Near him, around the small table, sat four youths from fifteen to twenty years of age; these were pages, or domestics, according to the term then in use, which signified familiars, friends of the house.  This custom was a relic of feudal patronage, which still existed in our manners.  The younger members of high families received wages from the great lords, and were devoted to their service in all things, challenging the first comer at the wish of their patron.  The pages wrote letters from the outline previously given them by the Cardinal, and after their master had glanced at them, passed them to the secretaries, who made fair copies.  The Duke, for his part, wrote on his knee private notes upon small slips of paper, inserting them in almost all the packets before sealing them, which he did with his own hand.

He had been writing a short time, when, in a mirror before him, he saw the youngest of his pages writing something on a sheet of paper much smaller than the official sheet.  He hastily wrote a few words, and then slipped the paper under the large sheet which, much against his inclination, he had to fill; but, seated behind the Cardinal, he hoped that the difficulty with which the latter turned would prevent him from seeing the little manoeuvre he had tried to exercise with much dexterity.  Suddenly Richelieu said to him, dryly, “Come here, Monsieur Olivier.”

These words came like a thunder-clap on the poor boy, who seemed about sixteen.  He rose at once, however, and stood before the minister, his arms hanging at his side and his head lowered.

The other pages and the secretaries stirred no more than soldiers when a comrade is struck down by a ball, so accustomed were they to this kind of summons.  The present one, however, was more energetic than usual.

“What were you writing?”

“My lord, what your Eminence dictated.”

“What!”

“My lord, the letter to Don Juan de Braganza.”

“No evasions, Monsieur; you were writing something else.”

“My lord,” said the page, with tears in his eyes, “it was a letter to one of my cousins.”

“Let me see it.”

The page trembled in every limb and was obliged to lean against the chimney-piece, as he said, in a hardly audible tone, “It is impossible.”

“Monsieur le Vicomte Olivier d’Entraigues,” said the minister, without showing the least emotion, “you are no longer in my service.”  The page withdrew.  He knew that there was no reply; so, slipping his letter into his pocket, and opening the folding-doors just wide enough to allow his exit, he glided out like a bird escaped from the cage.

The minister went on writing the note upon his knee.