The Cardinal's Musketeer by Mary Imlay Taylor

ON the lonely journey to Flanders, Péron had not only time, but food, for reflection. He found himself in a singular position: his father had been deeply wronged and he himself had been made penniless and almost nameless by the machinations of a wicked man; that man was now likely to meet his just reward and leave the way open to the lawful heir, yet Péron found his ambition in that direction choked at birth. To proclaim himself and petition for his property would be to deal a crushing blow to the innocent daughter of his father's enemy. It was true that he was Jehan de Calvisson, the son of one of the grandees of France, and she was the child of a man whose ancestors were unknown and who had gained his place by artifice and treachery. But Péron thought of his own humble childhood on the Rue de la Ferronnerie, of his simple training, his long service in monsignor's household with no better friend than his sword, and he felt that to him rank and wealth were of the less value, unless he achieved them by his own valor, as he had always dreamed that he would. On the other hand, he remembered Renée de Nancay's education in the midst of luxury and adulation, her pride, her probable ambition, her whole life of ease and pleasure among her equals, and he felt that to bring such distress upon her would be cruel and unjust; for was she not innocent? Péron was practically a penniless adventurer, only a musketeer in the service of the cardinal; yet so little was he envious of the wealth and exaltation of others that it gave him a sharp pang to think of dispossessing this young girl of all that she held in esteem.

Père Antoine had not labored in vain, when he and the orphan boy spelled out the Psalter together in that upper room, on the Rue de Bethisi; the good priest had sown the seed against this very day, when he foresaw that the outraged son might long to avenge his own and his father's wrongs. It is possible that without the inspiration of Renée's face and voice, Père Antoine might have failed, but certainly his teachings were a salve now to Péron's sore heart. It was true that while she remained Mademoiselle de Nancay, and he the cardinal's musketeer, they were as widely sundered as the poles, yet not more so than they would be if he were the Marquis de Nancay and she the daughter of a perjurer and a traitor who had virtually both slain and robbed the late marquis.