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.”