A DETERMINED BENEFACTOR.
The Count De Mirabeau had just come in from an exciting debate at the
club. This man seemed to have changed places with his foster-brother;
for while one had, to a certain extent, cast off the coarseness which
made him a favorite of the people, the man of noble birth had been
striving to brutalize himself down to a level with the lowest strata of
civilized life. Marie Antoinette’s rejection of his advances had plunged
him deeper and deeper into the abysses of popular favor. But there was a
natural revolt in all this; Mirabeau would much rather have been the
saviour of monarchy than the leader of the mob, and his very power as a
demagogue sometimes filled him with disgust.
That particular night the count was in a restive frame of mind; by
bringing out the very coarsest powers of his nature he had excited the
crowd that day into the most clamorous homage—homage that never would
have been given to the splendid genius and great powers that he knew
himself to possess, unaided by the rudest and lowest passions. It is
doubtful if even his powerful intellect foresaw the terrible scenes that
the eloquence of men like him was destined to fasten upon France. That
night his better nature recoiled from the hideous work his genius was
doing, and he flung himself down on a chair, weary and sickened by the
clamorous adoration of his followers.
Some one knocked at the door of his chamber while he was in this
dissatisfied mood, and he called out roughly for the person to come in,
thinking that, perhaps, it was some messenger from the printing-office.
A woman entered, elegantly dressed, and scattering a delicate perfume
from her garments as she moved. She held a small mask before her face,
such as ladies sometimes carried to protect their complexions from the
sun; but when the door was closed, she dropped it, and moving softly
across the room, bent over the chair on which Mirabeau was sitting.
He started up in surprise, stood a moment irresolute, and then broke
forth,
“Madame Du Berry, and here!”
“So you did know me,” she said, with a gleam of pride and thankfulness
that he had so readily recognized her features.
“Know you?” answered the count, reaching forth his hand to grasp hers
heartily, as if she had been a man. “When will the time come when
Mirabeau can forget——”
The woman held up her finger.
“Ah, count! that was before the days of Versailles, when you were the
gayest young scapegrace among the nobility, and I one of the people. I
wonder if either of us are the better for having changed places.”
“I was just asking myself that question,” said Mirabeau, gloomily.
“After all, the greatness that springs out of a false position must ever
be unsatisfactory; but tell me of yourself, fair countess. It is years
since I have known much of your good or evil fortune.”
Du Berry shrugged her shoulders.
“The last few years I have languished in England—that cold, cruel
country, where the sun never shines fairly out as it does in France. Is
not that enough of misfortune? But I must not talk of myself. Of course,
I did not come here simply for the pleasure of seeing you. There is a
man in whom you take interest—a person who calls himself Monsieur
Jacques.”
“My foster-brother, and as true-hearted a man as ever drew breath; but
how did he come to attract your notice, my friend?”
“No matter, it is a long story; besides, it is not the man that I am so
much interested in, but a young woman whom he loves.”
“A young woman! You cannot mean Mademoiselle Gosner?”
“Yes, that is the young person, a fair girl, whose father, I, in some
sort, wronged in the days of my power. I wish to make atonement for that
wrong, and cannot—she rejects it; so, in the desperation of my good
intent, I come to you. My belief is that these two persons love each
other.”
“Love each other! What, will he persist in loving that girl?” cried
Mirabeau, starting to his feet. “Does he not know that Mirabeau has
honored her with his admiration?”
Du Berry flung herself into the chair from which the count had risen,
and burst into a fit of laughter.
“An excellent reason why no honest man should think of her for himself,”
she said, wiping away the quick tears of merriment that flashed down her
painted cheeks. “Oh! but you are droll as ever, my friend.”
“But the girl is beautiful!”
“So much the more reason that your foster-brother should be desperately
in love with her, as he certainly is—that is what brings me here.”
“But I tell you that he will not presume——”
“My dear friend, he has presumed; and what is more, the girl will marry
him!”
“What, after I had condescended to be pleased with her? Du Berry, you
have ceased to be discriminating.”
“Come, come, be pacified. She is only one, and Paris has so many; let
the poor fellow have his love unmolested—I ask it of you.”
“Now I remember,” said the count, “it is weeks since I called; in fact,
I neglected her after the first impression. Of course, it was my own
fault, and, as you say, Mirabeau can afford to be magnanimous. Besides,
I really think it is the fellow’s first love. Nay, do not go off into
another fit of laughter—such things do happen. Then again, I remember he
asked my forbearance, and I almost promised it. Well, the best thing I
can do for him is not to go near the demoiselle—that might unsettle
things.”
“If you would be so good,” said the countess, with a droll look of humor
in her eyes, “it was a part of the favor I was about to ask. This man
is, I believe, poor—he possibly cannot afford to marry.”
Mirabeau thought of the little estate, whose income had been so
generously given up to his extravagance, and had the grace to hesitate
in answering. Was the countess going to suggest that he should
relinquish that income? Had that, indeed, been the truth, she might have
found more difficulty than had accompanied his renunciation of the girl;
but she promptly set his mind at rest.
“I take it for granted that he cannot afford to marry,” she said, “and
in this I want your help. Be my banker; let me leave money enough for
their comfortable independence in your hands!”
“In my hands!” exclaimed Mirabeau, laughing. “My dear friend, you should
know better. It would melt away while the priest was giving his
blessing. If you have any sharp notary who will arrange it so that it
may be a trust; in short, that will insure it to him, and save it from
me—I should not mind undertaking the business—I dare say that can be
done.”
“But it must seem to come from you. They would not touch it else,” said
Du Berry.
“He will never believe it; but we can manage that; it can be done in my
father’s name. Now, fair lady, as your conscience is at rest, tell me——”
“Not yet—not yet! I have another thing to ask.”
“Of the same kind? I warn you now, do not lead a reckless man too far.
Money is a sad temptation, when one needs it so much.”