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.” It was now the maiden’s turn to smile. “Mademoiselle will find that I have a man’s heart though not his beard,” cried François, with a slight curl of the upper lip; “there are few, calling themselves men, would dare oppose the cardinal as I have done. M. De Pontis and myself are well matched, and I sympathize with his spirit.”