CHAPTER XXVIIAN ACT OF JUSTICE
AFTER leaving Père Antoine, Péron stopped only long enough at his lodgings to remove the stains of travel, and still wearing his plain suit of dark blue taffety, he bent his steps toward the Palais Cardinal. His perplexities and adventures had been so numerous in the last few hours that he tried to keep his thoughts from them that his mind might be clear to deal with his exacting patron. He could not conjecture what would be Richelieu’s reception of the tidings, but he anticipated a sharp reprimand for the loss of the ring even though it was recovered. As for M. de Nançay’s death, he suspected that it would not be unwelcome to monsignor, for he was not wholly blind to the natural results which the wily Italian must have expected on the day on which he posted Péron in Catharine de’ Medici’s clock, after revealing the secret of his father’s execution. Nor did he fear any trouble for Choin; he knew the cardinal to be just, if remorselessly stern. However, the prospect of the interview was far from pleasing,and he walked slowly through the gardens behind the palace, noting the lime-trees and wondering which one had shaded M. de Nançay and M. de Vesson at their conference which monsignor’s eavesdropper had overheard. Péron only partially divined the extent of the plot which he had helped to reveal; he did not know that it was but the forerunner of a greater one which would bring M. le Grand to the block, and that Monsieur, the queen-mother, and M. de Bouillon were but hatching another conspiracy on the wreck of the lesser one.
Péron entered the palace by a back staircase and found his way to Father Joseph la Tremblaye. To him he briefly recited the whole matter, keeping nothing back and saying nothing to extenuate his own fault in failing to deliver the ring immediately on his return from Brussels. Father Joseph listened without comment, merely bidding the young musketeer await the cardinal’s pleasure where he was, and giving no indication of what he might expect.
Péron waited a long time after the priest retired, and he walked to and fro in the small room—which was Father Joseph’s closet—trying to conjecture what would happen next. The situation was so peculiar, the policy of the court so fluctuating, that he knew not what might be the end.M. de Nançay was dead, and Father Joseph had the ring,—but what might not be the results of such a web of conspiracy? Well did he know that there would be a scapegoat, and why should it not be he? There was no one to interfere, and it might be the most convenient way in which to hush up a great scandal. He was therefore in a gloomy frame of mind when one of the cardinal’s ushers, clad in the livery worn at the levées, came to summon him to attend upon monsignor. He noticed the man’s elaborate dress with surprise; but as the man was a new member of the household, he asked no questions, but followed him in silence. As they passed rapidly through the apartments which led to the eastern gallery where Richelieu most frequently received his visitors, Péron noticed that the guards were all on duty, and that there was an unusual stir in the palace. He could not imagine why he should be summoned to this public place for a private interview, nor could he account for the deferential manner of his conductor. At the door of the salon stood two of his comrades, the cardinal’s musketeers, and both saluted at his approach. The usher opened the door and Péron entered the great gallery alone. He halted at the threshold, convinced that there was some mistake,—that he was not wanted here. The long apartment, furnished with themagnificence of royalty, was thronged with noblemen and princes and great ladies of the court. Péron stepped back in confusion, and addressed the usher.
“Friend, you have blundered,” he said; “the cardinal does not send for his musketeer at such a time as this.”
The usher shook his head, standing before the door that Péron might not escape.
“My orders are precise, monsieur,” he replied; “you are to await monsignor’s pleasure here.”
“You must be in error,” Péron persisted angrily, for he felt many curious eyes upon him.
“You are M. Jehan de Calvisson, are you not?” asked the usher quietly.
“Ay, blockhead!” retorted Péron with impatience, “but I am only the cardinal’s musketeer, and here are half the grandees of France.”
“My orders are precise,” said the other stubbornly, “and by St. Denis you shall not leave until monsignor comes.”
Péron shrugged his shoulders. “On your own head be it!” he said; “’tis a stupid blunder.”
The usher shut his lips tightly and stood his ground, so that there was no alternative for Péron. He could not engage in a brawl with a servant in such an assembly, and was forced to stand there in his plain dress, amidst the gay throng, whereevery man wore satin or velvet, and the women were as gayly attired as the roses in a June garden. He looked down the long gallery, observing the scene with curiosity and frequent surprises, as he noted first one and then another of the guests. There was M. de Soissons, known to be unfavorable to Richelieu, and Madame d’Effiat, the mother of Cinq Mars, and yonder was the Prince de Condé, and M. de Montbazon. In a throng in the center of the room was Monsieur, clad in white satin, his breast covered with jewels and his long curls falling on his shoulders. Péron looked at him with strange recollections of the adventurer in the house at Poissy, of the poltroon who had been ready to sacrifice all his friends at Ruel, to save himself. Monsieur, however, was calm and smiling, the picture of his true self,—selfish, indolent, and unstable, with nothing of his father in him.
All these great personages whispered and laughed and made merry, awaiting the entrance of the cardinal, who, rumor said, was ill and not likely to be better, though the indomitable spirit would not yield. There were many there who heard this talk not only without regret but with much secret joy. They hated him as heartily as they feared him, and would have come to his funeral with greater joy than to his levées. Yet on every side there were expressions of anxietyfor monsignor’s health and of almost tender regard at its delicate condition; for it is the world’s profession to lie, and to lie gracefully.
The atmosphere of the crowded place, the murmur of ceaseless talk, the gay indifference of these creatures, who courted power for the love of it, all oppressed Péron. His simple childhood, his hardy training, had made him dislike such scenes and feel their mockery, knowing as he did how often the cardinal had been deserted when he seemed tottering to his fall, how quickly he would be deserted now if the king’s favor failed him. He recollected hearing Madame Michel tell of the death of the gay favorite, Albert de Luynes, and how for one day or more his body lay neglected, and his grooms played cards upon his bier.
Suddenly the door at the other end of the gallery opened, and an usher cried loudly: “The cardinal! the cardinal!”
There was a stir, necks were craned, skirts rustled, fans swayed; great dignitaries jostled one another to see if this man was indeed near death. The gay throng parted in the middle, leaving a long aisle down which monsignor slowly walked, leaning heavily on Father Joseph. Richelieu, was ill indeed, and his step was heavy, like that of a man who bore a burden, but the indomitablespirit was unquenched; his face showed white as a corpse in contrast to his blood-red robes, but his dark eyes glowed with wonderful brilliancy, as though the fires of his soul burned brighter as the body weakened. To look at the great minister was to be convinced that while the flesh was mortal, the soul was indeed immortal. He came slowly, pausing to speak first to one and then another, but without a smile, his cold, proud manner losing nothing of its hauteur by momentary intercourse with others. He who trusted no man, and knew and manipulated hundreds, had only a deep suspicion and disdain for the sycophants who fawned upon his feet at one hour and were ready to cut his throat the next. The great cardinal,—the Huguenot cardinal as he has been called, because he was great enough to be at once liberal and far-sighted,—who loved France as he also loved power, knew the men with whom he had to deal.
He came so slowly down the gallery that it seemed a long time to Péron before those dark eyes lighted upon him; but no sooner did the cardinal see his musketeer than he beckoned to him. Then facing around, he looked back at the gay throng, laying his hand on the young musketeer’s shoulder. There was a pause, every eye turning toward these two standing together, in strangecontrast, before the crowded room. It was very still when Richelieu spoke in a clear voice that penetrated every corner of the gallery and was heard by the guards at the doors.
“My friends,” he said, leaning heavily on Péron, “but lately I told you of a great wrong done to a noble gentleman. It is now my duty to announce to you his majesty’s pleasure in regard to the son. I present to you, therefore, Jehan François de Calvisson, Marquis de Nançay.”