“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.”