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.