But whom could he trust? Not De Pontis, for the veteran had neither place of concealment for them, nor freedom to make an active use of the weapons should circumstances require it. And whom else confide in? Certainly none of his professional brethren—and he had no near kinsman, save De Pontis—nor did he know any friend of the latter to whom he could delegate the trust, for the veteran had been abandoned when Richelieu became his foe. Marguerite herself was eminently trustworthy, but the papers could not remain, even with the shadow of safety, in her possession—her lodging would undoubtedly be subjected to a domiciliary visit. And yet he was about to confide the charge to her, but with the condition that it be immediately transferred to sure hands, and to one who had the courage and heart to stand in his place should he fall. “You see, Marguerite De Pontis, how weighty will be the responsibility,” said he, “and yet, I confess, I know not what other course to pursue. As you have not made me your confidant, I know not all your friends—but if you are aware of none other to whom so precious a charge can be conveyed, involving your father’s, your own, and my fortunes, then place the papers in the hands of his majesty—he is no match for the cardinal or Fontrailles either—but he has pledged himself to Monsieur De Pontis, and his faith is good though his courage be poor.” He then handed her the rather bulky packet, repeating the injunction, if she were cognizant of no abler or trustier friend, to make Louis the depositary. “I am acting strangely,” said the advocate, “in permitting Mademoiselle, so young, to choose her own and her father’s champion, but I feel an impulse to which I yield without strictly satisfying my reason. When Marguerite informs me that the packet is transferred, then I go forth to the encounter.” Kissing her forehead, he bade the damsel farewell. Concealing the packet under her mantle, the tears starting to her eyes at the solemnity of the injunction, she retraced her way sadly to the _Rue St. Denis_. In the solitude of her chamber—only broken by the occasional entrance of the aged female, the last link of a once numerous household—she had much to reflect on. The noble, though eccentric, behavior of Giraud; the proud Richelieu, serene and tranquil even in his implacability; the poor, weak Louis; the dark, intriguing Fontrailles; and, lastly, the page, with his sudden birth of passion. Was it a dream? Was she Marguerite De Pontis, daughter of a poor gentleman of Limousin, and so deeply involved in the thickening strife of the master intellects of France? It was even so—the fatal packet met her eyes, cause of past, present and future contest—and her own destiny it was to cast the firebrand at the enemies which beset her imprisoned father!