“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.