He understood mademoiselle’s trinket now, and for the moment wished it many leagues beneath the sea.
“I regret the intrusion, madame,” he replied calmly, “but I have not consciously worn any token which would lead to such an error.”
There was a pause, and both Marie de’ Medici and her attendant regarded him in surprise and perplexity. It was evident that neither of them knew what to do next. If he spoke the truth, they were in an awkward situation; if he was deceiving them, playing them false, their position was still more perilous. Péron understood their thoughts, and knew that his only chance of escape was immediate action.
“Madame,” he said, turning again to the queen and speaking courteously, “having made the mistake,—which I was led to do through this gentleman here, who seemed to recognize and expect me,—my best apology will be to withdraw at once;” and making her an obeisance, he withdrew so quickly that Guyon had no time to intercept him.
No sooner had the curtain fallen behind him, however, than he heard them engage in an altercation, but he did not pause to listen. He went swiftly across the hall and began to descend the stairs. As he did so, there was the sound of the opening of the street door, accompanied by some talk as if of fresh arrivals, and in a moment a party of gentlemen came to the foot of the staircase. Péron saw that he must meet them, and he quickened his steps in the hope of passing for a messenger hurrying upon his errand. They came crowding up the steps, three of them, all booted and spurred as if fresh from the saddle, and he divined that it was the expected message from Paris. They met midway on the stairs, and all three stared rudely at Péron, and he recognized, in a flash, the painted, foppish face of the youngest. It was the dandy of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, Sieur de Vesson. He stared as if unable to believe his senses, and stopped on the stairs with an oath, but Péron passed on rapidly and reached the street unmolested. It was not the time or the place for a quarrel, and he breathed more freely when he saw the lad still holding his horse.
“You did not tell me what to do,” the child said in an aggrieved tone, “and I did not know whether to take him to the stables here or not.”
Péron threw him some coins and sprang into the saddle, only too eager to be safely out of reach of the queen-mother. As he rode out of the street, he looked back and saw that two men had come out of the house bareheaded and were standing there looking after him. Evidently, he had got off in the nick of time, and they had intended to detain him.
With a lighter heart he made his way to the market-place and, finding the Maison du Roi once more, began his search for the house with the iron cross, a search made difficult by the darkness of nightfall. He rode twice up and down on that side of the square, not caring to risk an inquiry; the third time he found it, having passed it twice before in the gloom. The house answered the cardinal’s description: it was ancient-looking and Spanish in type, and below the balcony above the front door was a small black iron cross set in the stone. Doubtless it had been the property of a good Papist in the days of Alva; it might have been the one from which he witnessed the executions of Egmont and Hoorne. Ah, if houses might only tell their own stories!
Péron dismounted and knocked gently at the door of this forbidding dwelling, but he had to repeat the summons before it was opened by a tall, thin man wearing the black habit of a priest. He carried a taper in his hand, the flame flaring in the draught from the door and showing a white face with large dark eyes. He looked askance at his visitor until Péron held out his hand on which he had placed the cardinal’s ring. The priest recognized it at once, and opened the door wide enough to admit the traveller.
“Enter, my son,” he said, “and I will have your horse cared for; it is late and you will have to spend the night.”