CHAPTER VIA 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 facescarlet 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 onthe 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 thefountain 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-naturedchild, 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. Asthey 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 bothhad 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.