THROWING OFF DISGUISES.
Then evening wore on, and Mirabeau’s guests came out of the awkwardness
of a sumptuous masquerade, where they had been aping the life they
professed to despise, and their coarse natures revealed themselves amid
flowers, jewels, laces, and silks, with ludicrous incongruity.
Mirabeau enjoyed the scene with keen zest. In his heart he despised the
paltry display which only made his plebeian friends unnatural and
awkward; but the whole scene amused him, and, with his usual
forethought, he had arranged it for his own advantage. In this adroit
way he hoped to mingle such elements together as would render his
projects, regarding the royal family, less open to observation.
Louison understood the whole scene. One by one she began to recognize
the men who figured under those splendid garments; and even in her anger
she smiled as the coarse hand of Marat protruded from the ruffles of
gossamer lace that fell from under his coat-sleeve, in a rude attempt to
wave kisses across the table to Theroigne, who received his advances
with a disdainful laugh, which Du Berry joined, more covertly. She was
no stranger to the splendid objects that surrounded her, and took some
pride in the ultra refinements which she had brought out of her former
grandeur.
Marat, whose vanity was extreme, drew back from the ridicule of these
women with a growl of anger; low born and humbly bred as himself, they
had easily adopted the careless self-possession which he aimed at in
vain. But this man was already making his influence felt in the clubs,
and no one present felt strong enough to ridicule him openly.
Du Berry laughed behind her fan; and Theroigne turned her face away and
made signs of disgust to Mirabeau, who leaned back in his chair and
smiled upon them all.
Marat witnessed all this reflected in a mirror upon the opposite wall,
and he never forgot it.
Louison saw his coarse face darken, and knew that she could depend on
him when her hour of vengeance came.
Marat, as if to assure her of this, started to his feet.
“Come, citizens, we have played at this folly long enough,” he said,
coarsely. “Why should we ape that which we despise, and will yet trample
into the earth? I, for one, am sick of this farce. True patriots only
grow strong in their own elements. Bah! these perfumes suffocate me!”
With these words, the brutal man snatched off his wig and sent all its
powdered curls flying across the room, thus more completely exposing all
the coarseness of his features. Then he threw open the velvet coat, and
attempted to draw it from his shoulders, cursing its tightness, and
making vicious threats against the more slender aristocrat to whom it
had belonged.
Theroigne burst into a peal of laughter as he tugged at the sleeves, and
distorted his shoulders in a fruitless effort to free himself from the
splendid garment; for in his fury he had torn open the laced ruffles on
his bosom, and revealed to the whole company under garments of his own,
coarse, dingy, and scarcely fit for a beggar.
“Let me help you, citizen!” cried the amazon, springing to her chair,
placing one foot on the edge of the table and leaping across it. “Upon
my life, you have hard work not to look like an aristocrat. There, now,
the coat is off, and you have torn all this lovely lace to tatters. So
much the better. Marat is himself again. You cannot chain our lion of
the revolution with ribbons or ropes of flowers.
“See! see!” cried one of the guests, “what mischief one woman can do!
Theroigne, in her zeal to take Marat out of his trappings, has deluged
herself with wine. See how it trickles down her dress!”
Theroigne cast a glance at the table, which was scattered with broken
crystal, that glittered like fragments of ice in a red flood of wine
which her foot had spilled. Then she shook out the folds of her white
dress, which were dabbled red as the table; and, turning to Marat, cried
out recklessly,
“We are friends now and forever! I have only taken your colors, Marat,
in advance!”
“All France shall wear them yet,” Marat muttered, as he spurned away the
coat he had taken off, with his foot.
“So be it!” cried Theroigne. “Like you, I detest anything an aristocrat
has touched. Let us be ourselves.”
The amazon tore a garland of roses from her head, and trampled them down
with the coat Marat had flung off.
“Oh! if it were but the crown of France!” she said, fiercely.
“And the woman who wears it,” growled Marat, who had drank wine enough
to render him more than usually ferocious.
Mirabeau caught the ruffian’s scowling glance, as he muttered these
words under his breath, and guessed their meaning.
“It is, doubtless, a noble sentiment which the citoyen utters; but he
speaks too low. If it promises good to France, let us all join in it.”
“You shall all join in it before I have done,” answered Marat, sullenly;
“but there must be a baptism first. You, Mirabeau, are not prepared as
yet. If some one would draw the blue blood from your veins, our patriots
would trust you, and ask no questions.”
“As it is,” said Mirabeau, laughing, “the people trust me, and with that
I am content.”
“There speaks out the audacious pride of the aristocrat,” was the bold
answer; “half noble, half plebeian—one eternally fighting against the
other. Who can trust either? Not Marat, for one.”
Mirabeau’s face, grand and powerful in its supreme ugliness, darkened
like a thunder-cloud for one instant, then cleared away with a laugh.
“The air of this mansion does not agree with Marat,” he said.
“No!” cried the ruffian; “it stifles me.”
“Come, come!” cried Theroigne, “we must not quarrel with each other. It
is the garments and the place. When Mirabeau gave us permission to
ransack the mansion, and use what pleased us, he did not remember that
the very atmosphere of luxury sickens a true patriot. Come, one and all!
let us be ourselves again. We had a fancy to see how a nobleman, who
grinds his luxuries out of the poor man’s labor, enjoyed his monopoly;
but the whole thing surfeits me.”
As she said this, Theroigne left the saloon, swept across the hall, and
up the grand stair-case, followed by the whole party, except the host
and Madame Du Berry, who had not joined in the harlequin frolic of the
evening, having no curiosity to gratify regarding the usages of the
aristocracy.
When the last of his guests left the room, Mirabeau turned a somewhat
anxious face on Du Berry.
“Did this man terrify you, mademoiselle?” he said.
“A little; he seems to regard me with peculiar spite.”
“It is his nature; besides, he had been drinking too much wine!”
“His very look made me shiver.”
“But you must have more courage. It is with such men that you can have
the influence we need.”
“And this person from Liege?” questioned Du Berry doubtfully.
Mirabeau smiled.
“Now tell me,” said Du Berry, “what this strange scene means?”
“Only this,” answered Mirabeau. “The house that I occupy, not long since
belonged to a member of the court who very wisely emigrated, leaving all
its appointments behind,—even, as you see, a portion of his wardrobe. He
was a favorite with our friend at St. Cloud: and I received an
invitation that my residence here might save it from pillage. I took
possession. It was a dangerous experiment, for these people watch me
with the vigilance of hounds. To-night I gave them a supper, inviting
the most violent of the clubs. They believe, and I permit it, that I
have taken a brigand’s possession of this house, and insisted on
ransacking it from top to bottom. In the wardrobe they found some rich
dresses, which the owner feared to encumber himself with; and at the
instigation of Theroigne, of Liege, got up the scene you have witnessed.
It is wonderful how eagerly our Jacobins seize upon every opportunity to
lift themselves, if it is only for an hour, into an atmosphere of
luxury, while they pretend to despise it.”
“Hark!” said madame, under her breath, “it seemed to me, as if some one
stirred.”
“No; it is only our friends casting off their nobility. Was anything
ever more absurd than the scene they enacted?”
Madame burst into a hearty laugh.
“Oh, _mon Dieu_! I never shall forget Marat in that dress. It was a
hyena in the silver fox-skin. How his eyes peered out from under the
curling wig. It was superb!”
Again madame broke into a mellow laugh, and mimicked the awkward pose of
Marat in his aristocratic dress, with inimitable humor.
Mirabeau laughed till the tears came into his great, bold eyes. Then
madame gave a comic imitation of Theroigne.
“Oh!” she said, between the acts of her little comedy, “it is not often
that a woman, taken from the _canaille_, can glide gracefully into the
manners of the court.”
“That,” said Mirabeau, with a meaning smile, “is only reserved to women
of wonderful talent.”
Madame laid her white hand with a graceful motion on her heart, thus
acknowledging the compliment.
“Oh, count! what a charming courtier was lost when you turned patriot.”
“Madame, is it not possible for a man to be a courtier, and yet love his
country?”
“I begin to fear not. Mirabeau, these people distrust me. That woman——”
Mirabeau interrupted her with a laugh.
“That woman—well, what of her? Can she forgive your arch wit, your
superb beauty?”
“Hush, hush!” said madame, with a touch of mournful regret. “I am no
longer beautiful, and these fearful convulsions have frightened all the
little wit I ever possessed out of my brain; but, through it all, I have
one feeling which nothing can destroy, gratitude to the king, and that
gracious lady who would not countenance insult or spoliation against a
fallen woman. It might have been half counterfeit, I know; but in the
season of my bitter humiliation I was spared. I say to you, Count
Mirabeau, I would rather perish than see harm come to them.”
“We will both perish before that shall happen!” said Mirabeau,
earnestly; “but let us beware of revealing a sentiment in their favor.”
“Guard yourself, my friend. They are coming,” cried madame, catching her
breath.
True enough, a tremendous rush of feet came down the broad stair-case,
and the superbly-dressed company, that had left the table in regal
splendor, came back a rabble of riotous people, carelessly dressed,
reckless in demeanor, and ready to blaspheme, or assert any wild theory
that came into their heads, without regard to the decencies of language,
or the presence of women. Indeed, respect for the sex had long ceased to
be a restraint upon men who had trodden everything pure and beautiful
under the cloven hoofs of an impossible idea.
Louison knew that nothing of interest to herself would be gathered from
the noisy arguments these men fairly hurled at each other over the
fragments of a feast that had satiated them. She was about to withdraw
from her hiding-place, when she became conscious of some object
crouching on the floor. It was so hidden by the tapestry, that she would
have gone away unconscious of a companion in her spying, had not her
foot touched the little creature whom she had seen glide from that very
apartment, and conceal himself in the hall, earlier in the evening.
“Imp, what are you doing here?” she whispered, grasping the shrinking
creature by the arm. “Spying upon your own mistress?”
The dwarf wrenched himself from her grasp, and darted from the room.