CHAPTER II.
De Pontis was now despairing—it was evident Richelieu was in the highest displeasure at the disposal of the droit d’aubaine without his knowledge—the cardinal’s seal was affixed to the ware-rooms, from which there had been removed only the royal present, and a few articles of minor value; and the king had at best but a negative power in protecting his old servant.
The minister returned to Paris, and the veteran made two ineffectual attempts to gain another audience. “Ah! my old friend the Sieur De Pontis!” or the ominous “serviteur très-humble!” was all he gained by placing himself in the path of a man before whom the bravest quailed.
An old campaigner, he would not abandon the contest; the royal word had been pledged that it would stand by the royal act; so Monsieur merely changed his tactics, acting on the defensive, and awaiting the issue with calmness; whilst Marguerite trembled and wept the day long, expecting each hour to see her father dragged to the Bastille.
By chance rather than prudential dictates, he had removed several of the account-books of the deceased Spaniard, ere the cardinal’s seal was affixed. This trifling act—at least so deemed by the soldier—was, in the sequel, of much import.
After a delay of several days, in which De Pontis could learn no tidings of the minister’s intentions—and a visit to the Tuileries, he was well aware, would compromise his majesty without forwarding the object in view—he received a citation from the Cour Royale to accompany its officers in an inspection of the ware-rooms. Obeying the summons, an inventory of the goods was taken, and which was found to tally with the stock-book, with the exception of the rich bed and hangings sent to the Tuileries, and the articles taken to his own use.
Next day came a legal document from another of the parliamentary courts of justice, by which it appeared that a suit had been commenced against De Pontis, by one Pedro Olivera, claiming to be the creditor of the deceased to a very large amount—indeed, to such an extent that, by appraisement of the inventory, including the debts owing the deceased at the time of his death, and deducting what amounts were due to creditors of the estate, so far from being a wealthy man he died insolvent.
In consternation, De Pontis carried his papers as well as the Spaniard’s books to an advocate, a distant kinsman. The advocate shook his head ominously at the recital.
“Having possessed himself of the effects,” said the lawyer, “Monsieur has made himself responsible for the debts of the deceased. And that portion of the estate which has travelled to the Palais cannot of course be recovered—so that he cannot even put affairs in the posture in which they stood at the time of the Spaniard’s death.”
Looking cautiously round the office, opening the door, to make certain there were no eaves-droppers, he shut it again, and approaching the ear of his kinsman, said in a low tone—
“I know not how to trust even the very walls with my voice! Without doubt, Monsieur De Pontis, the claim is a fabrication—at least I cannot believe the deceased could owe such an amount, nor that this Olivera was in a condition to trust him. I will examine these books carefully, and, meantime, respond to the suit in the usual course. I will not desert a kinsman, even though he be in the toils of the tyrant. Farewell!”
The same day, De Pontis was arrested on the plea of having fraudulently appropriated the property before ascertaining the amount of the deceased’s debts, and providing for the same. There had, of course, been no time for the court to grant any decree in Olivera’s suit. The arrest was dated from the Cour Royale, a distinct court from that in which Pedro’s suit originated—he being charged by the procureur-général—the attorney-general of France—with having made away with effects which of right belonged to the estate. He was thus, at the same time, charged by an officer of the crown in the Cour Royale with a penal offence, and sued in a civil court for restitution by a private creditor.
Lodged in the Conciergerie du Palais, it was intimated that the only chance of release was by finding surety to the amount of property abstracted. And how could he do that? The bed and hangings alone were estimated at the value of two hundred thousand livres, and had been made for the kinswoman of Louis, now the wife of Charles the First of England, who was obliged to countermand the luxurious article, on account of the troubles which had broken out in that kingdom.
And thus our poor veteran was indeed, as the advocate Giraud truly affirmed, in the toils of Richelieu, who held all the strings of government and justice in his own hands, and could guide them as he wished. Deprived of the opportunity of self-exertion, restricted in intercourse with the advocate, his affairs might have fallen into irretrievable ruin but for the courage and energy of the fair Marguerite. In the first paroxysm of despair, she had solicited the boon of sharing the confinement of De Pontis—this was refused. Her next application was made to the king, throwing herself at his feet as he was about proceeding to mass, and asking permission to attend her father daily, as she was not permitted to make the Conciergerie her home. Louis said aloud, that the request ought to be made through the proper channel, at the bureau of the Cardinal Richelieu, and recommended her to make the appeal—and that it would be time enough for the royal clemency to interfere when ordinary means had failed. Such was the sole answer it was supposed she departed with—but under pretence of raising the maiden, for she had thrown herself on her knees, he whispered a few words of comfort—that he would not abandon her father.
The terror in which the cardinal was held was so great, his power exercised so arbitrarily, that in this extremity Marguerite was almost friendless. They looked on the father as a doomed man, and condemned his rashness—the daughter they pitied, but shrank from offering her aid. There was one exception.
Returning to the lodging in the Rue St. Denis, she found Monsieur Giraud waiting her arrival. He had heard from the lips of their old domestic, of the maiden’s intention to throw herself at the king’s feet, and anxiously awaited the issue. Gently chiding Mademoiselle for not putting confidence in her father’s friend, he offered to accompany her on the morrow to the abode of his eminence.
The application was successful, and as they returned from the Palais Cardinal, the magnificent abode of the prelate, with an order permitting Mademoiselle ingress and egress, from morn till eve, to and from the Conciergerie, the advocate expressed a conviction that the king had kept his word, for it was an unusual privilege.
Little of importance transpired in the affairs of De Pontis till the day previous to that in which we introduced to the reader our heroine, waiting admission at the portal of the Conciergerie.
In the morn there was a consultation in the prisoner’s chamber, between the advocate, who had obtained an order from the bureau for that purpose, and father and daughter. The worthy Giraud was desponding—the civil suit, he said, thanks to the dilatoriness of the courts! was creeping slowly enough, though much faster than the ordinary routine of practice; but the procureur-général had hastened the penal suit, driving it through the court at such a race-horse speed, that there was great danger of his obtaining a decree of sequestration—utterly ruinous to De Pontis—unless an appeal to cardinal or king, praying for sufficient delay to prepare a defence, were resorted to. It was useless applying to the presidents of the court—they were too much under the lash of Richelieu to do justice to the respondent in the suit.
So far as the Spaniard’s books and accounts, which De Pontis had preserved, testified, there was no appearance of such a debt, nothing tending to confirm directly or indirectly Pedro Olivera’s assumption, but much negative evidence to prove the falsity of his claim.
It was certain, continued the advocate, that a favorite of the cardinal was laying strong claim to the droit d’aubaine, and urging his patron to recover it. He had himself been informed that the party now applying such a pressure on his eminence to effect this unjustifiable, unworthy purpose, had long had an eye on the alien, and marked the property as his own. But the name of the individual intimated in this whisper of scandal, which floated about the precincts of the courts, was unknown to Giraud, nor had he the necessary influence to procure it.
“What matters the name of the minion if they are bent on ruining me?” exclaimed De Pontis.
“Much!” replied his friend, “but listen.”
The advocate then proceeded to relate that among the papers of the deceased he found much correspondence of a peculiar character, some portion of which might even implicate individuals in a charge of treason—other portions related to financial matters, and showing that the Spaniard had been a lender rather than a borrower, and had supplied parties connected with the court with money. Much curious matter there was, even relating to this Pedro Olivera, who, however, figured in a subordinate capacity, certainly very different from what might be expected of one who could lend such a vast sum of money.
“I have my suspicions,” answered Monsieur Giraud, “and if we could but discover the party whom the droit is intended for, I think I could find a shaft in the Spaniard’s budget which would pierce him.”
“And if I could find the party whom the droit is intended for,” exclaimed the veteran, “and had him before me at rapier’s length in the pré aux clercs, he would soon have to enter his cause in another court.”
“I have no doubt if steel would do the business my agency would be useless,” rejoined the lawyer, “but the Sieur De Pontis must remember he is now on the brink of total ruin, perhaps even of personal disgrace—that the net is spread on every side—if he retain the droit d’aubaine, this Pedro may recover a decree against him for more than the droit is worth—if Pedro by any chance is defeated, the procureur catches my friend on the penal suit, and sequesters droit, land and everything he has—and adds to it, most likely, imprisonment. All this may be effected without causing our generous king to violate his word.”
“Mort de ma vie!” exclaimed De Pontis, starting up in a rage, “and is not all this done, Monsieur Giraud, to make an old soldier surrender the king’s bounty? If I thrust this morsel of paper,” displaying the sovereign’s sign-manual, “in the fire to boil our coffee, would not the gates open at once—aye! and Pedro’s debt vanish like smoke?”
“They would be glad to make such terms, undoubtedly,” replied the advocate.
“Then, by St. Louis and all the saints!” exclaimed the militaire, raising his arm and letting the clenched fist drop on the board with a bound which did much damage to the breakfast service, “so long as his gracious majesty promises not to abandon his old servant, so long will I resist all the priests and cardinals in France.”
“And will end your days in the Bastille,” uttered Giraud.
“No! no!” cried Marguerite, bursting into tears, “Father! Monsieur Giraud! I will go to the cardinal this morning, and implore him to stay the procureur’s proceedings till we can prepare our defence.”
The idea pleased the advocate much. There was but little refinement or delicacy of feeling in his nature—but he possessed warmth and generosity, and overlooking the trials, and perhaps insults, which a female may undergo in seeking such an audience, he thought good might accrue to the family from the attempt. It was of pressing moment that the procureur should not yet obtain the decree, and no scheme be abandoned which promised to obtain such a result.
“And if Mademoiselle could but obtain an audience of the king, his majesty might know the party whom the cardinal is fighting so hard for,” added the lawyer, “and then I may perhaps spring a mine which will make some people tremble.”
“Why, what do you take my daughter for?” cried the old soldier; “Can she change her sex? You will next wish her to plead in court!”
“She may drag you from ruin, which you would never have saved yourself from,” replied the advocate.
“Well, Monsieur Giraud,” said Marguerite, in a livelier tone than she had for a length of time assumed, “as you have spoken so flatteringly of me, allow me to compliment you on your sagacity. I think there is much truth in what you hint about the unfortunate Spaniard’s papers. Since my father has been in prison, our lodging has been searched and every thing in the shape of written paper examined. It strikes me that the documents which you possess have been missed.”
“And this is the first word I have heard of it!” cried De Pontis, darting an angry glance at Marguerite. “What, another search? They ransacked our lodging when they took me—and I could not have believed they would trouble my house again.”
“I did not wish to distress you, father,” said the maiden, deprecating the resentment expressed in his looks.
“Mademoiselle was quite right,” said the advocate, “but she ought to have acquainted me with the fact.”
“I thought it an ordinary proceeding, and was prepared for such visits,” remarked the damsel.
“You alarm me,” said Giraud, “they will visit me next. I must go home and make all secure. I will then escort Mademoiselle to the Palais Cardinal.”
After some further remarks, the advocate, accompanied by Marguerite, left the apartment of the prisoner, who muttered to himself as they closed the door—
“Well, Giraud is a stanch, bold man and a true friend, but he has not as much delicacy and regard for a lady’s feelings as my hack Millefleurs could boast of. I taught the brute to kneel when my poor wife touched his bridle, and he was quiet as a lamb when he carried her. Hang all scoundrels, and may purgatory have the scarlet ones! They fastened on me when I was young, and they are now sucking the blood of my old age. Not so old, though—not so old, but I could pin that scarlet-robed priest to a tree!”
We have now brought the history of De Pontis to that period when Marguerite, having left the prison with the intention of seeking an interview with Richelieu, to stay the proceedings of the procureur, so indecently hurried through the courts, did not repair till the following morn to the Conciergerie to report her want of success.
There was, indeed, no hope yet, as she had remarked so despondingly to her father. Nearly the whole day had she spent in a waiting-room of the Palais Cardinal, flattered with the expectation held out by the secretaries, that the cardinal would be visible when the important affairs of state were despatched; but, to her infinite grief, there came at length an official to say there would be no audience that day, for his eminence was sent for in a hurry to repair to the Tuileries. Giraud was distracted with the intelligence—he plainly foresaw the predetermined ruin of the veteran, and advised the damsel to throw herself once more at the feet of Louis—it was her only resource.
Marguerite, in her lone chamber that night, prayed to the Holy Virgin for help—for strength to undergo the trials which awaited her—for fortitude to bear up against the contumely and rebuffs to which she was exposed. She prayed not to be relieved of the task, but for energy to meet it. From whatever source came the confidence, there was a secret prompting of the heart, urging her to persevere. Her father had been ever unlucky so long as his affairs were under his own management. Why should there not be a change when he was bereft of the power either to mend or mar his fortunes? His destiny in other hands, perhaps that would be vouchsafed to the daughter which was denied the parent. These might be fancies, but they lulled her to a quiet repose.
“And what must be done,” said De Pontis, “with the procureur? It is hard that a king’s servant, in the name of his master, should be employed to oppress a king’s servant, against the royal inclination. What does Giraud mean to do now?”
“Leave all to me,” replied Marguerite, with a smile. “I am making great proficiency in my new profession—and though I am very wretched and heart-broken at times—yet I feel a strange courage. But you must not expect to see me before to-morrow morning, for there is much to be done to-day.”
Affairs were in that state, that the veteran himself was a cipher—he felt it, and made no reply. His daughter soon after left the prison, and De Pontis had to struggle with the terrible ennui of the solitary chamber, and the deprivation of the usual means of passing the hours.
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