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.