CHAPTER III.
The advocate’s opinion was in favor of Marguerite once more approaching the monarch; further application to Richelieu he deemed useless—not so the maiden. She resolved to make another appeal to the cardinal—it might be as was affirmed, that he had intended to hear her suit, and been summoned unexpectedly to the Tuileries; and if so, would it not be an exhibition of contempt to the minister, to fly to the king, before she could possibly know whether her prayer would be refused or granted at the Palais Cardinal? Thus reasoned Marguerite De Pontis, and we think not unwisely. The zealous advocate looked only at conclusions; he judged unfavorably of the minister’s clemency, and his hopes instantly pointed to another quarter.
Behold her once more on the way to the cardinal’s palace, in the Rue St. Honoré! It was the earliest hour at which his eminence gave audience, yet were the ante-chambers of the minister filling rapidly. Ascending the grand staircase, herself, “the observed of many observers,” yet shrinking from the gaze her beauty attracted, the door above was opened by an usher, and she entered a chamber, the first of a long suite which terminated with the cardinal’s reception-room and closet of audience.
The modes of approaching the minister were various, according to the rank and mission of the visiter. Strangers of humble quality, and others who, either through timidity or other cause, judged that they would not be permitted the entrée of the reception-room, or who dare not venture so far, loitered in the more distant saloons till the illustrious man, issuing forth to pay respects to majesty, gave opportunity for a moment’s audience or parley, or presentation of petition. The individuals of the privileged class who rejoiced in free access to the reception-chamber, watched narrowly each opening of the closet-door, that they might catch the eye of the prelate on his entry; whilst deeper anxiety was visible in the countenances of those who had requested audience through the agency of the gentleman-usher stationed at the door. The private interviews terminated, Monseigneur stepped forth, and tarried awhile in the reception-room, bestowing a bow on one, a nod to another, and making a third happy—and the envied of the chamber—by six or more significant words.
As all the executive power centred in Richelieu, it could not happen otherwise, but that suppliants and petitioners were numerous, and from all parts of the kingdom, and that among the number should be many of the fair sex. The politesse of the court permitted not such guests to be kept waiting exposed to the observation of the frequenters of the levee. The ladies were ushered into the secretary’s apartment, and that functionary having taken note of their object or petition, carried the same to Monseigneur to receive his commands thereon. If, as too often happened with one whose shoulders bore the burthen of the state, and who was appealed to at the same time by an envoy from Turkey claiming alliance, and by some poor widow or orphan from the Pyrenees with a tale of wrong—there was any delay in granting an interview, or giving a decision on the merits of the case, the fair suppliant was delegated to a waiting-room to attend the minister’s leisure.
Here sat, for many tedious hours on the former occasion, our heroine Marguerite—and as she now stated her name and object to the usher whose duty it was to conduct her to the secretary, she vainly endeavored to decipher a chance of better fortune in the impassive countenance of the official, as though it were possible his face would reflect a ray or emanation of the master’s will.
The waiting-room was again her sad lot—the cardinal was busily engaged with a German plenipotentiary—but the audience, as the secretary assured her, with a smile, could not last forever. It was but to ask for delay in the prosecution of the penal suit in the Cour Royale, that her father might prepare his defence, and prove the innocence of his intentions. It was not even necessary that she should see his eminence—one word to the procureur would oblige him to this act of justice—he was the servant of the king, and must obey the commands of the kingly authority in the person of Monseigneur.
So spoke the maiden hesitatingly, but with precision and clearness, yet the secretary—it was De Lionne, not the most heartless man of that age—could only do, as secretaries are wont on such occasions, smile, bow, and, as marking his sense of the justness of her claims to attention, conduct her himself to the door of the drear chamber.
Marguerite at length began to despair, and regret she had not taken the advice of Giraud. The sensation of utter weariness, of which De Pontis so often complained to his daughter in the narrow prison-abode, was now experienced by herself. Solitude was only broken by the occasional sound of footsteps—delusive hope!—they paused not at her door.
The shout of merry voices was heard from the court-yard in the interior of the palace. The gay, richly dressed pages of his eminence, whose turn of duty had terminated or not arrived, were amusing themselves in the youthful sports practised in the household of princes. Personal rencontres and duelling were such frequent occurrences, that proficiency in the use of the rapier was an indispensable accomplishment. Marguerite, venturing to the window, became sensibly amused and interested by the adroitness of a youth, who, challenging all his compeers successively with the foil, remained victor. Cap and mantle thrown aside, his attitude of defence displayed to advantage a tall symmetrical form—the long curling hair falling on the shoulders bespoke a very youthful age, but the compressed lip, and stern, fiery eye bent on the adversary, belonged to manhood.
Without an equal, he retired from the arena to become a spectator of the skill of companions more equally matched. Marguerite continued at the window, till of a sudden, being aware that she was herself the object of the youth’s regard, she withdrew in confusion.
There was not much to interest within the chamber. A map of France, and several battle-pieces, sadly out of perspective, helped to while away the time. Looking closely over Limousin, endeavoring to find the barren waste denominated De Pontis—without hearing footstep, or other notice of a stranger’s approach, an arm encircled her waist, and the dark eye of the page was close to her own.
“Is there nothing”—said the intruder—“more amusing to a lady in the Palais-Cardinal than poring over a mouldy map? Well! if such be the taste of Mademoiselle, may I not be her preceptor? I am accounted an excellent mathematician!”
Marguerite had been surprised so suddenly as to be for the moment bereft of speech. Springing from his grasp, her eyes flashing indignation, she flew to the door.
The page perceiving the intention, had barely time to place his hand on the latch, and the foiled maiden dreading close contact with the insolent intruder, retreated a few paces, threatening an appeal to the Cardinal Richelieu.
“Mademoiselle has more power over me than his eminence,” said the page, half smiling.
“Then prove it by allowing me to quit the apartment without suffering further insolence,” exclaimed the damsel firmly.
“It is a hard command—and insolence is a harsh term,” said the youth, thoughtfully, “but I deserve it! Believe me, Mademoiselle, when I say how much I was deceived in the quality of her whom I approached so foolishly—we are apt to abuse the license of—”
“License!” exclaimed Marguerite, still trembling with vexation and anger, “meet behavior for a cardinal’s palace—but make way, sir, and you shall hear no further of it.”
The page, who evidently by his manner as well as declaration, had committed the very grave error of acting towards a lady of quality, with a freedom which the gay youth of Paris affected in their chance meeting with females of humbler rank, had, since his first address, appeared deeply struck with the beauty and grace of Marguerite. Even sense of the offence seemed lost and absorbed in his admiration.
Leaving her free to depart, he again expressed sorrow for the rudeness—and in a tone, and with language, courteous yet grave and sustained, more than could have been expected from one of his years, and of the thoughtless class to which he belonged—reminded her that he was one of the pages of the Cardinal De Richelieu; that if her visit to the palace had reference to any of the household, he would go immediately in quest of the party, or if she sought higher audience, his services were at command, though they would not, perhaps, avail much.
The frankness of this declaration rather won upon the maiden, and tended much to subdue her anger. Might she not be carrying indignation too far against one who expressed such contrition for his offence? Thoughts of her father, of the Conciergerie, of Giraud and the implacable procureur général, rushed through the mind. Perhaps the youth was thrown in her path even providentially? Ruin hung suspended by a slight thread over the family, and could only be averted by extraordinary and unusual aid.
It was with these feelings, that she declared herself Marguerite De Pontis, waiting audience of the cardinal—if he could pleasure her so far as to ascertain what chance there remained of seeing the prelate that day, she would accept his services as atonement for his rudeness.
“De Pontis!” exclaimed the youth, with an abstracted air.
“The same,” exclaimed the maiden, rather impatiently, seeing that he made no effort to depart, “have I imposed a task too heavy?”
“De Pontis!—he is in the Conciergerie du Palais,” said the page.
“Alas! I know it too well,” cried the maiden, “but why remind me of it? I fear that I have been wrong myself, in putting trust in a stranger.”
“No! no! Mademoiselle,” said the page, “not in putting trust in me, though perhaps I am too humble to be of service. You appear impatient because I do not fly, like knight of old, on fair lady’s service—but truly, I have been weighing between duty and inclination, and duty, after a hard battle, has been vanquished. I know the cardinal will hold himself invisible to Mademoiselle till the decree of sequestration is obtained. There! it is out now!—and I have earned my passport to the Bastille!”
“I trust not,” replied Marguerite, mournfully, “it is enough our family is obnoxious to misery in their own persons, without bringing it on others.”
These words seemed lost on the page—he paced the chamber like one irresolute of action—his dark eye flashing brightly, and then sunk in gloom. Suddenly approaching the lady with a vehemence and hastiness which startled her, he exclaimed abruptly, though in a low tone—
“Chance, and the employment which falls to my lot, have made me acquainted with the proceedings against Monsieur De Pontis, even more than is suspected by the cardinal. I owe you atonement, and you must confess that I risk life, or liberty, or both, in making the reparation I offer—but I deem no task too heavy or too perilous, which will assist the hopes of Mademoiselle De Pontis.”
There was a warmth in this declaration, an earnestness of gaze and speech which caused Marguerite’s eyes to seek the ground.
“I cannot accept services bestowed at such risk,” said the maiden faltering.
“Then my safety has interest in your eyes—or do I flatter myself too much?” asked the page.
The roses blushed deeply in the cheek of Marguerite—there was a flutter at the heart—a confusion which took away the power of reply. With much to offend delicacy, could she take offence at an offer which bore the impress of sincerity? Could she sacrifice the proffered aid to her parent? Might he not be in possession of the information so coveted by Monsieur Giraud, information so much more valuable since she had learned the intention of the cardinal to avoid granting an audience? But was she justified in receiving intelligence conveyed at such peril by the rash youth?
These thoughts chasing each other, produced a state of mind favorable to the ardent wishes of the page. He saw her irresolution, and in the recklessness of the sudden passion he had conceived for the damsel, was resolved to risk fortune, character and liberty in her service. Higher aims and loftier destinies than a page’s state, have been flung away for the favoring smile of woman’s eye! He had the art to avoid all allusion to his passion, and dilating only on the pity felt for the unfortunate veteran, and the distress his imprisonment must have caused the daughter—his own indignation at the artifices used and still in store to deprive the warrior of the well-earned bounty of royalty—he thus removed the obstacles which the maidenly delicacy of Marguerite would have interposed in the acceptation of a stranger’s services—and whose first introduction afforded little promise of gentle feelings and regard for her own sex.
François De Romainville, in devoting himself to the service of Marguerite with such total disregard of the dreaded Richelieu, gave one more proof of a headlong career. He had been twice imprisoned in the Palais for disobedience of the cardinal’s orders, and retained his post only through superior activity and intelligence, qualities of which the potential minister had much need. The indignity he suffered, or believed that he suffered, by the confinement, had created a bitter animosity against his master.
The scandalous injustice exercised towards De Pontis, to which he was privy, tended to paint the tyrant—as he secretly called him—in blacker colors. Could he serve the veteran, he revenged his own wrong on the oppressor—and might win the love of a maiden for whom he had conceived a passion whose intensity resembled what he had never experienced, but oft read of in the pages of romance.
There was much danger in every step—even in the present interview, he ran the risk of being either surprised by his companions from whom he had unperceived stolen away, on beholding a pretty face at the window above; or incurring the suspicion of De Lionne, should he send for or seek Mademoiselle, and find who was in her company. As it was, he had already rendered himself obnoxious to a severe reprimand, by intruding into a chamber to which he had not the privilege of access, unless under command of his eminence, and though this prohibition would probably prevent search in such a quarter by his more prudent compeers, yet the momentary peril of a visit from usher or functionary attached to the secretary’s bureau, was great. The best chance of escape arose from the fact—so distressing to Marguerite—that the cardinal had no intention of seeing the maiden, till the intercession she craved would be of no avail.
With this consolation, and the last resource in store of flight unperceived by the back staircase which had led him so quietly to the chamber, he gradually induced Marguerite to make him a confidant in the affairs of her father.
“It is the Count De Fontrailles,” remarked the page, “for whom the droit d’aubaine is intended, and he lays close siege to it. The count has made himself necessary to his eminence—he has, what is called in the language of the bureau, a talent for affairs. He must have money, is his constant cry—he spends so much—he had often borrowed of the Spaniard, and had an eye to the estate on his death—perhaps he poisoned him—”
“Merciful Heaven! I hope not!” exclaimed the maiden in great terror, shocked at the idea of the crime, and more so at the careless manner in which it was surmised.
“What more likely? He might have had to wait many years otherwise,” replied the page smiling at her fears, “but I beg pardon of Mademoiselle—she must teach me to speak in a way better suited to a lady’s ears. I am the most rude and abrupt of men.”
It was now the maiden’s turn to smile.
“Mademoiselle will find that I have a man’s heart though not his beard,” cried François, with a slight curl of the upper lip; “there are few, calling themselves men, would dare oppose the cardinal as I have done. M. De Pontis and myself are well matched, and I sympathize with his spirit.”
He then proceeded to relate that the cardinal and Fontrailles were much annoyed at the obstinacy of the old soldier; the necessities of the latter were outraged by the droit being jeoparded and withheld from his clutch; the former, displeased at what he called the impertinence of an old moustache, in taking such sudden advantage of the king’s good-nature. It had been the occupation of François to carry messages and commands to the creature named Pedro Olivera, a Spaniard by birth, long resident in France, and a tool or subordinate emissary of the courtly Fontrailles.
There was much inquiry about certain papers, as the page affirmed to Marguerite. Pedro had been also a borrower from the deceased Spaniard, and had placed with him, as security for repayment, a statement of claims on his master, Fontrailles, for obscure and perhaps disreputable services. This was missing, also a portion of the books and accounts, and it occasioned, as François happened to know, a domiciliary search in the lodging of Monsieur De Pontis.
“If these papers and documents were in existence—and I suspect by her looks,” said the page, concluding his narrative, “that she knows something about them—they could be brought to bear against Fontrailles and Olivera by a skilful advocate. But let Mademoiselle De Pontis remember, that I have placed my life in her hands—a life of value to the owner if he be permitted to continue in her service.”
The color flew to the face of Marguerite—she looked confused, but not displeased—he took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
“But the decree, Monsieur François,” said the damsel timidly, “the advocate fears the procureur will obtain it to-morrow if he is not restrained.”
“True! too true!” exclaimed the page.
He considered a few moments, and then told her that the only remedy was to gain audience of Richelieu by stratagem. It was useless her waiting in the chamber, he was aware, nor would the cardinal be met with on his departure from the Palais, in the public suite of saloons. He knew the hour of his going abroad, and it would be necessary that Mademoiselle should repair to the palace garden, wait in a particular avenue which he indicated, and lie in ambush for his eminence.
“He will not, he cannot resist your appeal for delay,” exclaimed François, in a passionate tone, “Monseigneur proves his want of courage by flying the field! I wish his eminence had my heart, for Mademoiselle I find irresistible.”
Again pressing the fair hand to his lips, he escaped by the entrance which conducted to the back-stairs, but presently returning, said—
“If François, the houblieur, travels the Rue St. Denis this evening, he will not fail to ring his bell for customers to attend!” and so saying, again disappeared.
The houblieurs, or dealers in wafers, a sort of cake, were accustomed to ring a hand-bell to give notice of approach in their passage through the streets; and Marguerite could only construe the page’s enigma, that he intended visiting her abode so disguised.
Obeying the directions, she resorted without delay to the palace gardens, and with fear and trembling took up the station pointed out. A few minutes after the hour mentioned, chimed by the clock, two ushers passed the bench where the maiden was seated—she arose instantly, and the cardinal duke was close at hand, almost surrounded by a group of gaily dressed gentlemen.
Her courage forsook her—but it was too late to retreat—she stood conspicuous in the avenue, and the great man’s train, accustomed perhaps to similar rencontres, falling back a few paces, though within hearing, she confronted the lion in his path. A slight, almost imperceptible shade crossed his features, but he stopped, and with princely serenity listened to the faltering pleading.
“And if the wheels of justice of a mighty kingdom are arrested for one week, will it content such a faithful servant of the king?” asked the cardinal.
“I hope it will afford time to prove my father’s innocence, Monseigneur,” replied the maiden.
“Then Mademoiselle’s wishes shall be the law of France,” rejoined the minister. Bowing with dignity to the maiden, he passed onward with his suite, and she was again alone in the avenue.
[To be continued.
THE HAUNTED HEART.
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BY MISS MARY L. LAWSON.
———
’Tis true he ever lingers at her side,
But mark the wandering glances of his eye:
A lover near a fond and plighted bride,
With less of love than sorrow in his sigh!
And well it is for her, that gentle maid,
Who loves too well, too fervently, for fears,
She deems not her devotion is repaid
With deep repinings o’er life’s early years.
For oft another’s image fills his breast,
E’en when he breathes to her love’s tender vow;
While her soft hand within his own is prest,
And timid blushes mantle her young brow,
Fond memory whispers of the dreamy past,
Its hopes and joys, its agony and tears;
In vain from out his soul he strives to cast
One shadowy form—the love of early years.
Ne’er from his heart the vision fades away;
Amid the crowd, in silence, and alone,
The stars by night, the clear blue sky by day,
Bring to his mind the happiness that’s flown;
A tone of song, the warbling of the birds,
The simplest thing that memory endears,
Can still recall the form, the voice, the words
Of her, the best beloved of early years.
He dares not seek the spot where first they met,
Too dangerous for his only hope of rest,
His strong, but fruitless effort to forget
Those scenes that wake deep sorrow in his breast;
And yet the quiet beauty of the grove
All plainly to his restless mind appears,
Where, as the sun declined, he lov’d to rove
With her, the first fond dream of early years.
He sees the stream, beside whose brink they strayed,
Engross’d in converse sweet of coming hours,
And watch’d the rippling currents as they played,
In ebb and flow, upon the banks of flowers:
And the old willow, ’neath whose spreading shade
She own’d her love—again her voice he hears,
He starts—alas! the vision only fades
To leave regretful pangs for early years.
It was his idle vanity that changed
The pure, deep feelings of her trusting heart,
Whose faithful love, not even in thought had ranged,
But worship’d him, from all the world apart;
Now cold and altered is her beaming eye,
And no fond hope his aching bosom cheers
That she will shed one tear or breathe one sigh
For him she lov’d so well in early years.
He feels she scorns him with a bitter scorn,
He questions not the justice of his fate,
For long had she his selfish caprice borne,
And wounded pride first taught her how to hate.
Oh! ye who cast away a heart’s deep love,
Remember, ere affection disappears,
That keen reproachful throbs your soul may move
Like his who lives to mourn life’s early years.
SHAKSPEARE.
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BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC.
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