Giraud was not sorry to see the exterior of the Hôtel De Fontrailles. The count had, however, made better terms for himself than he thought to have granted—still, it was true, as Fontrailles remarked, that, whatever became of him, through the cardinal listening to the tale of Pedro Olivera, De Pontis would be none the richer. The pride of Richelieu was touched by the veteran obtaining the sign-manual without his knowledge or intervention, and it was very probable that, if Fontrailles were disgraced, the droit d’aubaine would be destined to another favorite.
Giraud had foreseen this difficulty from the commencement, yet it was hard to part with so many thousand livres, especially to one who had almost choked him. On second consideration, the advocate thought it wiser to withhold this portion of the adventure from De Pontis and his daughter—the blood of the militaire would rise at the insult and imposition of hands offered to a kinsman, and fresh difficulties, perhaps, be thrown in the way of what was, after all, a very peaceful and happy termination of the affairs of the old soldier. The count had confessed the injury, and sued for pardon, and what more could he do? With this consolation, the advocate quieted himself.
The glad news was imparted to Marguerite that evening, and when the houblieur rang his bell, and was admitted, the maiden was more gracious than on the former occasion—the youth more thoughtful. As might be expected, from the previous intimacy shown relative to the secret affairs of the Palais Cardinal, its inmates and visiters, much of what had occurred was already known to the youth—the remainder he heard from the lips of Marguerite. She was charged by Giraud to reclaim the packet; it would be wanted on the morrow. That same night it was placed in her hands, the seal unbroken, and, before she retired to rest, it was again in the keeping of the zealous, faithful advocate.
Giraud was seated in his office. A night’s repose had calmed his spirits, refreshed the wearied frame. Fontrailles had kept the appointment, bringing an authenticated relinquishment of the suit of Pedro Olivera—also a notification from the procureur général that he had abandoned the prosecution of the decree of sequestration—and, lastly, a duplicate of Richelieu’s order to the warden of the Conciergerie to release the Sieur De Pontis. The count claimed and received satisfaction on the conditions insisted on—reference to the prisoner was not necessary, as Giraud had, on the committal of De Pontis, received a legal power to act as representative, and affix by procuration his signature to any act deemed necessary. As the cardinal’s seal was removed from the ware-rooms, and attachment withdrawn from the banker where the moneys of the deceased were lodged, there was no impediment to the prompt payment of the count’s subsidy—a matter, seemingly, of the utmost importance to Monseigneur.
Giraud, as we have said, was seated in his office, and alone. But presently there arrived visiters—the Sieur De Pontis, and the fair heroine, Marguerite. Congratulations and thanks exhausted, business recited and discussed, there ensued a pause—their hearts were full.
“There are but three here,” said Giraud, looking archly at Marguerite, “I should wish to see a fourth. There is a friend, Monsieur De Pontis, who has wonderfully aided our endeavors for your release, and to whom we owe many thanks. Shall we never see the unknown’s face?”
“Marguerite has my sanction to introduce him to Monsieur Giraud whenever she pleases,” said the veteran.
“Hah! then I have been forestalled in her confidence,” cried the advocate, “but I did not deserve the neglect!”
The day subsequent to the liberation of De Pontis, Louis was promenading alone his customary path in the garden of the Tuileries. The old soldier presented himself—he bent his knee to majesty.
“Rise, my good friend,” said the monarch, “I hear you have been better served than Louis could have wrought for you, though he had not forgotten his word, or his old servant.”