He then proceeded to relate that the cardinal and Fontrailles were much annoyed at the obstinacy of the old soldier; the necessities of the latter were outraged by the _droit_ being jeoparded and withheld from his clutch; the former, displeased at what he called the impertinence of an old _moustache_, in taking such sudden advantage of the king’s good-nature. It had been the occupation of François to carry messages and commands to the creature named Pedro Olivera, a Spaniard by birth, long resident in France, and a tool or subordinate emissary of the courtly Fontrailles. There was much inquiry about certain papers, as the page affirmed to Marguerite. Pedro had been also a borrower from the deceased Spaniard, and had placed with him, as security for repayment, a statement of claims on his master, Fontrailles, for obscure and perhaps disreputable services. This was missing, also a portion of the books and accounts, and it occasioned, as François happened to know, a domiciliary search in the lodging of Monsieur De Pontis. “If these papers and documents were in existence—and I suspect by her looks,” said the page, concluding his narrative, “that she knows something about them—they could be brought to bear against Fontrailles and Olivera by a skilful advocate. But let Mademoiselle De Pontis remember, that I have placed my life in her hands—a life of value to the owner if he be permitted to continue in her service.” The color flew to the face of Marguerite—she looked confused, but not displeased—he took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “But the decree, Monsieur François,” said the damsel timidly, “the advocate fears the _procureur_ will obtain it to-morrow if he is not restrained.” “True! too true!” exclaimed the page. He considered a few moments, and then told her that the only remedy was to gain audience of Richelieu by stratagem. It was useless her waiting in the chamber, he was aware, nor would the cardinal be met with on his departure from the _Palais_, in the public suite of saloons. He knew the hour of his going abroad, and it would be necessary that Mademoiselle should repair to the palace garden, wait in a particular avenue which he indicated, and lie in ambush for his eminence. “He will not, he cannot resist your appeal for delay,” exclaimed François, in a passionate tone, “Monseigneur proves his want of courage by flying the field! I wish his eminence had my heart, for Mademoiselle I find irresistible.” Again pressing the fair hand to his lips, he escaped by the entrance which conducted to the back-stairs, but presently returning, said— “If François, the _houblieur_, travels the _Rue St. Denis_ this evening, he will not fail to ring his bell for customers to attend!” and so saying, again disappeared.