COUNT DE MIRABEAU AND MONSIEUR JACQUES.
Mirabeau and Monsieur Jacques went to a neighboring chamber and sat down
together; for, strange as the contrast was between them, they were
foster-brothers, and a stronger tie than that of absolute kinship
existed between them.
“Well, Jacques, where did you find these people? Who are they?” inquired
the count, flinging himself into a chair, and reaching forth his hand
for that of his foster-brother. “The demoiselle is beautiful. It is a
sin to find her here.”
Jacques gave a succinct account of his acquaintance with the mother and
daughter, and repeated, word for word, the conversation he had held with
them that evening.
Mirabeau listened eagerly. There was romance in this—a mother and
daughter devoting their lives to the hope of winning freedom for an
innocent man, had something sublime in it, which kindled his
imagination, and touched all that was good in his heart. He took out a
well-worn purse, which contained only a piece or two of gold, and
emptied it on the table.
“See that there is no more starvation. Women like these must not be
permitted to suffer,” he said, thrusting the empty purse back into a
pocket of his dress. “The girl is beautiful, the mother simply grand.”
“Ah! but the young lady is so good,” answered Jacques, who did not feel
quite satisfied with this sudden interest.
“Good, very possible—I am no judge; but she is fair as a lily, and
bright as a sunbeam. Did my face terrify her, Jacques?”
“Your face, Count Mirabeau—how should it? Why, your face is magnificent,
grand—it is that I glory in most of anything.”
Jacques believed all that he was saying. In his heart great love had
glorified that massive head, with its shock of ruddy hair, into
something beautiful. He heard the question put to him with genuine
surprise, as if some one had disputed the brightness of the sun; but
Count Mirabeau understood himself better. He rather gloried in the rude
grandeur of his appearance, the conquests which he made in spite of it
were doubly grateful to him. “It is a common thing to be beautiful,” he
would say; “but to be hideous and beloved in spite of it, is sublime.”
“Ah! you are no judge, brother Jacques. Of course, I am everything grand
and agreeable to you; but with a young lady, the thing is different. I
saw her look of surprise when I came in. No wonder; but she forgot to be
afraid after a little. Did you see that? How her eyes kindled! What a
smile came to her face—a lovely face, undoubtedly; a very lovely face!”
Count Mirabeau fell into a reverie here, and began to thread with his
hand the long waves of hair that fell to his shoulder.
Jacques remained silent, and sat watching him.
After awhile the count arose, and taking one of the gold pieces from the
table, dropped it into his pocket. Glancing at the two Louis d’or that
were left, he said, with a laugh.
“These will be enough for the present—one cannot do entirely without
money. Come to me, Jacques, when you want more.”
“But the ladies are proud; they will not accept it, knowing where it
comes from.”
“They must not know where it comes from. You understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
“Now I will bid you good-night, Jacques. Do you know that my father is
in Paris?”
“In Paris! I did not know it. What brings him here?”
“He comes to be reconciled with his son, so I am told. I had a letter
from him this morning, appointing a time when I am to call on him. It
was this which brought me here.”
“Then you will go?”
“Yes. Why not?”
“But he has been so cruel, so harsh. It is not long since the doors of
his chateau were closed against you.”
“Yes. I am not likely to forget that; but in these times it is not
policy to be resentful. My father has influence with the king.”
“But I thought you were the enemy of Louis the Sixteenth, and of all his
family!”
“You forget the Duc d’Orleans.”
“But he is not your friend.”
“He is the friend of no man but himself. Still one does not quarrel with
him. A bad, weak friend, Jacques; but sometimes such characters carry
braver men into power. While he is popular with the people, who will not
readily release their hold on royalty of some kind, I, for one, shall
not abandon him.”
“Still, it is a terrible thing to know that he is plotting against his
own brother, his anointed king,” said Jacques.
“Nay, it is rather against the Austrian woman, who rules that brother.
Surely, Frenchmen owe little allegiance to her.”
“That is, perhaps, because they do not know her!” said Jacques.
“That is true. She makes sure that those men who love France, and seek
after liberty, never shall come near enough to know her.”
“Yet it is said that those who have opportunities of seeing the royal
family love her most. To them she is a beautiful, good woman.”
“Yes, she is beautiful. She has, sometimes, allowed your humble servant
to see her across the theatre; but disdains to receive him at court. Her
mother would have known better. She had some idea of statesmanship, and
understood how to employ talent, though it might exist a little outside
of court circles. She would never have left a Mirabeau to be converted
into an enemy.”
“Ah! if the queen only knew you as Jacques does—but how can she? The
courtiers who surround her are jealous of powers they cannot rival. The
queen will never be permitted to know how brave a friend is kept from
her.”
“She will learn, rest content, Jacques. She will learn who Mirabeau is,
and what he can do, before she sits firmly on the throne of France. She
will learn, to her cost, that nobility does not always convey talent;
and that the best adviser a monarch can have is the man who is most
popular with the people.”
“That you are, my count. I do not see you pass the streets of Paris
without acclamations!”
“Yes, they love me, and I love them. It was my great fault with that
grand old aristocrat, my father, that plebeians would love me, and that
I sometimes stooped to their companionship. Even then I felt what was
coming, and, knew where the best elements of power lay. But my
thickheaded old ancestor was never able to understand it. What do you
think he would say now if he knew where I have spent this evening? Yet a
lovelier creature, or more dainty, does not live in any court, than the
girl we left yonder.”
Monsieur Jacques colored crimson, and moved uneasily in his chair. He
did not like this open admiration in his foster-brother.
“Yes, the young lady is pretty and gentle as a bird; but I doubt if——”
Here Jacques paused, and colored still more violently than before.
“Doubt if what——”
“If—if she is used to such warm admiration. Is that it, brother
Jacques?”
“Exactly,” answered Jacques. “She is country bred, you know, and
innocent as a fawn.”
Mirabeau laughed rather boisterously.
“Why, you foolish fellow, that is her chief attraction. Had she been one
of your hackneyed court dames, her beauty would have passed as nothing.
As it is, she is charming. Simple as a violet, pure as a
lily-of-the-valley—not that I have seen one of late; but those things
still linger in my memory Jacques, man of the world as you may think
me.”