The cardinal's musketeer

by Mary Imlay Taylor

“It is six o’clock,” he said, “but I am from France.”

“From Paris?” remarked the other. “Ah, I see that I was not mistaken. Well, comrade, you are late; I was sure of you, but I did not like to speak until I saw the trinket. Let us lose no more time; follow me.”

Péron was taken by surprise; evidently he was expected, but why had the cardinal neglected to tell him that some one would watch for him? Yet was this the man he sought? Then the truth flashed upon him: it was the trinket, mademoiselle’s watch. At last he seemed on the point of learning its secret. He was too fond of adventure, too reckless of personal danger, to hesitate. Without a word, he dismounted and, leading his horse, followed the man, who seemed disposed to be as silent as he. They walked at a brisk pace, but Péron had time to examine his guide, who was undoubtedly a Frenchman. The stranger wore a suit of black velvet, with a cloak and sword and a low Spanish hat. There was nothing remarkable, however, in his swarthy face or his general appearance. He made his way quietly across the great square, where the cardinal had located the house with the iron cross, and Péron, though interested in his guide and his unknown errand, did not forget to look for it. He had no difficulty in locating the Maison du Roi or the Brodhuys, which stood conspicuously enough in the market-place; but it was not to the house of the iron cross but beyond the square and down a long and narrow street that the stranger led the young soldier. They passed through a crowd in the market-place, and there were people in the street beyond, which perhaps accounted for the silence of the guide, who walked a few paces in advance. The lane they had entered—it was little more than a lane—was a cul-de-sac, and at the end was a large square house; but it was the rear of this house which opened on the lane, the front faced on another street. The stranger made straight for this mansion, and, seeing that it was their destination, Péron examined it curiously. It was singularly bald of interest, a square Dutch house with no crossing with the Spanish architecture. There was a row of windows on the second story, and a door in the middle of the first, while the tiers of windows here were shuttered. In one casement above, in the middle of the house, Péron saw a light burning. As they approached, a little boy, dressed plainly as a page, came out of the door and took the bridle of the traveller’s horse, as if he was expected. Still much amazed, but full of a daring curiosity, Péron followed the man in black velvet through the doorway and across a square hall to the stairs. It was gloomy in the house in spite of the tapers set in brackets on either side of the hall, and the fire in the great chimney smoked dismally when the door was opened. On the stairs they met another man, wearing the dress of a servant.

“You were long returning, monsieur,” he remarked, addressing Péron’s guide.

“He was late,” was the reply; “the roads from Paris grow longer every day.”

The servant laughed and stared curiously at Péron as he stood aside to let them pass. At the head of the stairs the stranger stopped and hesitated.

“You ought to have had time to arrange your dress,” he remarked, with a dubious glance at Péron; “but you were late and she is always impatient. Well, well, we cannot stop now; if you bring good news, doubtless your boots will be forgiven.”

Péron made no reply; he was afraid that a mistake might destroy his chance of fathoming mademoiselle’s mystery. Fortunately the other did not wait for an answer, he crossed the hall and lifted a heavy curtain of black velvet; as he did so, a flood of light shone into the hall and for the moment dazzled Péron, who however heard him say, elevating his voice,—

“Madame, the messenger from Paris.”

They were standing on the threshold of a moderately large room, handsomely furnished and lighted by many tapers. As he spoke, there was a rustle, and a woman rose from a chair by the fire and stood looking eagerly toward the door. She was tall and fat, with a dark skin and round, staring eyes, her expression at once vapid and forbidding. She was dressed in black, and wore her clothes with such ill-grace that she appeared even larger than nature had made her. Péron did not need a second glance; he was rudely awakened from his idle spirit of adventure, for he had no difficulty in recognizing the person whom he least wished to see, Marie de’ Medici, the queen-mother of France.