CHAPTER XXITHE INN AT AMIENS
WHEN Péron returned from his errand to the stables, he found the public room of the inn full to overflowing. There was a fair at the horse-market, and it had crowded all the hostelries, chiefly with country folk and traders from both sides of the Somme; but there were also other guests, and some of distinction; and it was even whispered that M. de Bouillon was there, in the private apartments above. This caused no little undercurrent of gossip, for it was suspected that there was some plotting between this duke and the queen-mother, in which Monsieur was concerned. And this was really true; for a little while afterwards when M. de Bouillon was sent by the king to take command of the Italian army, he was drawn into the plot of Monsieur and Cinq Mars, and pledged the town of Sedan—of which he was prince-sovereign—as a refuge for the plotters in case of defeat. More than once in the talk, Péron’s attentive ear caught the name of M. le Grand, to his surprise, for he believed—withmany others—that “the king’s rattle” was also the cardinal’s tool. The idle talk increased the young soldier’s uneasiness, and he ate his supper with small appetite, thinking of M. de Bouillon and his party overhead and wondering how directly their presence might concern him. Meanwhile, the rattle of crockery, the jingle of glasses, and occasional snatches of song filled the place with an almost deafening noise and commotion. Every table was crowded and even the window-sills were doing service, and Péron found himself squeezed in at the lower end of a long table, between two men,—the one on the left a horse-dealer, and the one on the right wearing the habit of a clerk of the Sorbonne. Both repelled the young musketeer, the horse-dealer by his loud and half-intoxicated talk, the clerk by his evil expression, having across his nose an ugly scar which seemed to belie his calling. However, he was a civil, smooth-spoken man, and Péron could find no excuse for turning his back upon him, as his first impulse prompted. He began to talk as soon as Péron was seated, opening his remarks by a reference to the storm and the delays caused by the heavy roads. The musketeer replied shortly and with indifference; however, this did not discourage the clerk, who continued to converse in low tones, not always audible amidst the bustle and noise of the place.
“You are going south, I presume,” he remarked cheerfully, in spite of his neighbor’s coolness.
“In that direction, yes,” Péron retorted curtly, applying himself to his supper with the intention of escaping so soon as it was despatched.
“To Paris, perhaps?” inquired the persistent stranger.
“Probably to Paris,” replied Péron.
“In that case, we may ride together,” remarked the clerk. “I go to Sorbonne and shall be glad of company; in these unsettled times the roads are not always safe for a solitary traveller, and you are, I take it, a soldier by profession.”
Péron had registered a mental vow that the scarred clerk would not ride with him, but he thought it best to dissemble.
“You live in Paris, sir?” he inquired, more courteously.
“Yes, since I have entered the Sorbonne,” the other replied; “and you?”
“I go there on private business,” Péron said.
“We will ride together,” said the stranger. “I proposed starting early on the morrow, but I am not in haste, and I can make my time suit your inclination.”
Péron took a moment for thought.
“I shall not leave until noon,” he rejoined; “I am a stranger in Amiens, and I can occupythe morning with profit in looking about the town.”
“Permit me to be your guide,” said the clerk, courteously; “I was born here in Amiens—though I left it twenty years ago. My name is Guerin Neff.”
Péron bowed gravely, but made no response. At the same moment he received a nudge from the elbow of the tipsy horse-dealer, who had been strangely quiet for the last few minutes.
“His name is Guerin Neff,” mumbled this worthy, thickly, “but look you, comrade, he is the biggest rogue in Amiens, ay, on this side the Somme.”
In the confusion, the clerk did not catch the low-toned remark, although he cast a suspicious glance at the horse-dealer, and Péron smiled. Of the two, he felt more confidence in the drunkard; but happily, having finished his meal he rose from the table, hoping thus to escape both. However, he could not so easily shake off Neff, who followed him across the crowded room to ask at what hour he would go out in the morning. Inclined to believe the warning of the horse-dealer, and deeply annoyed at the man’s persistence, Péron was tempted to cut short the matter, and hesitated only because of the extreme necessity for caution. If anything lay behind thestranger’s pursuit of him, it was wisest to dupe him with a semblance of complaisance; and so, much against his natural inclination, Péron replied with courtesy, appointing an hour later than the time at which he secretly intended to leave Amiens. This agreement seemed to satisfy the stranger, but he still followed the musketeer out into the hall. Opposite the public room were two smaller ones, and through the open door of the first could be seen a group of travellers playing cards at a table in the center and surrounded by a curious assemblage. Hoping to shake off his troublesome acquaintance, Péron entered this apartment and stood a moment on the edge of the circle, looking on. Four men sat at the table deeply engaged in the game, all dressed fashionably and like persons of wealth. Two looked like many of the young men who usually dangled about the court, the other two were masked. The black masks with only the round holes for the eyes and covering all the face but the chin, presented a strange appearance in the light of the tapers on the table, and gave a certain mysterious interest to the game, especially as these two were partners. They were all unusually silent, and their manner had its effect upon the spectators; these looked on eagerly, for the contest was keen and the stakes high, butthey forbore to interrupt the solemn decorum of the game. There was something fascinating in the masks and the profound stillness, while the jewelled hands of the four players moved with such wonderful celerity and skill. Péron became interested at once in spite of himself, and drew nearer to the table, followed by the officious clerk, who stood close at his side, looking on with interest apparently as keen as any of the others. Not a word was said; there was no sound but the light clip of the cards, except the noise which came from the dining-room across the hall. The two masks were winning, winning heavily, and the other two played desperately, as losing men will. Suddenly there was a change of luck, one of the losers began to win, and his opponents bore the reverse with less equanimity. The taller of the masks flung down his card, the knave of clubs, with an oath. As he did so, Péron’s watchful eyes caught the superscription, and he started. A statute of Henri III. had laid down the law that all master-cardmakers should thereafter inscribe their names, surnames, signs, and devices on the knave of clubs; a statute unrepealed by Louis XIII. But on this knave of clubs Péron saw the single word “Sedan,” and he could not fail to attach a peculiar significance to it; for it was the name of the stronghold of M. de Bouillon, whom menbelieved to be involved both with Monsieur and the queen-mother against the cardinal. Whether there was or was not a secret meaning to this game of cards, Péron could not decide; but he needed no second warning; he determined to withdraw quietly from this dangerous vicinity. However, this resolution was more easily made than executed. In his first interest in the game, he had unconsciously drawn nearer to the table and stood in the front row of spectators; now he turned to retreat, but as he did so the tallest mask sprang to his feet and seized him by one arm, just as Guerin Neff grasped the other. Péron was powerful, and he put out his full strength to shake them off, but in vain; each held him with a grip of iron.
“Unhand me, villains!” he exclaimed, in impotent fury.
This sudden onset upon a quiet observer of the game so surprised the other spectators that they fell back in open-mouthed amazement. However, the matter could not pass unexplained, and the tall stranger removed his mask, disclosing the handsome face of a man of middle age whose looks and bearing were all in his favor. He had used his left hand to undo his mask, but he was at once compelled to use both to hold the angry young soldier, who shouted aloud for assistance.
“Help me to escape these villains!” he cried, appealing to the amazed onlookers, who, however, did not budge, after the manner of people who will not singe their own fingers for another.
“Gentlemen,” said the cardplayer who had removed his mask, “this is my son—my poor, mad son who escaped from his keepers a fortnight since and—”
“You lie!” said Péron, fiercely, struggling so furiously that his two captors had to be reinforced by the other two players; “’tis a trick to seize and rob an innocent man. I never saw your face before!”
The other looked gravely concerned and shook his head with a melancholy air.
“He is ever thus in his paroxysms,” he said mournfully; “he is apparently sane, gentlemen, but fearfully and cunningly mad.”
“You are a villain, and had I my sword free I would thrust the lie down your throat,” said Péron. “I appeal to the inn-keeper, who saw me come here sane; I appeal to these men, who have seen me stand here quiet and sober. ’Tis a lie so monstrous that it is only absurd! No fool will believe you!”
But unhappily, though he said this aloud and stoutly, Péron saw that a doubt of his sanity was growing in the faces around him; he saw the firstexpressions of incredulity and amazement giving way to that terror which the ignorant and the timorous have of madness. He was held tightly by his captors, though he had ceased his struggles, fearing to increase their dread of his insanity; but he saw the circle widening as they drew away, as if he had some pestilence, and he saw, too, the triumph growing in the faces of the men who held him, and most of all in the eyes of him who still wore the mask. At this moment the head of the tavern-keeper appeared in the door, drawn by Péron’s outcry and the reports of some strange occurrence. These reports had attracted the curious and the idle, who were already filling both doors and windows. Péron appealed at once to his host.
“You know me,” he cried angrily; “you dealt with me, and know me to be sane. Call the watch and make these knaves unhand me, or I will make you pay dearly for this wild jest.”
But the tavern-keeper did not move, he only stared blankly at the tall man who had claimed Péron as his son. That personage spoke again with sad dignity of manner.
“You know me, M. Felix,” he said to the host, “and therefore you can understand how much I lament my poor, afflicted son’s vagaries.”
“Surely I know you, M. de Vesson,” theinn-keeper replied obsequiously, “but had I not best send for a doctor for the unhappy young gentleman?”
“I thank you, no,” replied the other, gravely; “but I pray your aid to bind this poor boy in a litter that we may convey him safely home. In these frenzies, he sometimes breaks out and commits murder: he has slain five of his keepers.”
At this, the spectators fell back yet farther, and there seemed little hope of a rescue. Péron knew now his peril; this was a Vesson, not the painted fop of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, but doubtless one of the same family. He saw, too, that his captors were believed and that he was already an object of pity and disgust. He made one more appeal: struggles were useless, it was four to one, and Guerin Neff had already stripped off his weapons.
“I appeal to any honest man in this room,” Péron said, as calmly as he could. “I am a sane man; my name is Jehan de Calvisson; I have never seen any of these men before. They are conspirators, and they determined to seize me for some reason,—what I know not. A hundred crowns to any man who will go to a magistrate and get me assistance. A hundred crowns, I say, and more, for these rogues mean to murder me!”
His words were met with open incredulity: thevery liberality of his offer laid it open to suspicion. Madness—how they feared it. Mon Dieu! let loose a madman? Never! M. de Vesson saw that he had won; he bowed his head gravely, looking mournfully at Péron, while his companions pinioned the young man’s arms behind his back and bound his ankles together, in spite of his renewed struggles and shouts for help.
“Alas!” M. de Vesson said, with evident grief, “he is at his worst, my poor, poor boy! Gentlemen, this scene wrings a father’s heart.”
The hall was crowded now, and the courtyard without, and men climbed on each other’s shoulders for the morbid pleasure of beholding the lunatic; but no one stirred a finger to aid Péron. He was indeed almost mad over the hopelessness of his situation. At first, he had not dreamed that such a ruse could succeed, but, to his amazement, it worked like a charm. In the crowded hostelry it furnished a much needed excitement; it was more interesting than M. de Bouillon or Cinq Mars. Once convinced of the captive’s insanity, they began to recollect how strangely he had acted; one horseboy recounted his morbid visit to the stable, another had heard him say the Pater Noster backwards over his horse’s head. One of the servants, too, declared that he ate like a crazy man and stared wildly at his knife. Stories flewfrom mouth to mouth, and that indifference to a stranger’s fate, so common and so cruel, kept the doubtful from giving the prisoner the benefit of their doubts. No one offered either aid or comfort; and to his surprise and indignation Péron found himself bound between two of M. de Vesson’s retainers and thrust into a litter, while the whole party of cardplayers mounted their horses. In half an hour after the first warning, when the knave of clubs was thrown, they were all riding down the streets of Amiens with the supposed lunatic in their litter and a curious throng at their heels. Péron hoped that they would be compelled to stay in town until sunrise, but he was mistaken. At the guardhouse, where the party halted, Péron again raised an outcry for help, and again he was defeated by M. de Vesson’s plausible explanation of his son’s incurable malady; and after some parley the gates were opened, and they rode out into the night, leaving the curious rabble from the Rose Couronnée behind, and with it their captive’s last hope of deliverance.