THE CARDINAL’S MUSKETEER

CARDINAL RICHELIEU
FROM THE PORTRAIT BY PHILIPPE DE CHAMPAIGNE, IN THE GALLERY OF THE LOUVRE

THE
Cardinal’s Musketeer

BY
M. IMLAY TAYLOR
AUTHOR OF
“ON THE RED STAIRCASE,” “AN IMPERIAL LOVER,” “A YANKEE
VOLUNTEER,” “THE HOUSE OF THE WIZARD”

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1900

Copyright
By A. C. McClurg & Co.
A.D. 1900
All rights reserved

CONTENTS

The Cardinal’s Musketeer

CHAPTER I
THE CLOCKMAKER’S SHOP

ON the Rue de la Ferronnerie, near the end of the Rue St. Honoré, where Henri Quatre was stabbed, stood the clockmaker’s shop. In the days of the thirteenth Louis, the streets of Paris were narrow; the windows of one dwelling peeped curiously into those of its opposite neighbor, and especially was this true of the old Rue de la Ferronnerie and of the shop of Jacques des Horloges, the famous clockmaker, at the sign of Ste. Geneviève. It was shop and house united, the upper story overhanging the lower, and under the eaves of the gabled roof the swallows built their nests. It was a quaint little house, the weather stains upon its front and the narrow windows speaking plainly of its antiquity. The strong oak door, black with age, had iron clamps which formed crosses at the top and bottom, while in an alcove above was a rough stone image of Ste. Geneviève. Within, on the lower floor there were three rooms; the one in front was the shop, next to this was the living-room for the clockmaker’s family, and in the rear the kitchen. In the second story there were three small apartments, and above these again was the attic in the gabled roof. From the interior of the house this garret could be reached only by a ladder, put through a trap-door in the floor; but there was another entrance by a stone staircase which ascended to the roof on the outside of the house, from the court in the rear. From these steps two doors opened into the interior, one at the second story and one, a small one, in the roof; the first was frequently opened, the latter was always securely fastened.

The family of the clockmaker was small; it consisted of only three persons and the great gray cat, called M. de Turenne. There were Jacques des Horloges, properly called Jacques Michel, a man of middle age and a master of his trade; his wife, an excellent woman; and one adopted child, the boy Péron. To this child, the long narrow room which constituted the shop, was a chamber furnished with as many marvels as any grotto of fairy lore. Jacques Michel, who had supplied the clocks for the Louvre, who regulated the great clock on the tower of the old Palais de Cité, the first clock that ever told the hours in Paris, and who could make watches like the famous “Nuremberg eggs,” had a marvellous collection in his shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie. There were many greater and wiser than little Péron who contemplated these elaborate pieces of mechanism with amazement. Horology had advanced by strides since the days when the caliph Aroun-al-Raschid presented the famous water-clock to Charlemagne; yet Jacques Michel did not scorn to imitate that curious machine, and one of his clocks, which especially delighted Péron, had, too, twelve horsemen, armed cap-a-pie, who appeared at twelve doors beneath the dial when the hour was struck. Here, too, in a dim corner stood a miniature of the great jacquemart of Dijon, which Philip the Bold of Burgundy carried away in carts from Courtray, the fruit of his victory at Rosbecque. In solemn rows upon either side of the shop, and in double tiers at the ends, stood tall clocks and short clocks, old-fashioned and new; here were clocks with the old steel spring enclosed in a little barrel, and others with the fusee with its catgut attachment; and here were some of the first with weights and flies. On the right was one with the signs of the zodiac on its face; to the left stood another on which perched a golden rooster, who crowed when the hour struck. There was one also, with silver doors below its solemn face, which opened to reveal the images of the Virgin and St. Elizabeth. There were watches, too, so diminutive that the child never ceased to marvel that they could tell the time; in a cabinet was a watch, shaped like a cross and set with jewels, said to be the one worn by M. de Guise when he was stabbed in the presence of Henri III. Here, too, was a watch set in a ring, which struck the hours; and here was the almond-shaped timepiece carried by two of the house of Valois and discarded, to come at last into the clockmaker’s hands; and here were marvellous little pieces of mechanism which set in motion figures of the Virgin, the apostles, and the saints. The clockmakers of Paris occupied a dignified position, protected by the statutes of Louis XI. and Francis I. They enjoyed rights and privileges of their own; nor could a man become a master of the trade unless he had served eight years as an apprentice and produced a chef-d’œuvre under the eyes of an inspector of the corporation. Jacques des Horloges was a past master of the art, and he had accumulated a sufficient fortune to gratify his taste for these antique and wonderful machines. Many of the timepieces in his quaint shop were kept continually in motion, and the soft tick and the loud tick rapped out their noisy contention hour after hour; the cock crew, the jacquemart struck the silver bell, and the twelve horsemen rode out, to the entertainment and delight of the lonely child, who sat day after day gazing at these marvels, and telling himself stories of what the clocks said to one another. He and the great cat, M. de Turenne, seemed to find their chief amusement in this occupation. Péron told himself that the deep-toned jacquemart was a great warrior, and that the Image de Notre Dame had the voice of a saint; and away over in the corner his quick ear heard the little voice of M. de Guise crying out that he was slain. The child was full of fancies, and many a tale he wove from the talk of the clocks. It was his custom whenever he crossed the Pont Neuf to go and look at the Tour de l’Horloge of the Palais de Cité, for to him the face of that clock had many expressions: when it smiled, little Péron was happy; when it frowned, he was sure to have ill luck. It was only the overgrown imagination of a solitary child, for the boy was very solitary; his only companions were Jacques Michel and his wife, his only playmate M. de Turenne. At this time he was eight years old, a handsome, sturdy, little fellow with a rosy face and golden brown hair, a thoughtful expression in his large dark eyes, and the sober, old-fashioned manners of a child who lived chiefly with his seniors and whose play was of the most sober sort. Although Jacques des Horloges was the possessor of a comfortable fortune, little Péron was plainly dressed; his short jacket was usually a well-worn blue taffety, and his breeches were of coarse wool, except on Sundays and saint-days, when he had the honor of appearing in a complete suit of black taffety with a collar of heavy lace. There was a still greater distinction reserved for Easter and Christmas,—a hat with a long curled plume, and then Péron felt that even Monsieur was not more grandly arrayed. At such times the child felt a certain shyness even of M. de Turenne, and walked about stiffly until the solemn occasion was past and he was at home again in the old blue jacket. Little Péron was scarcely known to the visitors to the shop, although Jacques Michel had many grand patrons, from the queen to the Prince de Condé. Great ladies came there in their coaches and descended the carriage steps, assisted by liveried footmen, entering the shop with the rustle of marvellous satin and brocade gowns, little velvet cloaks on their shoulders and great ruffs of lace standing up to their ears. They moved about admiring, wondering, criticising; one loved the clock that was inlaid with gold, another wanted only the Valois watch, which was not for sale. All the while they furnished rare entertainment to the wondering child, who crept back between the tiers of clocks and watched them secretly, because he liked to look at their pretty faces and beautiful clothing; but he detested the airs with which they noticed him if he came out from the hiding-place. They either had haughty glances for him or condescending pleasantry, and the child, who was shy and proud, fled from both. He only peeped out at the great dames surreptitiously, and wove fanciful romances about them as he did about the beloved clocks which were his playfellows. And he saw all the beauties of the Marais; the Princesse de Condé came there, and Leonora Galigai, the favorite of Marie de’ Medici, and Catherine de Vivonne, and Mademoiselle de Montmorency, and even the Princesse Marguerite of Lorraine. Little Péron knew them all by sight, and he told the cat, M. de Turenne, in confidence, his opinion of each; but there was one visitor, an infrequent one it is true, but still a visitor, who made the child shrink back yet farther with his cat in his arms. This was a man whose very presence seemed to change the atmosphere of the shop, and who was received with great courtesy by Jacques des Horloges; a priest, clad in the habit of a bishop, with a pale, keen, Italian face, his eyes having a brilliance and penetration which always startled the child. Péron was not the only one, however, who was fascinated by the presence of the future ruler of France, Armand Jean du Plessis, Bishop of Luçon. The boy shrank and yet was attracted, creeping after awhile into some position of vantage where he could watch the pale, haughty face, the handsome, slender hands, the wonderful, dark eyes; but the bishop never saw his small admirer. Indeed, Péron had a reason besides his shyness for avoiding the customers; he felt instinctively that he was not wanted at such times. Jacques Michel seldom called upon the child for any service, and even dismissed him roughly in the presence of these visitors from the Marais. When more humble callers were there, he was unheeded, but the arrival of a nobleman was often the signal for his departure. Yet at other seasons the boy was not only kindly treated, but was privileged beyond other children of his years and condition. His hands were soft and white, for he had never been called upon for any menial service, and seldom even for errands; his bed was soft, and the clothing upon it was finer and more luxurious than that on the bed of Madame Michel herself. He had the little room next the workshop, because the rear apartment on the second floor, the one which opened on the stairs from the court, was full of apprentices. Péron’s room had a bit of tapestry on the wall, the picture of a stag hunt—the stag pulled down by a savage dog and the hunters in full career toward it; and there was a white curtain in his window, and over his bed was a silver crucifix. He had, too, a tiny square of Arras carpet on the floor, and a velvet cushion on which he kneeled to count his beads. He enjoyed the best at table, also: many a dainty found its way to his plate which was not shared either by the clockmaker or his wife; yet he was not indulged in all directions. He was kept indoors when he longed to run out in the sunshine and play with the children of the Rue de la Ferronnerie; he was forbidden playmates of his own age, and he seldom went anywhere except to the Rue de Bethisi to learn his lessons from Père Antoine, a truly sober diversion. At first he rebelled against these rules, but after awhile he accepted them, and turned for consolation to M. de Turenne and the jacquemarts. He peopled his world with fanciful personages, among whom there always moved a slender figure clad in a bishop’s robe. He was an observant child, and studied everything about him, watching the apprentices for hours and making endless little models of clocks out of paper or wax,—a dull life for a child certainly, yet not an unhappy one, for he was naturally dreamy and old for his age, and he had no troubles. No one crossed him, he had never received a blow in the whole course of his existence, and never a sharp word, except in the presence of Jacques Michel’s great visitors. As for Madame Michel, he was—though he knew it not—the very apple of her eye, and it was one of her chief joys to train the soft, golden brown curls on the boy’s head. Many an hour did she spend washing and pinning out on a cushion the great lace collar he wore on fête days, and she sighed in secret over the linen one, and the worn blue taffety jacket of daily wear.

CHAPTER II
THE SECRET OF THE GARRET

THE little Péron enjoyed every privilege of the clockmaker’s house, but there was one spot in it which he had never entered. That was the garret under the gabled roof. It was not forbidden him, perhaps because the mere prohibition was unnecessary, when it was impossible to penetrate that mysterious corner. For mysterious it was, not only to Péron, but also to the apprentices; and there was no little gossip about the closely fastened door in the roof, and the child heard it when he wandered into the workshop to watch the men manufacturing the marvellous machinery for his well-beloved jacquemarts. No one went to that garret but Madame Michel, and she went only at stated intervals; entering sometimes by the outer staircase, but more frequently by the ladder which went up to the trap-door in the ceiling of her own room. When she was up there, the apprentices always knew it, as well as Péron, for they could hear her steps overhead on the loose boards of the attic floor. What she did there was the subject of much idle, half-jesting conjecture. It could scarcely be a store-room, for she went up and came down empty-handed; they knew this, for the more curious had surprised her in her entrances and exits more than once. It was suggested that she sought this retired spot for the purpose of devotion, but it was further observed that she was usually out of temper after these excursions, and always belabored with her tongue any one whom she caught spying upon her, which did not support the theory of prayer and meditation. The more simple explanation, that she went there to clean and dust the attic, did not suit them either, although natural enough; for the goodwife was scrupulously neat, and had more than once wrought mischief with her dust brush among the curiosities of the shop, until she had been driven out by Jacques des Horloges.

Many a jest was made about that garret, and when the apprentices found that little Péron shared their curiosity, they were only too ready to fill his mind with wonderful tales. The child began after awhile to feel a certain awe mingled with his interest in the secret chamber. The men amused themselves telling him of the hobgoblins who lived under the roof and blew the smoke down the chimneys into the house on days when they were angry. They dressed them up to please their own fancy and amaze the boy. Sometimes the goblins were little and grotesque and lived on eggs stolen from the swallows’ nests under the eaves; again they were large and fat, and sat squat on the ground like toads, and devoured only curious little boys who peeped into their dens in the attics. Again, they told him that the queen of the fairies lived there and ate nothing but cream of clouds à la Zamet. And so the garret became a wonderland to Péron, and he dreaded to see it as much as he longed to explore, with all a boy’s eager fancy for adventure. He was a sober-minded child, too, although so fanciful, and he did not altogether believe the tales that were told him. However, between belief and unbelief, his curiosity waxed strong, and he made many expeditions up the stone stairs from the court to try the handle of the door in the roof; but it was never unfastened, although he sat in the court below and watched it often. Nor was his success better with the trap-door; he could not reach this to try it, for the ladder was always locked up in a closet, except on the auspicious days when Madame Michel ascended. He asked once to accompany her, and was refused more sharply than he had ever been refused any favor before. He was not a child to fret or cry because of a denied pleasure; he neither repeated the request nor asked the cause of the refusal, but accepted the rissole that madame gave him, on her return, as an apology and peace offering. Indeed, all the rest of that day she was unusually indulgent and apologetic to him, and in the evening took him to the pastry shop of Archambault on the Rue des Petits Champs to purchase some of his favorite bonbons and a marvellous dove of sugar, with green eyes which sparkled like jewels. Yet, although she was unaware of it, she had not propitiated him, for the desire of his heart was now, boylike, to see the attic. He pattered along at her side without revealing his thoughts, however; and a strange couple they were on the streets. The good dame was Norman French, a Rouennaise by birth, and a big, broad-shouldered woman with a keen, brown eye and a pleasant, broad face, her black hair brushed smoothly back under her wide-winged white cap; and her dress was that of a well-to-do tradesman’s wife, and withal scrupulously neat. But there was no beauty about her, while about the child there were both beauty and grace of movement. Even in his plain clothes his little figure was striking, and he had a fine, fully developed head for his years. His reserve, his quaint air of dignity, were unlike the manners of the children at play in the streets. Indeed, he had a fixity of purpose which was to prove troublesome to Madame Michel. He accepted her blandishments—but he remembered the attic.

One fair day his opportunity came, as all things come to him who waits. Jacques des Horloges was busy in the shop, the apprentices were deeply engaged on a large clock for M. de Rambuteau, and the cat, M. de Turenne, ran away from Péron and hid. The child hunted for his playmate with the zeal born of idleness, and finding the rooms below empty, he clambered up the stairs to the upper floor. When he came to Madame Michel’s room he stood transfixed at the open door. The ladder was at the trap, and he heard madame’s voice in the court, engaged in shrill altercation with a peddler. The child could scarcely believe his eyes. M. de Turenne was forgotten; here was something of far greater interest. He advanced cautiously, not because he felt himself a transgressor, but because he was awed at the possible revelation which lay before him. His heart beat as he set his small foot on the first rung of the ladder, and then he drew back. The stories of the hobgoblins beset him with strange misgivings; he fancied that he heard a soft sound overhead; he hesitated, and a little tremor of excitement ran over him. What would he see up there? Ah, that was the question! He reflected, however, that he would like to see a hobgoblin, and he did not believe that they ate little boys. He was screwing up his courage, admitting to himself that the possibilities were ugly. But curiosity is a strong motive power, and the child was no coward, if over-imaginative, as children so brought up are likely to be. He wavered only a moment or two; decisive action was necessary before Madame Michel returned. He took his life in his hand and climbed the ladder like a young hero; he did not pause again until he reached the floor of the attic, for fear his courage might fail. At the top he drew his breath and stood still; it took a few minutes for his eyes to become accustomed to the gloom, for there was only one window in the roof, and that a small one. Then he looked about him with a sharp sense of disappointment, for he saw nothing,—that is, nothing of interest to a child. It was a very small room indeed, with the naked rafters above, and, strange to say, in spite of madame’s neatness, a cobweb or two festooned the corners. The window in the roof revealed the rough boards of the floor and nothing more except three large plain chests of solid wood standing in a row on one side. A barren spot to have excited so much curiosity, and certainly not a promising home for hobgoblins. Péron’s first impulse was to go down the ladder again, but he thought better of it and began to move about the attic, examining it until he assured himself that there was nothing to be seen except the chests. Having arrived at this conclusion, he betook himself to these; he tried the lid of the one nearest the trap-door, but it defied even the industrious efforts of little fingers, and he turned away, disappointed and piqued. The next was equally unaccommodating, although he devoted more time to it; he found the lock and applied his eye to it, in a fruitless effort to see inside. Curiosity now was whetted by defeat and he approached the third, his little face more rosy than usual and his lips pinched tightly together. He was destined to succeed at last; the first touch assured him that the lid was unlocked, and he put out all his child’s strength to lift it and peep in. Again a disappointment; he saw only some neatly folded clothing; but something in the color and appearance attracted him and he pursued his investigations. With infinite care and labor he lifted the lid upright and turned it back on its hinges, then stood gazing with pleased eyes at the objects revealed. Nothing very unusual, only the small clothing of a child of two or three years old, but of a quality and color so delicate that little Péron examined them in wonder. They were as beautiful as the gowns of the belles of the Marais. The chest was closely packed, but the boy got no deeper than the upper layer. Here was a little coat of the palest blue, and Péron knew that it was of velvet and satin, and the lace on it seemed to him like the frost-work that he had sometimes seen on the windows at Christmas. He fingered it gently, for he was a careful child, and the tiny roses in the pattern delighted him. It was while he was examining them that he felt something cold touch his exploring fingers, and a tiny chain of gold slipped out from the folds with a locket on the end of it. His attention was at once absorbed by this new object of interest; it was small and round, and Péron thought it was the brightest piece of red glass that he had ever seen. On it was engraved a very curious picture,—curious to him, at least,—a little lion rampant, a wreath or a scroll, and some figures which he could not decipher. He did not know what it was, but he took it nearer the window, when he discovered that the light made it sparkle. The chain did not interest him, and he gently worked at the links until he accidentally detached it, and then he dropped the chain back into the chest and stood shifting the stone in his fingers to catch the changes of light. He remembered seeing one such stone before,—he thought it was on the neck of the Duchess of Rohan,—and he was delighted with his discovery. It was still in the little nervous fingers when Madame Michel came suddenly up the ladder, having approached unheard while he was fascinated with his bit of red glass. At first the good dame did not see the invader of her sanctum, and when she did, she discovered the open chest at the same instant and came forward with an outcry that frightened the child so much that he drew back, clasping his treasure tightly to his breast, and gazing at her angry face in mute, wide-eyed alarm.

“Mère de Dieu!” she cried, running to the open box, and looking in with feverish anxiety, “what have you done, you little rogue?”

She examined the clothes with fierce scrutiny, but she could detect no disturbance of their neat folds, for Péron had handled them so delicately that no harm was done. She slammed down the lid, and, locking it, thrust the key in her bosom before she turned to the child. Her anger was slightly mollified, but there was still some agitation in her face and manner, and she gazed searchingly at the offender.

“How long have you been here?” she demanded sharply.

The boy was still alarmed by her unusual conduct, and he kept the bit of red glass tight in his little fist.

“I do not know,” he said, shaking his head; “I was looking for M. de Turenne, I—”

“Mon Dieu!” cried madame, looking about behind the boxes, “is that beast here? If he had got into the chest, he would have torn up everything.”

“He is not here,” replied Péron soberly. “I could not find him, and I came up the ladder.”

“What did you want to come up here for?” asked the woman suspiciously, having satisfied herself that M. de Turenne was not in hiding.

“I wanted to see the hobgoblins,” rejoined the child calmly, his agitation departing as her anger subsided.

Madame looked at him in amazement, her eyes very round.

“Ciel! the boy is mad,” she said to herself softly, and then aloud, “You are dreaming, mon enfant, what do you mean? There are no hobgoblins in this house.”

“Mais oui, madame!” exclaimed the child wisely, “there are, here under the roof; they said so;” and he pointed downward.

“They?” repeated the good woman, bewildered; “who are ‘they’?”

“Jehan and Pierre, the apprentices, and Manchette, too,” he replied; “it must be true!”

“Ah!” ejaculated madame sharply; “so they gossip about this place, do they?”

Gossip was a long word for little Péron; he wrinkled his brows.

“They told me of the hobgoblins,” he repeated stoutly.

Madame Michel’s face cleared a little.

“Ah, only nonsense to frighten the child!” she exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. “Sainte Geneviève! I thought—” But she did not finish the sentence; she laid a heavy hand on Péron’s shoulder.

“Listen to me,” she said, in a sharp, clear tone. “I have never whipped you, mon enfant, but if you say one word of this attic to Jehan, Pierre, Manchette, or any one else, I will surely whip you, Péron, and you shall have no dinner; neither shall you go to the Rue des Petits Champs;—do you understand me, eh?”

Péron looked up at her red face and his childish courage quaked; but he was a proud child, and he inwardly resolved that he would never bear a blow—he would run away first.

“Why do you not speak?” she cried angrily; “you hear me, enfant!”

“I will not tell, madame,” the boy answered gravely, “but you will not whip me!”

She let go of him, amazed at the look on his face, an expression of almost shame coming over hers. She knelt down on the garret floor and kissed the child’s hand, the picture of humility.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” she said, tears in her voice; “you are right, I will not whip you.”

There were tears in her eyes also. A moment later she rose, and brushed the moisture from her eyelashes with the back of her broad, strong hand.

“I am an old fool!” she said, giving the boy a push toward the ladder; “go away, mon enfant, there is nothing here but some old chests, old clothes, and old hopes!”

At this moment her eyes fell on the form of M. de Turenne, who was sitting placidly at the top of the ladder, licking his gray fur, the end of his tail moving in a charmed circle.

“Scat!” she cried, stamping her feet, “between the cat and the child I shall go mad,” and she drove them both down the ladder and slammed down the door after them.

All the while the piece of red glass had remained tightly clasped in Péron’s hand. In his agitation he had held it unconsciously, and now he was afraid to tell Madame Michel, dreading a repetition of the scene. He crept away with it to his own little room and examined it with a tremor of excitement. It was so pretty, and it had so nearly precipitated a terrible calamity; for he felt that had madame struck him, he should have died of shame. He was afraid to return the stone and afraid to play with it, and it became a fresh cause for embarrassment. However, he finally solved the problem by determining to hide it away. In a little cupboard in the corner of his room there was one shelf devoted to his treasures,—wax and paper models of jacquemarts, broken watch-springs, some fancifully shaped pebbles, a number of marvellously useless valuables, and here Madame Michel never meddled. Therefore he loved it with the pride of sole proprietorship, and here in a dark corner he stowed away the bit of red glass wrapped in a soiled sheet of paper. For a few days he took it out surreptitiously and played with it, and then he forgot it and it lay there unheeded and unsought; for as yet Madame Michel had not discovered her loss.

CHAPTER III
PÈRE ANTOINE

AFTER Péron had gratified his curiosity in regard to the garret and found it such a bare and unprofitable spot, he speedily forgot it, and only once again during his childhood was he to startle Madame Michel with the mention of it. This was on the occasion of a conversation which took place some months later in the shop. The house at the sign of Ste. Geneviève was too small to harbor any of the apprentices at night, so after work hours they took their departure, leaving the members of the little family to themselves. As none of his patrons ever visited him in the evening, Jacques des Horloges was then at liberty to entertain his personal friends. The clockmaker was a quiet man, not much addicted to conviviality, and he had few visitors at such times, occupying himself frequently with studies connected with his work or in straightening his accounts. It was the family custom in the evening to gather around the table in the living-room, which was cheerfully lighted with tapers. Madame Michel was always knitting, her needles flying with marvellous celerity, while her eyes were equally alert in observing Péron and M. de Turenne. Jacques des Horloges was a broad-shouldered, stalwart-looking man, a native of Picardy, his rugged face and honest, kindly eye commending him to the observer. He had a powerful build for one of his profession, and looked better suited to bear the sword than to wind the machinery of delicate watches. His dress was suited to his station in life and showed no signs of the fortune which, it was whispered, he had accumulated. His only ornament was a chain of gold around his neck which supported a tiny, cruciform watch, so ingeniously manufactured that it not only struck the hours but showed also the day of the month.[1]

It was on one of these evenings, when Jacques and his wife and little Péron sat around the table, that a knock at the shop door disturbed the quiet scene. Madame Michel rose and went to answer it, still knitting, even when she walked across the dimly lighted shop, not even dropping a stitch as she made her way between the tiers of clocks. When she opened the door she curtsied low and greeted the visitor with reverence as well as affection. A moment later she returned to the living-room conducting a tall, thin man wearing the plain black habit of a priest,—a man of middle age, stooping slightly in his bearing and with a face of unusual sweetness and refinement of expression. Michel greeted the new-comer with as much cordiality as his wife had shown; and even little Péron ran to draw forward a chair for him, while the cat rubbed himself against his cassock with evident affection. There are some persons to whom all animals turn with instinctive trust and affection, and there is no better sign, as there is no worse than the aversion shown to others. The instinct of an animal is more unerring than human perception: it recognizes both brutes and traitors.

The priest smiled an equal welcome upon all, but there was perplexity in his blue eyes. He sat down and laid his broad-brimmed hat on the table and clasped his hands on his knee; and he had handsome hands, slender and nervous, with delicate finger-tips. His face was pale, with lines about the thin lips and under the large eyes, showing care, anxiety, midnight vigils; he had the face of a student, and the hair, already gray at the back of his head, was white on the temples. His gaze rested now on the child, who, having seated the visitor, had resumed his own place on the floor, where he was cutting out a paper clock. The priest watched him attentively, while Jacques des Horloges and his wife waited in respectful silence for him to open the conversation. Something about little Péron interested Père Antoine so much that it was some moments before he looked up, and when he did, it was with a grave face.

“I have strange tidings,” he said softly, glancing from Jacques to his wife. “M. de Bruneau has been arrested and will be condemned to death.”

Michel stared at him in blank amazement, and madame uttered a cry and dropped her knitting-needles. The priest made a sign with his hand toward the child on the floor, and it had its effect at once; both his auditors restrained their agitation.

“I cannot understand,” Jacques des Horloges said. “What was his offence? Not a plot against the king, surely?”

“Ay,” Père Antoine replied soberly, “something of that sort, although a much exaggerated charge, manufactured, I fear, by his enemies. He was taken on the Rue St. Denis, on information furnished by one high in the favor of Albert de Luynes.”

“Who is he?” asked Michel eagerly.

The priest glanced again at the child.

“It is M. de Nançay,” he said, in a low voice; “one of the witnesses against the accused is his cousin, Lemoigne de Marsou.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Jacques des Horloges, nodding his head slowly.

“A trap, of course, mon père,” Madame Michel exclaimed, leaning forward in her interest, her knitting forgotten.

“It would seem so,” Père Antoine replied thoughtfully. “M. de Bruneau was led into making some admission. There has been too much sharp practice in tracing plotters. I truly believe that de Bruneau may be innocent of all treason, but it cannot be proved. Since his majesty reached his majority, madame his mother has been discontented with her position. She cannot accept any place but the first. She has ruled so long during the king’s childhood that she is not willing to give up. It is said publicly by her partisans that she has been admitted to the council merely for the sake of appearances and has no voice in anything, though her name is used, and the people hold her responsible for affairs in which she has no part. The young men of her party are therefore constantly plotting to reinstate her in authority, and her jealousy of her son fosters these intrigues both here and in her court at Blois. It is some affair of this kind in which de Bruneau is implicated, but I think that M. de Nançay is far more likely to have burned his fingers than this young man.”

“It is strange,” remarked Jacques des Horloges; “M. de Bruneau is the last man of whom I should expect such disloyalty; he could not have been in his senses.”

“He says that he had been drinking when the confession was forced from him,” Père Antoine rejoined; “it was at Archambault’s pastry shop.”

“You have seen him, then?” asked Madame Michel eagerly.

“I went immediately to the Châtelet,” the priest replied; “I found him much as I expected. He has not the fortitude to meet such a calamity.”

“He has powerful patrons, mon père,” the goodwife said; “is there no hope of intercession?”

The priest shook his head.

“None,” he answered; “there have been too many plots, too many intrigues; they will make an example of him. The whole weight of the Marquis de Nançay’s influence, never greater than now, will be thrown into the scale against the prisoner.”

“Ay,” remarked Michel sternly, “’tis his opportunity to be rid of a troublesome rival, and marvellously well planned too, if I mistake not.”

“I fear so,” said Père Antoine thoughtfully; “it has worked out strangely, at least. Certainly, M. de Bruneau’s death is in his favor.”

“I am sorry for the accused,” said the clockmaker; “I remember him from a lad of twelve. ’Tis a sad end for a young man and a soldier. Did you tell him aught of that matter whereof we spoke before?” he added, glancing anxiously at the priest.

Père Antoine shook his head. “Nay,” he answered. “How would it profit us? He is as good as a dead man, so could not aid us if he would, and I have never been sure that he would. He is a feather-brain, and we cannot put so weighty a matter into idle or desperate hands. He cannot aid us, but he might work us some mischief with his careless tongue even now. I deemed it best that he should die in ignorance of that which would not serve him, and might harm others.”

“I have felt much as you do, father,” Michel rejoined, after a moment’s silence; “once or twice he came here to the shop, talking with me freely, yet I did not wholly trust him. He seemed to me a harebrained, ambitious young man, desiring nothing so much as his own aggrandizement and not likely to welcome the thought that one stood ahead of him upon the road to name and fortune.”

The priest did not immediately reply; he was leaning forward and fingering out a silent piece of music on the table with his slender fingers.

“There might have been some question as to his claim,” he said thoughtfully; “in a case like this, where there is confiscation, he might have had a better chance than the true heir.”

Madame Michel drew her breath deeply, clasping her hands to her bosom.

“The finger of God is in it!” she exclaimed devoutly.

“His hand directs all things,” Père Antoine returned quietly; “it is our blindness which does not recognize it.”

There was another pause, and in it Madame Michel surreptitiously wiped a tear from her eyes. The regular throbbing tick of the clocks sounded distinctly from the shop, and little Péron began to doze, with his head on the low stool in the corner; it was past his bedtime, but he was forgotten.

“When will M. de Bruneau be tried?” asked Jacques des Horloges, at last.

“Immediately,” Père Antoine replied; “’tis a well established case; there are several witnesses, all relatives of M. le Marquis.”

“Sent purposely, no doubt,” exclaimed madame indignantly. “The old rogue!”

“I am sorry for the poor gentleman,” Michel said once more; “he is like to have a short shrift. Will you see him again, mon père?”

“I have a permit from the king,” the priest replied, “and I shall stay with the unhappy prisoner to the end. There is absolutely no earthly hope, and I fear M. de Bruneau has never set great store by the heavenly.”

As he spoke, he rose from his seat to leave them, and the movement startled Péron, who opened his sleepy eyes just as the priest glanced in his direction.

“The child has been asleep,” Père Antoine remarked, smiling. “How great a blessing is the unconscious freedom from care! I had well nigh forgotten your present, Péron,” he added, thrusting his hand into his wallet and drawing out a pale blue silk handkerchief; “I brought this for you, little one, because you begged for a silk handkerchief the other day.”

The child was wide-awake now and came running to the priest, all eagerness for the small bit of silk in Père Antoine’s outstretched hand.

“Oh, madame, it is just like the beautiful silk in the chest in the garret!” Péron cried, delighted; “the same pale blue—but it is not so thick and glossy!” he added, on examination.

At the child’s words both men glanced quickly at Madame Michel, whose face flushed scarlet.

“Hush, Péron!” she exclaimed angrily, “you do not know what you say.”

“How is this, mother?” asked Jacques des Horloges gravely.

She laughed a little, her agitation giving way to a milder feeling.

“I left the ladder down and the little rogue is as active as a cat and more curious,” she said, apologetically.

Père Antoine smiled, laying his hand softly on the child’s curls.

“The likeness to his father grows daily,” he remarked to Jacques; “do you not see it?”

“I try to think it is in my eyes,” rejoined the clockmaker bluntly; “it is like to do him more mischief than good.”

“He is in higher hands than ours,” replied the priest sadly, making a sign as though he blessed the child, before he bade them good-night and went on his solemn errand to the Châtelet.

CHAPTER IV
THE PASTRY SHOP ON THE RUE DES PETITS CHAMPS

IT was one of Péron’s few privileges to pay an occasional visit to the pastry shop of his friend Archambault. A privilege which he prized most highly when he could go without Madame Michel, because he was then certain to be the recipient of various little gifts of sweetmeats, of which he did not receive so large a share in her presence. But the permission to go alone was so rare that it was scarcely obtained in a twelvemonth, and then only when the goodwife was so occupied that she could not spare the time either to make or to fetch some dainty for the dinner of Jacques des Horloges. But it was only a few weeks after Père Antoine’s evening visit that one of these rare opportunities presented itself, and little Péron trotted off as fast as his sturdy legs could carry him to the Rue des Petits Champs. He was clad in his every-day clothes, and his taffety jacket was beginning to show threadbare spots at the elbows; but his apparel did not disguise the child’s native grace, and his dark eyes shone with happiness. He walked swiftly, not stopping to speak to any one, ignoring the children at play, according to his instructions, and clasping a livre tightly in his rosy fist; for madame had bidden him be careful of it and bring her the change, and he knew well that she made much ado over the careless spending of a denier or a sou. It was a great thing for him to be trusted with so stupendous a sum as a whole silver livre, and he felt the responsibility, resisting the temptation to disobey orders and stop to watch the youngsters at play in the Rue de l’Arbre Sec, which was right in his way. With a strong appreciation of his own virtues, he kept straight upon his course, and arrived at the pastry shop, above the door of which swung the sign of Les Trois Champignons. In this establishment there were two rooms,—the outer one, which Péron entered, furnished with a long counter in front of the kitchen door, and full of small tables for the accommodation of a motley crowd of visitors; and the inner apartment, on the opposite side from the kitchen, which was for the entertainment of persons of consequence. No one was more quick to recognize the most ethereal differences in rank or social degree than Archambault, the cook, and like all vulgar people he was noisy in his eagerness to serve the rich and the great; yet—with all the faults natural to his class—the honest fellow had a good heart, and fed the poor at his back door as liberally as he fed the rich at his front. For which he was not to blame, as it is a common fault of human nature to prefer to receive the poor at the back door. St. Teresa and her two sous had the help of God, but doubtless she would have had a low seat at the pastry cook’s.

When little Péron entered the shop, the outer room was well filled with guests, scattered in groups at the various tables. The greater number of them were soldiers, and there was a good deal of noisy talk and laughter. The attendants were moving about at a rapid pace, endeavoring to fulfil the demands made on them from every quarter, and there was no one behind the counter when the boy reached it. A little embarrassed by the crowd and the noise, the child stood waiting for some one to attend to his wants, watching meanwhile the groups nearest at hand. At a table close by sat three young soldiers wearing the dress of musketeers. They had reached a course of sweetmeats and pastry, which they were washing down with a liberal supply of good red wine. A soldier is always interesting to a boy, and little Péron gazed at these men with eager curiosity; their rich uniforms, their fiercely curled moustaches, their polished accoutrements, all pleased his eye. After awhile, a few words of their conversation attracted his attention, and he listened trying to understand, for the name of M. de Bruneau was one that he remembered hearing from Père Antoine. The men were discussing in low tones the trial of the latest political offender; they were talking also of M. de Luynes and of the king, and it seemed as if the fate of de Bruneau, for some reason, excited unusual interest. It was evident that no one quite believed in his guilt, although no one could prove his innocence.

“M. de Bruneau died like a gentleman at noon to-day,” remarked one of the musketeers, eating a citron with a certain placid enjoyment of the sweetmeat and his gruesome subject.

“I heard that his knees shook and he was sadly frightened at the sight of the block,” said another, shrugging his shoulders.

“Parbleu! I do not blame him,” cried the third; “’tis one thing to die in a fight, or even to fall by a sword-thrust on the Place Royale, quite another to walk up to the block to be bled like an ox. No one seems to know what was the full charge against him either, except the accuser.”

“Who is a cousin of M. de Nançay, whereby hangs a tale as long as a sermon,” said the first speaker.

“And Bruneau was the cousin of the dead marquis, was he not?” asked the second soldier.

“Ay,” responded the other, “which is the handle of the tale.”

“And M. de Bruneau’s property is confiscated?” continued the inquiring soldier.

“Certainly, and that is the gist of the tale!” retorted his companions, laughing.

“His accomplices both escaped,” said the first speaker,—“one to England, the other, M. Benoit, to Flanders.”

“M. de Bruneau stopped,” began one of the others, “to—”

“To bid his sweetheart adieu!” interjected the gayest member of the party, laughing.

“And was taken on the Rue St. Denis by the provost-marshal and”—the speaker held his hand over his mouth and pointed at the inner room,—“and M. de Nançay.”

“Ventrebleu!” exclaimed the other, “what a pleasant rencounter.”

At this they all laughed loudly, and little Péron, who was still watching and listening, wondered what could be so amusing in a subject which seemed to be the same of which Père Antoine had spoken so gravely. The child’s wondering gaze attracted the attention of the youngest musketeer, and he mistook the boy’s eager attention for a longing after the sweets on the table, seeing that he was neglected and wore a rather shabby coat. The soldier had eaten well and was in the humor to be not only kind but mischievous. He leaned back in his chair and held out a rissole to Péron.

“Here, Master Bluecoat,” he said gayly, “have a tidbit. I have eaten and you are not yet served.”

Péron shook his head, drawing back indignantly, but the musketeer did not recognize the meaning of his repugnance.

“Come, come,” he said, “no need of shyness; I do not want it, my boy, I have had one bite—and one of my bites is equal to three of yours.”

He pressed it upon the child, who retreated still more toward the counter, his little face flushing scarlet. The other two soldiers had now become interested and each held out a sweetmeat laughing, much diverted at the boy’s discomfiture.

“Here is a citron,” said one.

“And here a tart,” cried another, while the first offender still flourished his rissole.

“I do not want them!” exclaimed Péron, now backed against the counter, and looking at them in angry bewilderment.

But they were not to be put off so easily.

“You will miss it, Master Bluecoat,” said the soldier with the rissole; “’tis an opportunity not often found at Archambault’s, sweetmeats free of charge! Try my cake, monsieur.”

“I do not want what you have tasted!” cried Péron, with disgust.

This sally was greeted with laughter as the astonished guardsman looked blankly at the child. He recovered, however, in an instant, and made the boy a mocking bow.

“I beg your pardon, M. le Marquis!” he said. “Can I not order for your excellency? Archambault does not know who is without.”

The jest caught the fancy of his idle companions.

“Give place here at the table,” they cried, clearing a space in the dishes; “let the marquis sit!”

Before the child realized their intention, the gay musketeer had picked him up in his arms and set him down in the center of the table.

“Place for the pièce de résistance!” he cried, laughing; “room for M. le Marquis de Rissole!”

Amazed, angry, half frightened, little Péron sat amid the dishes gazing defiantly at his tormentors, too proud to cry, too surprised to attempt an escape, remembering only to hold tightly to Madame Michel’s precious livre. Around him the three musketeers gathered, jesting, laughing, making him fanciful obeisances as they offered every dish in turn, as if serving a prince. Their boisterous merriment drew a group of idle spectators, and the child was soon the center of a noisy circle, which constantly widened.

“M. le Marquis, permit me,” said his first tormentor, “here are some bouchées à la reine—or here are tartelettes aux confitures.”

“And here, your excellency,” cried another, “are macarons aux amandes!”

“Coquilles de volaille,” said a third, “œufs farcis!”

“Croquettes de ris de veau,” said one of the new-comers, “and a roast of hobgoblins, with a sauce aux champignons!”

Amidst this hubbub the child remained silent, his courage was wavering a little, and his small mouth closed tighter as did his clenched fists, but he kept his dark eyes fastened defiantly on the ring of laughing faces. The jest was no jest to him, and it required all his force of will to bear it; but he was too proud to waver, too shy to understand or retort to their rough pleasantry. The table on which he sat was being crowded at the edge with dishes, and the light fell full on his golden brown head and shabby, blue taffety jacket. The color which had come to his face with his first anger had faded with his increasing alarm, and his eyes looked unnaturally large and bright.

The jesters had just begun a fresh assault with cakes and pies, when the door of the inner room opened and a tall man came slowly out, pausing at the sound of the merriment at the table by the counter, and glancing in that direction with an air of displeasure. He was evidently a person of consequence, as his bearing and the richness of his dress indicated. His face was handsome and severe, and his brow was concealed by a great plumed hat; he wore a collar of rich lace over his velvet coat, and ruffles of lace, two fingers deep, finished his satin breeches at the knee and fell over the wide tops of his boots. He stared haughtily at the laughing circle about the boy, and then his glance alighted on Péron and seemed for the moment arrested by the child’s face and figure, and he looked long and attentively at him. There were still many persons at the other tables in the room, and presently the tall stranger began to attract nearly as much notice, though of a respectful kind, as did Péron. But the new-comer heeded no one save the child, and it was evident that the scene did not meet with his approval. At last he moved forward to the edge of the circle of jesters, and as one of the servants approached he spoke to him with an imperative tone and gesture.

“Who is the child?” he demanded sharply.

At the sound of his voice the musketeers and their friends looked about, and seeing him fell back discomfited; only the little boy remained motionless in his seat on the table, not knowing how to escape.

“Who is that child?” exclaimed the great man again, impatiently.

Some one had warned the chief pastry cook, and Archambault came hurrying from the kitchens. A glance told him the story, and with a swift movement he swept the little fellow from the table into the background and stood bowing obsequiously to his tall guest.

“Are you all deaf?” exclaimed that personage tartly; “I have asked three times about that boy. Who is he?”

“Only little Péron, M. le Marquis,” replied Archambault blandly; “the son of a poor tradesman.”

“An ill-mannered cub to make such a scene,” remarked the great man haughtily. “I did not know you kept a playhouse, Archambault.”

The pastry cook was profuse in his apologies. He was a little round man with a bald spot the size of a poached egg on the back of his round head, he had little round eyes that glistened not unkindly, and even his fingers were as round and plump as croquettes. He made a thousand excuses and waited on M. le Marquis to the door, looking out at the liveried lackeys awaiting his irritable guest. When he was safely out of hearing, however, Archambault was no longer amiable. He hurried back, and as he passed through the group of musketeers he flourished his hands in frantic gesticulations.

“Morbleu!” he cried, “you will ruin me, you coxcombs! That was M. de Nançay, and he is more ticklish for the proprieties than M. de Luynes! Between your appetites and your manners I shall be a ruined man! If you do not mend your ways, you dogs,” he added, shaking his fat fist at them, “I will run you all out with a spit. Mordieu! I shall be outlawed!”

With these words he disappeared into the kitchen, pushing Péron before him, and closing the door sharply behind him.

In spite of Péron’s recent alarm and anger, he became at once so interested in the busy scene which opened before his eyes that he almost forgot his troubles; but not so did Archambault. The pastry cook seemed absorbed in thought and took no notice of the cooks and scullions hurrying to and fro with smoking pots and gaudily dressed dishes. He even forgot the child’s errand and hurried him through the kitchens, across the court, and into a room which opened at the back of the house on the Rue de Beaujolais. So rapid had been their movements that the bewildered boy did not recollect Madame Michel’s orders until he suddenly bethought himself of the livre still in his hand.

“I have not the tarts,” he said, drawing back as Archambault began to unfasten the outer door. The pastry cook stopped and rubbed his head.

“Diable!” he ejaculated, and then after a moment’s thought he called to a scullion.

“Gaspard, bring hither some tarts and cakes,” he said, “and be quick!”

Péron opened his little fist at last and gravely extended the money.

“You were to take out the price,” he said.

The scullion had already hastily filled the order and put the bundle in the small customer’s arms but without taking the livre. Archambault meanwhile had thrust his head out from the door and looked anxiously up and down the street; he drew back now and grasped the child by the arm.

“Come!” he said impatiently, as Péron held back.

“I have not paid,” the boy protested, stoutly resisting.

“Some other time will do,” retorted the fat pastry cook.

“Madame Michel wished the change,” replied Péron stubbornly; “that is why she gave me a livre.”

“Mon Dieu!” cried Archambault, beside himself with impatience, “quick, Gaspard, the change; this child would wait for change if he bought his own coffin!”

And it was not until this business had been transacted to Péron’s satisfaction that he was willing to go out at the door which had been opened for his convenience. But after the livre had been changed he stepped out into the street, closely followed by the pastry cook. There was no one in sight, and Archambault laid his hand on the child’s shoulder.

“Now mind you, Péron,” he said, with emphasis, “run down to the Rue St. Honoré and so to the shop. No time to dream now, no dallying,—vite!” and he clapped his fat hands and laughed a little as the boy ran off in the direction that he indicated.

He watched until the lad was out of sight and then returned to his business with evident relief. He did not know how anxious Péron was to be at home or what a horror he had conceived of the pastry shop.

The child ran the whole distance and arrived so out of breath that Madame Michel marvelled and scolded while she counted the change. She found one more pie than had been paid for, which she however supposed to be intended as the messenger’s perquisite, and so set her mind at rest. Her conscience permitted an increase in the amount received more readily than a decrease in the returns from her livre. Being satisfied with the results of Péron’s shopping, she did not pursue her inquiries and remained ignorant of the scene of which he had been the hero.

CHAPTER V
THE CHÂTEAU DE NANÇAY

IT was not until Péron was ten years old that he made a journey outside the gates of Paris. Jacques des Horloges was accustomed to go from one grand house to another, to regulate and mend the great clocks, for his skill was held in high esteem, and such errands frequently took him beyond the city limits. But he had never taken the boy with him until one day, as he was setting out, Péron begged so hard to be allowed to accompany him that he consented. The stout Norman horse which Jacques always rode stood saddled at the door, and the clockmaker had just finished packing his saddle-bags when the child ran out, eager and importunate for the privilege of a ride beyond the gates. Michel listened to the petitioner with some amusement and a good deal of doubt. He stood hesitating, his hand on the saddle and his eyes on the pleading face. He was wavering between a desire to gratify the boy and a doubt of the wisdom of yielding to persuasion; and while he was still undecided his wife came to the door.

“Péron wants to go,” he said, smiling, “and I have the mind to take him, only”—he paused, still looking at the child—“I am going to Poissy and beyond.”

“To Nançay?” madame said quickly, and she too looked at Péron.

“Ah, may I not go?” cried the boy, turning from one to the other. “I will be good, I will do just as I am bid!”

“Poor baby!” exclaimed the woman, “’tis a pity, and yet—”

“There can be no harm done, I think,” Jacques remarked, after a moment, “and it is meet that the child should see something besides the shop and the Rue de la Ferronnerie. Give me what he may need for three days, and he shall go.”

Péron uttered a cry of delight, and danced about on the doorstep, while Madame Michel hesitated yet a moment longer.

“Ought we to ask Père Antoine?” she said doubtfully.

Jacques des Horloges shook his head. “I have not time,” he said, “and, after all, it is no great matter. So be quick, for I must be off.”

Without more ado a little bundle for Péron was added, he was mounted behind the clockmaker, and they set out on their journey, the child as full of eagerness as though they were going out into a new world. He looked about him proudly from his perch behind Jacques; he felt that it was an important event in his life, and he was conscious of the envious glances of the children in the streets. But the sights of the city were familiar to him, and it was not until they had passed beyond the limits of Paris and were traversing the green meadows that he realized the delights of a ride in the open country. He was not a talkative child, and he took his pleasure silently, gazing about him with great interest and noting every unusual object. The river seemed so beautiful out here, running through the fields, that he could scarcely believe that it was the same Seine into which he had so often looked from the Pont Neuf. Those observant dark eyes saw every wild flower, every green leaf by the wayside, and followed eagerly the flight of the swallows overhead.

Jacques des Horloges was as little inclined to conversation as the child. The clockmaker’s broad, sturdy figure sat squarely on the back of his stout horse, and he kept his eyes on the road, attending steadily to his own business. He was not a romantic person, and would have been much amazed at the child’s fancies about the matter-of-fact objects in view. He was a plain man who saw only plain duties in life, and, for the most part, performed his share of them in a simple way.

This silent couple made the journey of five leagues to St. Germain-en-Laye without interruption and without incident, and riding into the town stopped for dinner at the Three Moons. The child, tired from the long ride, was glad to find a seat at the table in the public room, where they were forced to wait some time to be served, for it was crowded with guests. It was the season for the annual fair in the forest of St. Germain, and the inn was filled with traders, mummers, and merrymakers going there for business or entertainment. At a table near Michel’s sat a company of strolling players, and the jests and the grimaces of the clown soon aroused Péron in spite of his weariness. The grotesquely painted face and the gay dress with its fringe of bells delighted the child and diverted his attention even from his food. There were soldiers here too; but he had cared less for them since the scene at Archambault’s, although he could not yet entirely resist the fascination of their highly polished corselets and the rattle of swords and spurs. There were peddlers there with their packs, on the way to trade at the fair, musicians, countrymen, a motley gathering and a lively one, the ripple of talk and laughter, the clatter of dishes, the rush and hurry of attendance, all enlivening the scene. Yet there was grave enough talk whispered in some of the corners of that very room. Where there was a knot of persons of the better class, the conversation ran on the quarrel of the queen-mother and the king, on the defeat of her troops at Ponts-de-Cé and the possibilities of peace; of the influence of Albert de Luynes and the return of the Bishop of Luçon from exile at Avignon. Food enough for talk, but it was low spoken; there had been two courts and two factions too long for men to venture free speech. Marie de’ Medici, the queen-mother of France, who had ruled during the king’s long minority, could not retire from a foremost place in the government. Jealous, spiteful, scheming,—a wily Italian,—she never rested from her endeavors to control her son and his affairs until she was defeated by the wit and determination of Richelieu; and for years France beheld the strange spectacle of two courts and two trains of courtiers, a mother and son at swords’ points with each other. Behind all this was the ever-watchful jealousy of the two religious parties. The Huguenots, no longer protected by the great Henry, were suspicious of his son and fearful that their rights would be infringed. The Catholics, on the other hand, liberated from the strong rule of the dead king, and hoping much from Louis XIII., were as restless and eager for strife as ever, and found themselves, in their turn, encroached upon by the Huguenots, who were unwilling to grant the freedom of religion to others which they demanded for themselves. So long the victims of intolerance, they were themselves intolerant. Already the great trouble was brewing that would culminate in the siege and fall of La Rochelle, the stronghold of the Protestants. During the regency of Marie de’ Medici—a season of weakness between the time of Henri IV. and that of Richelieu—the grandees had grown restless again under the royal yoke. Since the days of François I. the power of the great nobles had been diminishing; they saw it with infinite discontent, and now gathered around the queen-mother, intriguing and plotting for a larger part in affairs, encouraged to hope much from the divisions in the state, and from the jealousy and reckless ambition of Monsieur, the king’s brother. All these matters therefore furnished fruitful topics of conversation at every public house; and dangerous gossip it was.

Jacques des Horloges was too wise to join in such talk, but he met some friends and it was some time before he set out again upon his journey. The two—the clockmaker and the child—left the town and rode on to Poissy, passing through the midst of the fair before they reached the gates of that place. The booths were set up in the edge of the forest under the shelter of the trees, and from branch to branch were swung ropes of flowers and evergreen, from which hung little bells that tinkled merrily with every breeze. The open grass plots were covered with dancers, arrayed in the gayest hues, like a moving bouquet of tulips, while the music was furnished by various groups of players, and was full of variety, from the loud blasts of the hautboys to the guitars which were coming into common use, having been introduced at the French court from Italy. There were, too, the shrill sweet notes of the flaïos de saus, or reed flutes, which were coupled by pairs in the orchestras and played the minor keys, some soft and even sweet, especially in the open air, in spite of the crudeness of the instruments. The scene was not only gay, but it had a certain rural charm of its own, which was not even cheapened by the itinerant tradesmen who were crying their wares by the roadside. There was a large concourse of people, for the Fête de St. Louis never failed to bring a full attendance. There was a poultry show, too, and a horse show, each drawing a large audience, and a full selection of marvels to dazzle and bewilder the country people.

Jacques des Horloges, however, was not diverted from his even course by sights which he had witnessed every year, and he rode along at a steady gait, until a strolling gypsy stopped his horse, offering to tell the clockmaker’s fortune. Michel shook his head.

“Away with you,” he said impatiently, “I have more serious work to do than to listen to your babble.”

“Have a care, master,” retorted the fortune-teller glibly; “’tis ill-luck to scorn a friendly warning, there may be trouble ahead!”

“Pah!” ejaculated the clockmaker, urging on his stout horse, “the devil take your nonsense.”

“’Tis not the time for indifference,” said the gypsy, holding up a long finger; “the king makes peace with the queen; changes come; yonder boy is not yours!”

Jacques des Horloges stirred uneasily in his saddle.

“Mère de Dieu!” he exclaimed softly, but he only urged his horse on, without looking back until he reached the gates of Poissy.

Here they put up at the first hostelry in the main street, and Jacques saw his horse safely stalled in the stable before he took his saddle-bags on his arm and set out with Péron to attend to the errand which had brought him so far. They passed through the streets out on to the road which led along the bank of the Seine. To the left, the ground rose gradually until it reached a hilly elevation, fringed by a woodland. Some sheep were grazing on the slopes, and the afternoon sun cast long shadows in the hollows. Over the tree-tops showed the gray turrets and gabled roof of a large château. The clockmaker plodded along, leading the child by the hand, and neither spoke until a turn in the road brought them around the shoulder of the hill and in full view of the house. Then Péron uttered an exclamation of pleased surprise, and Jacques des Horloges stopped involuntarily and stood looking at the scene.

“Do you like it?” he said, turning to the child.

“It is beautiful,” replied Péron; “is it the king’s house?”

Jacques laughed. “Nay,” he said, “did you think it like the Louvre? We are going here to fix the old jacquemart. This is the Château de Nançay.”

Before them the ground rose in a succession of terraces to the elevation on which were the buildings. A stone wall ran along the face of the lowest terrace, with great iron gates, which stood open. Above this were three other terraces, faced by low parapets, in the Italian fashion, and beautifully grassed and planted with roses. The highest formed an immense quadrangle, in the center of which stood the château and its out-buildings. It was of gray stone and of a graceful style of architecture, a mantle of ivy climbing over its turrets and arching the long row of windows which commanded the terraces. Behind it were the stables and the house of the steward of the estate. The whole place was in perfect order and beautifully situated on the spur of the hill, overlooking the river and sheltered by a small forest in the rear. On the central turret of the château was one of the old jacquemarts, and even at a distance two figures could be discerned, one on either side of the dial, which, on nearer inspection, proved to be two knights in complete armor, who struck the hours with their bronze maces on a great silver bell above the face of the clock. It was a very old clock, one of the first made in imitation of the famous jacquemart of Dijon, and this central turret of Nançay had borne for years the name of “Tour de l’Horloge.”

To Péron, this house was more beautiful than the Louvre or the Palais des Tournelles in the old Marais, because of the open country about it. To the child, bred in Paris, the green field and waving trees, the slope of the hill-tops, the blooming flower garden, was a setting of perfect beauty. He followed the clockmaker up the successive steps of the terraces, too obedient to lag behind, but gazing about in pleased wonder. He saw the great velvet faces of the pansies, the clustering roses, the more modest violets; he noticed everything that escaped the eye of Jacques des Horloges; and he followed, in the same silent mood, into the great house itself. They did not approach the stately main entrance, but were admitted by a porter at a side door. The clockmaker was expected, and being an old visitor was permitted to set about his work undisturbed. It was his business to wind and clean and lubricate the machinery of every clock in the château, from the jacquemart to the cook’s timepiece, and there were many. Jacques was a man who performed all tasks expeditiously and quietly, and he commenced his rounds at once, only bidding Péron keep near him. He entertained no fear of the child getting into mischief; in that respect he was too unchildlike, and often perplexed the good clockmaker.

There was no occasion to fear that Péron would offend for lack of interest in what he saw; the boy was amazed and delighted at the beauty and richness of the château’s interior. The floor of the great hall was tessellated, paved with Italian marble, and the balustrade of the main staircase was elaborately carved. While the clockmaker was busily engaged with the old timepiece in the hall, Péron went about softly, peeping in first at one door and then at another, each in turn, giving him such a bewildering vista of beauty and luxury, that the child fancied himself in fairyland. No one seemed to be stirring in this part of the house; indeed the marquis was away from home, and the little explorer, meeting no one, grew bolder and ventured into the dining-room to look at the display of silver and gold on the immense carved sideboard. Here were not only dishes and goblets, but also fanciful vases and figures of the precious metals; there were also several beautiful examples of ceramic art, the work of Maître Bernard des Thuilleries and of his predecessor, Robbia; and the abace and crédence, nearer the table, were covered respectively with rare glass and plates and dishes. The room was very long, and at the end was a mirror in a gold frame of such curious design,—ropes of flowers tied with broad ribbons and held above and below the glass by golden cupids,—that Péron stood a long while examining it, not noticing his own figure reflected therein. A strange contrast he presented to his rich surroundings, the clockmaker’s boy, in plain, dark clothes and coarse boots, but handsome and full of health, and large for his years.

Beyond the mirror was a door draped with pale blue hangings, and Péron, grown bold, lifted the silken curtains and stepped into a smaller room, softly carpeted and richly furnished. But here he was destined to meet with a surprise. He had advanced quite a way before he became suddenly aware that he was not alone. At the other end of the apartment stood a child, a little girl, of about Péron’s own age or less, and she was gazing at him in the most profound amazement. She had seen the intruder before he was aware of her presence, and was searching him with a glance that was not only full of astonishment but of disdain, as she observed every detail of his shabby appearance.

At the sight of her Péron halted too and stood returning her gaze,—but with very different feelings. To him she seemed the most beautiful child that he had ever seen. At the first glance he thought her a fairy. She was small and slight, with the fair, rosy loveliness of childhood, her great black eyes, fringed with long black lashes and set off with delicately pencilled black brows, while, in direct contrast, her hair was like spun gold and extremely fine and glossy. This little vision was arrayed in pure white, with ruffles of fine lace and little white silk shoes. It was not marvellous that the clockmaker’s child should gaze in amazement at this small beauty who, in his eyes, rivalled the fairest belle of the Marais.

CHAPTER VI
A BUNCH OF VIOLETS

THE two children, thus suddenly confronted, stood regarding each other for some moments in silence. Then the little girl drew back with a gesture which was wonderfully full of hauteur for one so young.

“Who are you?” she demanded arrogantly. “Where did you come from, boy?”

“From Paris,” returned Péron promptly; he was not shy of another child.

“From Paris?” she repeated, opening her eyes to their fullest extent; “what are you doing here, then?”

“Nothing,” the boy answered truthfully, all the while thinking more of her wonderful appearance than of her imperious questions.

The little girl stood a moment longer as if uncertain what to do, and then she stepped backward toward the door behind her, all the while keeping her eyes fixed on the intruder.

“Mademoiselle!” she called loudly. “Mademoiselle Lucien!”

The portière was lifted hastily and a young woman came in answer to the summons. The little girl pointed her finger at Péron, who still stood there, embarrassed now by his situation but not knowing how to escape.

“Mademoiselle, look at that boy,” cried the child, “he must be a thief!”

“I am not!” exclaimed Péron, amazed at the accusation and resenting it with all his honest heart.

“How did you come here, then?” asked the little girl, “and what are you doing?”

“Go away, boy!” exclaimed Mademoiselle Lucien haughtily, catching hold of the child by her side. “Come, Renée!” she added, “do not go near him; there has been fever in Poissy and his clothes may be full of it!”

“His jacket is very poor!” little Renée remarked mercilessly, “and his shoes are coarse—are you a beggar?” she added, addressing him.

“No,” replied Péron, with passionate indignation, “I am not a beggar or a thief, any more than you are!”

“You are an impertinent child!” said Mademoiselle Lucien, drawing her little charge nearer to her; “if you do not go away I will call one of the men to put you out with a whipping!”

“That you shall not!” cried Péron, his face scarlet with indignation; “no one ever whipped me—I would kill any one who did!” and he clenched his fists and faced them like a fury.

“Ciel!” exclaimed mademoiselle, “he is a little savage; come away, Renée!”

But her charge was not inclined to go. She was a spoiled child and not accustomed to obeying her governess. She found Péron more interesting than the humble village children whom she was accustomed to order about at her will.

“I will not go, mademoiselle,” she said wilfully; “I want to know why he has come here in his poor jacket and his coarse boots!”

Péron was not given to conversation, but he was a child who had listened and thought, and the shyness which had sealed his lips at Archambault’s did not possess him to-day. He forgot it, for he was burning with indignation at the manner in which this little demoiselle treated him.

“You are ill-mannered to speak of my boots,” he said gravely. “Père Antoine says that a beggar may be the same as the king, in heaven.”

Mademoiselle Lucien laughed. “What have we here?” she exclaimed; “is this an infant preacher?”

Péron only looked at her, not understanding either her laughter or her words. But the little girl understood the boy better than the woman; her curiosity being excited, she was eager to pursue her inquiries.

“Who is Père Antoine?” she demanded.

“A good man,” replied Péron promptly, “who would tell you that you were naughty to call me a thief!”

At this juncture Jacques des Horloges appeared suddenly at the door. He had missed the boy and was overwhelmed with amazement to find him angrily confronting the little girl and her governess. The latter recognized the clockmaker at once, and began to understand the child’s appearance in the château. She listened to Michel’s profuse apologies with contemptuous indifference.

“It does not matter as long as M. le Marquis is absent,” she said, with a shrug; “but pray, Maître Jacques, keep the boy from running over the house; we do not allow the village children even in the kitchen for fear of some contagion for Mademoiselle Renée. You will take him away from these rooms at once.”

The clockmaker obeyed without a word, but once out of hearing he muttered loudly to himself, and to Péron’s surprise administered no rebuke. Instead of scolding the child for his intrusion, Jacques seemed to resent intensely Mademoiselle Lucien’s arrogant orders.

“The saucy hussy!” he ejaculated; “and in this house, too! Mademoiselle Renée will take some infection, will she? Pah! ’tis the boy who needs the care.”

Grumbling to himself and holding Péron tightly by the hand, the honest man gathered up some of his tools in the hall and, still leading the child, proceeded through a small door to the staircase which ascended on one side of the Tour de l’Horloge. This was the main tower of the château and was very strongly built of stone; in the older days, before the use of artillery, it would have been capable of a lengthy resistance. The stairs which led to the jacquemart were constructed after the fashion of the early turret stairs, being of stone and winding around the tower, between the outer and inner walls, and so narrow that one resolute man could have held the enemy at bay upon the step. They were lighted high up by narrow, lance-shaped loopholes in the wall and were festooned above with cobwebs; for this spot was seldom visited except when the great clock was wound.

Jacques Michel climbed up slowly, followed by little Péron, for the stairs were too narrow for the two to walk abreast. Half way up they came to a door which opened into the house; here the clockmaker paused, and laying down his tools on the step fumbled in his pockets for a key, which he presently produced and unlocked the door. It opened with some difficulty on its rusty hinges, and he entered the room beyond, pushing the child before him. It was a large apartment, evidently long unused. Three large windows looked out over the terraces and the sloping fields beyond to the Seine. The ceiling was of carved oak, the floor paved with enamelled tiles, the great carved bedstead, inlaid with ivory, stood partially screened by the Arras tapestry of the closet. The benches in the window recesses and the arm-chairs were all beautifully carved, and in one corner of the room was an alcove furnished with a crucifix and prie-Dieu.

Jacques des Horloges stood looking about him with an expression as reverent as if he stood in a chapel. Péron had long ago learned the futility of asking him questions, and he remained silent, only observing everything with a child’s keenness of vision. The quiet and the air of desertion about the place oppressed the boy, but he did not speak. Finally the clockmaker seemed to recollect him and gently pushed him toward the alcove of the crucifix.

“Go say your prayers there, Péron,” he said abruptly; “we ought to pray here.”

“Why?” asked the child. “Is this a church? It does not look like one.”

“Nay,” replied Jacques, crossing himself, “but a good lady died here who is now, I doubt not, an angel in Paradise.”

“Was she a saint?” inquired Péron, in an awed tone, for Père Antoine had trained him well.

“Ay, as near one as a woman may be,” said the clockmaker bluntly. “I know no better, nor will you ever see her equal. Say your prayer, child, and look well at the room, for we must go on, but I would have you see this place; and here, I think, M. de Nançay comes not—nor the others.”

When the prayer was said, Jacques took the child to the window and pointed out at the garden.

“You see yonder the terrace by the fountain,” he said, “I will take you down to a door which opens from this tower, and you must go there and wait for me. I can see you from above as I work, and will come to you presently. It is a dizzy place up by the clock and I would not take you.”

With this instruction, he took Péron back the way they had come, first locking up the room and putting the key in his breast. At the foot of the stairs they found a door which let the boy out into the garden, and he ran off along the terrace, happy to breathe the free air again and see the flowers; for the strange apartment and the command to tell his beads for the sake of a dead woman had shaken his sensitive nerves, and he was not recovered from his treatment at the hands of little Mademoiselle de Nançay. Péron resented it with all the strength of his proud heart, and so angry was he that the unusual conduct of Jacques in the locked room was of less consequence. He did not find time to wonder at it,—he could only think of the insulting tone and words of the little girl, especially interesting to him because she was so near his own age. He neither understood nor appreciated class distinctions; the child Renée had been educated in arrogance beyond her years, and recognized differences in birth and station; Péron, on the other hand, had only the teachings of Père Antoine, who had sought to instil into the boy’s mind the humility of the Christian, seeing plainly enough the pride which filled the childish heart and was likely to work mischief enough without any prompting.

Péron walked along the terraces now to the fountain indicated by Jacques, and here he stopped, standing with his back to the château and looking at the flowers, the velvety grass, the birds picking on the slopes. The splash of the fountain made pleasant music in his ears, and he was just beginning to feel at his ease when a slight sound above made him look up at the terrace behind. There, leaning on the parapet and watching him curiously, was his little tormentor. Renée was alone, having eluded the vigilance of her governess, and her arms were resting on the stone balustrade while she leaned over so much that her chin rested on them and her golden curls hung over her face, shading it and framing it, while her great dark eyes were fixed on the boy. It was a charming picture, since both children were beautiful in their different ways and both possessed marked characteristics. At the sight of her, Péron’s anger returned with full force, and he turned his back on her, his fists clenched and his face growing very red. She was not a boy, and he could not chastise her as he had once unmercifully beaten a youngster who ventured to stone M. de Turenne.

There is nothing more effective in reducing arrogance than silent contempt. Péron’s manifest scorn had an immediate effect on the little spoiled beauty of the château. She had been accustomed to adulation, servility, humility; honest anger was new and interesting. She was not troubled with any grown-up reserve, and there was, too, a secret relenting. She was not an ill-natured child, only a spoiled one, and under all lurked a tender heart. She could not forget her unkind criticism of the stranger’s poor clothes; she had reasoned it all out and come to a conclusion. He was the clockmaker’s son and doubtless he was poor. Renée had a vague idea of poverty, but she knew that it was a state which deserved commiseration; her old nurse had taught her not to despise it, but Mademoiselle Lucien’s subsequent teachings had not been wise; and Renée had no mother. Her rudeness to the clockmaker’s boy troubled her, and she was as quick to act on a good impulse as on a bad one. Péron’s squarely turned back did not disturb her, for she felt herself a great lady and able to bestow her favors where she chose. Yet she was rather at loss what to say and how to begin; above all, she saw a party of horsemen coming up the road, and knew that her father would very soon cut short her adventure. She received no encouragement from the boy, however, and when she spoke at last it was in a rather uncertain voice.

“I am sorry,” she said softly.

No answer from Péron.

“I did not mean to speak of your boots,” she ventured again.

Still no reply.

“I am sorry,” said Renée once more, “and I think you are mean to be so cross!”

Péron gave her a sidelong glance but refrained from speech, and there was a prolonged silence. Then, just as the horsemen were dismounting at the lowest terrace, he felt something brush his cheek and a bunch of violets fell at his feet. He looked up then and saw Renée running away, laughing, her golden curls waving in the breeze and her white garments fluttering. When he was sure she could not see him, Péron stooped down and picked up the violets; he was very fond of flowers, and none bloomed in the Rue de la Ferronnerie. He was still holding the nosegay when the party of cavaliers came sauntering up the terraces, so near him that he could hear their talk. A gay party they were, dressed in the richest fashion of the court and led by the tall and fine figure of M. de Nançay, the same who had seen Péron at Archambault’s. They all wore high, loose-topped boots and full lace-ruffled breeches, with jackets of gay colors and short cloaks of velvet thrown back on the shoulders and displaying equally rich linings, while their hats were well trimmed with plumes. They were lightly armed, only one or two wearing hallecrèts and carrying pistols; they could scarcely have ridden from a greater distance than Paris. As they approached Péron, he caught sentences which he heard without comprehending their significance.

“’Tis dull now that the queen-mother has no court at Blois,” one of the party remarked, “but there may yet be two at Paris. I hear, too, that the Bishop of Luçon wants the cardinal’s hat.”

“He will not get it,” said M. de Nançay sharply. “The devil take the Bishop of Luçon. Albert de Luynes will never see a cardinal’s hat on the head of Jean Armand du Plessis.”

“Yet ’tis said that the queen-mother desires it,” suggested another follower mildly, “and you, M. de Nançay, are too stanch to recede, even after the defeat at Ponts-de-Cé.”

Nançay struck his sheathed sword across his boot.

“The queen-mother is duped,” he said; “the bishop is a fox who will rob her sheep-fold. A fig for a woman’s wit, when she is flattered by so skilful a priest!”

“It may be you are mistaken, M. le Marquis,” replied the first speaker, “Madame la Mère reads well the wit of the bishop. I have often thought that he would yet defeat M. de Luynes, and if he gets the ear of the king—”

The marquis frowned darkly, giving the courtier a black look.

“You choose a strange subject for croaking, monsieur,” he said, in a biting tone, “especially here!”

His companions all stared at the luckless disputant, who grew crimson and stammered an apology which, fortunately for him, was lost, for at that moment M. de Nançay’s eye alighted on Péron. Jacques des Horloges had observed the party approaching, and hurrying down from the château, with his tools, was just preparing to leave the place with his little charge, when the marquis discovered the boy. The sight of the child seemed to disconcert the nobleman more than the speech of his friend, and a sharp change came over his face. He turned to an attendant who was following at a respectful distance.

“Who are those people—the man and the boy?” he asked sharply.

“Jacques des Horloges, the famous clockmaker of St. Honoré, M. le Marquis,” replied the man; “the child, I think, is his—I have seen him in his shop.”

For a moment the marquis hesitated, as if undecided whether to recall the clockmaker or not, and his followers stood about him, secretly amazed that he should notice such humble persons. But M. de Nançay did not heed them, he continued to watch Michel and Péron until both had passed out of the gates and taken the road to Poissy. When they were out of sight he led the way to the château; but there was a frown on his face, and his temper was more acrid than usual on such occasions; for he had the reputation of being a genial and hospitable host.

CHAPTER VII
PÉRON AND PÈRE ANTOINE

THE Rue de Bethisi was the artery which connected the older quarter of the Hôtel de Ville and the Palais Tournelles with the more modern neighborhood of the Louvre. In the vicinity of the Church of St. Germain l’Auxerrois, the Rue de Bethisi divided the Rue de l’Arbre Sec from the Rue des Fossés St. Germain l’Auxerrois, the spot fortified by the Normans during their siege of Paris, and the scene of the murder of Coligny. Near this corner, on the north side of the Rue de Bethisi, and not far from the Hôtel Montbazon, was the lodging of Père Antoine, though it was some distance from his parish of St. Nicholas des Champs. The house was tall and narrow, with an oriel window in the second story, which commanded a view of three streets. Houses are not mere masses of stones or bricks and mortar: they have expressions, eyes, mouths, ears; one might almost fancy—souls. They are the shells of those who inhabit them, and many speak, in plain language, their own histories. Is there anything more sad than the house of death? more desolate than the forsaken home? This house on the Rue de Bethisi had an expression of serious benevolence. The room which Père Antoine occupied, where little Péron came daily for his lessons, was a large one on the second floor, and well lighted by the oriel window. There were no indications of wealth in the furnishings; the polished floor was scantily covered with two threadbare rugs, there were two carved arm-chairs,—one in which the priest always sat, the other turned to the wall and never used. Besides these there were two or three stiff-backed chairs, a table, a crucifix, a small but beautiful painting of the Annunciation, and a little clock, fashioned after those of the Valois period, a gift of Jacques des Horloges; for portable clocks were still a luxury for the rich, and the priest would as soon have dreamed of buying one as of possessing a cardinal’s hat. This was all, except the books, and those were Père Antoine’s greatest worldly treasures; they were arranged with loving care on the shelves on either side of the room. Many of them were of great value, gifts from the wealthier patrons who had learned to appreciate him or owed him a debt for consolation that could never be repaid. Some of these gifts were splendid specimens of the bookbinder’s art, and rich in clasps of gold and silver. It was told of Père Antoine that one of the princes of the blood had sent him a worldly book bound with great magnificence and set with jewels, and the good priest had returned it with the quotation of St. Jerome’s words: “Your books are covered with precious stones, and Christ died naked before the gate of His temple!”

To this room came daily little Péron, the clockmaker’s adopted child, to learn his lessons out of Père Antoine’s primer, and to spend a laborious hour copying from the Gospels, that he might learn his Bible and his penmanship at the same time. It was a pretty sight to see the rosy-faced, dark-eyed boy sitting by the pale, studious priest and taking his lesson soberly. Péron was a good scholar, and willing enough except on occasions when the shouts of children at play made his ears tingle and his heart throb; but he had never been allowed to join in those rough sports, so he bore the ordeal with patience, and only sighed more heavily at the task. He loved his teacher, as many other people loved Père Antoine, and he had a quick mind. The surroundings, too, were an incentive; he longed to be able to read all those books, those beautiful books which he was allowed to look at and to handle with a care that had been instilled by constant teaching and example. By the time he was ten years old he could read both French and Latin fairly well, and by spelling out the longer words could gather the meaning of most of the books which he especially loved to look at. These were the older volumes, with gayly decorated borders, some of great beauty and a few having miniatures en camaïeu or en grisaille after the fashion of the time of Charles VI. There was one, the “Heures de la Croix,” which was curiously bound in white silk with sacred emblems upon it, and encased in a red “chemise,” a kind of pocket in which books were kept, and which was made of silk, velvet, or sandal-wood, as occasion might require. Naturally, the books which attracted the boy were those most gorgeously bound or emblazoned with pictures of saints and martyrs, such as the “Livre d’Heures,” “Les Miracles de Notre Dame,” the illuminated antiphonaries and missals. He had even tried to spell out the “Commentaries of St. Jerome” and “Boèce on Consolation,” this last because it was bound in green “Dampmas cloth” and very beautifully embroidered. He was familiar, too, with every printer’s and bookseller’s mark, and these were then curious enough, from the two leopards of Simon Vostre to the six-oared galley of Galliot de Pré, bookseller of Paris in 1531, nearly a hundred years before Cardinal de Richelieu. But it was these old books, whose capital letters had been decorated by the illuminator in many colors, which pleased Péron, and not any of the more modern volumes. Solid and somewhat dreary books for a child to spell a lesson from, but none the less helpful in the struggle; and so faithful was the pupil that there was seldom a day that Père Antoine did not send him away with some word of commendation. And praise from the priest meant more than the wondering admiration of Madame Michel, who regarded the boy as a marvel of erudition for his years; and so he was, for a child of his condition in the world. So ready was he to learn, and so prone to meditation, that Jacques des Horloges occasionally grumbled out a fear that he might be made a better priest than a soldier, for strangely enough the clockmaker never seemed to entertain a thought of training Péron as an apprentice at his own trade.

It was the child’s custom to talk more to the priest than to any one else. In the shop on the Rue de la Ferronnerie he confined his confidential communications to M. de Turenne, but on the Rue de Bethisi he found his tongue, and many times Père Antoine turned his face aside to hide a smile, too wise to wound the boy’s feelings. This was the secret of his power, for a child both dreads and hates ridicule. It was therefore to the priest that he carried the doubts and the curiosity awakened by his visit to the Château de Nançay. Père Antoine knew nothing of the journey to Poissy, and was unprepared for the sudden questions which his pupil propounded. The boy had been reading laboriously from “Les Petites Heures,” guided by his teacher’s pencil, when he stopped and turned his large eyes upon him.

“Père Antoine,” he said slowly, “who died in the room next the tower at the great château near Poissy?”

The priest leaned back in his chair, an expression of intense astonishment crossing his face, instantly followed by one of sorrow so sharp that the pupils of his eyes contracted as if with pain.

“Who told you of Poissy?” he asked quietly.

“I have been there,” Péron declared with an air of conscious pride; “Maître Jacques took me on horseback. We rode a long way and saw the fair in the forest.”

“The fête at St. Germain-en-Laye?” said Père Antoine. “Did you like the green fields and the flowers, Péron?”

The child looked down; he was thinking of the bunch of violets which he had brought home surreptitiously and hidden in his cupboard; he was ashamed to keep anything that had been thrown at him as if he were a beggar or a vagrant.

“I should like to live always in the green fields,” he said; “they are so much prettier than the stone walls of the Rue de la Ferronnerie.”

Père Antoine sighed, laying his hand softly on the bent head with one of his rare caresses.

“Poor child,” he murmured sadly; “our paths are not always easy, the stones cut our feet; but fret not for a different condition of life; discontent is a cankerworm which eats the heart. The streets of Paris are narrow and dingy, yet you may learn here to walk the narrow way of life eternal. You grow to be a big boy, Péron; presently, instead of spelling with me, you will begin to learn the lessons of existence. Some of us can have green fields and flowers, but many, my child, have only the flint-paved way, and are shut in by walls as grim as those of the Châtelet. See to it that you crave not that which is another’s; verily, there is no more cruel sin than envy.”

“Why do the rich say rude things to the poor?” asked the boy sharply.

A slow flush crept up to Père Antoine’s temples and his sensitive lips tightened.

“It is the way of the world, Péron,” he said softly, “not God’s way.”

“It is a very mean way!” the child declared promptly; “I will never stand it.”

The priest looked at him in surprise; for some time he had been conscious of the development of a new characteristic in his pupil, but he was not prepared for the fire of the boy’s resentment. He shook his head gravely.

“You must not harbor thoughts of malice, Péron,” he said; “I have labored to teach you the lessons of Christian humility.”

“I do not see why some people are so rich and others so poor,” Péron remarked, unmoved.

“You are not very poor,” Père Antoine replied soothingly, “you have a comfortable shelter, and the care of good Maître Jacques and his wife.”

He was endeavoring to quiet the child, but his words only called forth another question.

“Are my father and mother really dead?” Péron asked, leaning his elbows on the table and gazing earnestly at his teacher.

Again the older face clouded and the kind eyes dwelt sadly on the rosy countenance of his interrogator.

“Both dead, Péron,” he answered softly. “Your mother when you were a baby, your father when you were three years old.”

“Did you know my mother, Père Antoine?” the child asked, a longing in his tone which may have caused the spasm of pain that passed over the priest.

“I knew her all her life,” he answered, “and I was with her when her spirit passed into Paradise; she was a very noble, gentle, Christian woman.”

He bent his head as he spoke and crossed himself, seeming for an instant to forget the child.

“Do I look like her?” the boy asked, with eager interest.

“You have her eyes, my child,” Père Antoine said tenderly, “but you grow daily more and more like your father.”

“Of what did he die?” Péron inquired; his mind seemed fully roused at last, and he was not inclined to spare.

The priest’s pale face grew even more grave than it had been; he laid his hand on the neglected book before his pupil.

“He died suddenly,” he said; “but come, child, you neglect your lesson.”

But he was not to evade the persistent little questioner.

“What was my father’s name, what is mine?” he asked; “other boys have always two names—or three, sometimes even four—but I am only Péron.”

The priest spoke severely now. “My child,” he replied, “you have no name but Péron now, nor can I tell you your father’s name; neither can Maître Jacques. Be content, my boy, to bear the name we have given you and to do your duty, since you may not know more than we can tell you. See here rather this sentence which you left half read.”

Péron followed his guiding pencil for a few moments, and then he looked up again, fixing his eyes on his instructor.

“You have not told me who died in the room at the château at Poissy,” he said.

The priest passed his hand over his eyes; he was thinking prayerfully, although the boy did not know it. A long, sad vista opened before Père Antoine’s mental vision; the questions of love, duty, necessity, beset him. He was a wise man as well as a good one, but sometimes a child may confound a sage. He loved Péron too, with the tenderness of a woman, and he felt that with him lay the chief responsibility, since he was the most intelligent as well as the most deeply concerned of his guardians. After an instant’s pause, a pause so slight that the eager interrogator scarcely noted it, the priest answered him in his usual calm tone.

“The Marquise de Nançay died there, Péron,” he said gravely. “A very good woman.”

This answer did not satisfy the boy.

“Maître Jacques said she was like a saint,” he remarked curiously.