take part against Renée de Nançay,—that he had not the heart to humiliate her innocent pride, to thrust her out as an outcast upon the world, the penniless daughter of a rogue. She had used him with little kindness; yet behind her hauteur and her mockery he had caught glimpses of a genuinely brave and noble-minded woman, and he was himself too noble to bear her ill-will on account of her father. The more his mind dwelt on this decision, the more he was satisfied with it. Yet he thought, with a smile, of the disappointment of the honest clockmaker, and of the consternation that would overspread the broad brown face of Madame Michel, and the surprise and disgust of the pastry cook Archambault. There was only one face in which he might hope to read approbation of such a course, and that was the gentle and spiritual countenance of Père Antoine, whose own life, far different from those of the worldly priests who everywhere gained preferment and honor, had been one long sacrifice, and who yet believed that insufficient to expiate his one sin, an unrequited love for the beautiful Marquise de Nançay, the mother of Jehan. That was the simple story of Père Antoine’s life, not without its pathos and its beauty, and full of that long pain which brings forth not only faith but works.
Contrary to Péron’s own anticipations and to those of the cardinal, he accomplished his journey without delay or mishap. Apparently, his departure from Paris had been unnoticed and his errand unsuspected, for no one followed, neither was he stopped by the way, and he reached his destination as speedily as his good horse could cover the long distance between that city and the old Flemish town.
It was in the early evening, and the glow of sunset was still in the western sky, when Péron entered the gates of Brussels and rode slowly through the streets. He had never seen the place before, and the long rows of dark, Spanish-looking houses interested him, the people on doorsteps and balconies diverted him, and he let his horse keep his own gait as he went. When he had halted to have his passports examined at the entrance to the town, he had asked and received directions to the market-place, from whence he thought he could find his own way. He met with no difficulty in obtaining information; he had picked up a little Spanish in the household of the cardinal, and it stood him in good stead. Unconsciously, too, he was attracting a good deal of attention; his handsome face and figure did not pass unnoticed even in his plain dress, which he had purposely adapted to that of a poor gentleman travelling upon some private errand.
With occasional assistance from persons on the street, Péron found himself approaching the Cathedral Church of St. Gudule, where the bleeding body of Count Hoorne was carried after his execution. Thinking of the fate of the two Flemish princes, and remembering his own father’s, Péron was so absorbed in looking up at the old cathedral that he scarcely noticed a man standing in the shadow of the parvis, until he was accosted by the stranger, who spoke in good French.
“You have the time, monsieur?” he asked, approaching Péron.
Without pausing to reflect, Péron drew out mademoiselle’s watch and opened it.