The Cardinal's Musketeer by Mary Imlay Taylor

WHEN Péron met Choin and his company at the corner of the Rue St. Thomas du Louvre, he had discarded his uniform and wore a dress more becoming to his actual station in life. It was a simple suit of dark blue with a short velvet cloak, and sword, and a hat with plumes, and his collar of rare Flemish lace was one which Madame Michel had produced from the chests in the attic. The change in apparel made a marked one in his appearance, and he looked the man of rank rather than the soldier of fortune. Even Choin noticed it, and glanced keenly at the well made figure and the handsome face of his quondam pupil. The maître d'armes had faithfully executed his part of the bargain, and was waiting with three rough and powerful-looking men-at-arms, who wore the nondescript dress of mercenary soldiers and had the air of being indifferent to the nature of their employment so long as it furnished money for liquor. They had also the two led horses for the women; and after a brief inspection of his party, Péron proceeded at once to the Hôtel de Nancay, where his guards were still on duty. They reported that all was quiet within and without, and that no one had made any attempt either to enter or to leave the house.

It was with no very pleasant anticipations that Péron knocked at the door, and he was not surprised at the delay which followed. He had directed Choin and his men to ride into the lane to the garden gate, that their errand might be less conspicuous, and he was alone on the steps except for the sentinel who sat at the threshold, drowsy with his continuous and unexciting vigil. Péron was forced to knock three times, and was conscious that he was being scrutinized from the windows above, as he had been on the day before. At last, the door was opened reluctantly by a stout young woman with a plain face and sharp black eyes, who looked at him with a frown of displeasure; evidently she had been made to undo the latch against her own judgment.

"What do you want? " she demanded, in a sour tone, placing herself squarely in the opening.

"I am the bearer of a letter for Mademoiselle de Nancay," Péron replied sternly, "and I must present it to her at once."

"You take a high tone, monsieur," exclaimed the woman, with a toss of her head; "but you shall not see mademoiselle unless she wishes it," and she slammed the door in his face.

Péron drew back half angry and half amused, but seeing the covert smile on the face of the soldier, he struck his sword peremptorily on the door, determined to gain admittance in spite of the women. He had not long to wait, however, and this time the young woman opened the door wide enough for him to pass through. She was sullen and silent, and only signed to him to follow up the stairs to the same salon where mademoiselle had burned the papers. Here Péron found Renée. She was standing by the window which overlooked the garden, and he saw that she had been observing Choin and his party at the gate, for she commanded a view of the lane. She was dressed in gray with a wide white linen collar, and her golden hair was knotted back more closely than usual. She was very pale, and looked as simple as a little nun; she evidently felt the day and night of suspense, but she bore herself with perfect composure. Her quick glance swept over her visitor, noting every detail of his changed appearance, and there was a little surprise in her eyes. He saluted her gravely, and without a word handed her the cardinal's letter. She inclined her head as she took it, her manner as grave as his, but he observed that her hand trembled a little as she opened it.

She read it through, and Péron saw her anger rising as she read; her eyes sparkled and a little spot of color came into each cheek, and once she stamped her foot on the floor. When she had finished -- and she read it twice -- she tore it in fragments and flung them on the ground. Péron expected an outburst; thought that she would refuse to go, and began to wonder what arguments he would use to persuade her. But he had no conception of what was really passing in mademoiselle's quick mind. She had just read the king's imperative orders for her to go to Poissy; her refusal would -- so the letter said -- imperil her father's life. She knew well enough why she was to go to the house of the Image of Notre Dame, and she was cudgelling her brains for a device to defeat monsignor. She knew her adversary and she set all her woman's wits to work. She had no thought of refusing to go; the risk was too great while her father was in the toils, but she intended to thwart his enemies. She stood for a while looking out of the window, while Péron expected her refusal to comply with the cardinal's orders. To his surprise, she turned at last to consent.

"I will go, monsieur," she said haughtily; "a prisoner must obey her jailor, but I will not go without my woman."

"That is as you desire, mademoiselle," Péron replied, much relieved; "you will choose your own maid, and you will be treated with all due consideration."

She made him a mocking curtsey.

"I thank you humbly, monsieur," she said, with a contemptuous curl of her lip; "if you will permit me a half-hour, I will wait on you at the garden gate, where I see you have already four cut-throats to attend me."