THE QUEEN’S LETTER.
It was getting late, but Louison cared nothing for that, the exactions
of society had long since been thrown away in her wild life. She hastily
arranged her dress and went into the street. She had intended to seek
Mirabeau that evening, ready for a contest, with two letters,—that which
Mirabeau had written to the queen, and the answer which she had failed
to obtain. As it was, she went forth half armed, but feeling
sufficiently secure. After all, it was of less importance what the queen
had written to Mirabeau, than what this revolutionary leader had written
to the queen. Like a good general mustering his forces after a partial
defeat, this woman arranged her thoughts as she threaded the streets of
Paris. When she had reached the Chaussée d’Anton, her courage returned
with that supreme audacity which no misfortune or rebuff could conquer.
A subject of bitter anger met Louison at the very door of Count
Mirabeau’s dwelling. The porter denied her that free admission which she
had always commanded. She was requested to wait in the hall till Count
Mirabeau’s pleasure could be learned. “He did not receive now as
formerly, and no one was admitted, unannounced, to his presence.”
Louison was white with sudden wrath; as she turned upon the man specks
of angry foam shot to her lips.
“Is this a rule for all?”
“Yes; all but very intimate friends, of whom I have a list.”
“See if the name of Louison Brisot is on that list.”
The haughty confidence in her tone rather startled the man, who drew a
memorandum-book from his pocket, and turned over the leaves in nervous
haste.
Louison possessed neither fear nor delicacy. While the man was glancing
over some names written in his book, she drew close and read them for
herself. She saw two names that kindled her wrath to a white heat—Madame
Du Berry, and lower down Marguerite.
“No, madame—or, I beg pardon, mademoiselle, the name is not here,” said
the man, closing his book.
“That is because there should not be a servant in this house so ignorant
as to ask my name. I will find Count Mirabeau myself.”
Louison waited for no protest, but made her way at once into the
library, where Mirabeau was writing. He lifted his eyes as the woman
presented herself, and looked at her from head to foot with a stern,
questioning glance, still holding the pen in his hand. She gave him back
a look of reckless defiance. Then Mirabeau laid down his pen, and
touched a silver bell that stood upon the table.
The porter had followed Louison, anxious to exculpate himself, and was
instantly at the door.
“I gave orders that no one should be admitted. How is it that they have
not been obeyed?” said the count.
“Pardon, monsieur. I am distressed to say it, but the lady was informed,
and still she came in.”
“Very well. You may go!”
Mirabeau took up his pen as he spoke, and went on writing as if Louison
had not been in the room. The insulting coolness of the act drove
Louison beside herself. She went to the table, and bent her white face
close to the calm, massive features of this strange man.
“Are you afraid of me that your man has such orders?” she whispered, for
her voice was locked with intense anger.
Mirabeau looked up and smiled as he uttered the single word,
“Afraid!”
“Yes, afraid!” she said, with biting scorn.
“No, only tired,” answered the man, leaning back in his chair, with a
slight yawn, which drove the woman mad.
“Tired! Tired of what?”
“Of you, I think.”
His insolent calmness struck the woman dumb. She could neither speak nor
move. Her consternation amused Mirabeau, to whom a woman’s anger was
generally a subject of ridicule or philosophical speculation. Just now
he rather enjoyed the rage of his visitor; it was picturesque, sweeping
thus over the stormy beauty of her face.
“Count Mirabeau, this is an insult!”
Mirabeau smiled.
“An insult for which you shall pay dearly.”
This fierce threat brought a faint color over the man’s face. She saw it
and exulted. At least, she had the power to stir the blood in his veins.
A little more, and she would make a tiger of him. Oh! for words bitter
enough! They would not come. If she could have coined bullets into
insults, they would been too weak for the need of her seething anger.
Mirabeau took up his pen and began to write. A half-completed letter lay
before him, and he went on with it calmly. All at once he felt her white
face droop toward his shoulder, and her breath bathed his cheek. She was
reading the letter over which his hand moved. With his fist dashed down
on the paper, and his frowning face uplifted, he thundered out,
“Begone, woman! Begone, I say!”
In his anger, Count Mirabeau was terrible. Sometimes he concealed it
beneath smiles, and sharp, witty jeers, holding himself under firm
control, as he had done during this unwelcome interview; but Louison
had, in fact, worn out his patience—and he was not a person to bear
threats tamely from man or woman. Now the coarse nature broke out, and
once more he bade his tormentor begone, as if she had been some
repulsive animal in his path.
As often happens, one powerful passion silenced another. Mirabeau’s rude
strength subdued the woman’s wrath till it came within the level of
words. In bitter, stinging taunts, that man, with all his eloquence, was
no match for the girl, who, for the moment, hated him.
“Where shall I go, to that temple in the park of St. Cloud, where a vile
traitor meets a——”
Mirabeau started up, his face crimson, his large hand clenched. It was
Louison’s turn to laugh—and her voice rang out in one long, mocking
taunt.
“You look surprised. Those eyes start from your head. You order me to
begone, but forget to tell me where. If that temple does not please you,
perhaps Madame Du Berry——”
The girl broke off appalled. She had brought the tiger in Mirabeau’s
nature uppermost, and even her courage shrunk a little under it. The man
turned upon her like a wild beast, but even in that supreme moment
restrained himself. Her words surprised him. He could not fathom the
extent of her knowledge, and was too proud for questions; but doubt and
keen anxiety broke through the storm on his face. How much did that evil
creature know?
“So you dared to level me with the crowd of silly women whose hearts you
have trampled on,” said Louison, encouraged by his fierce agitation.
“You thought a few curt words, and unmanly insults, would send me
whining among their ranks. With your lips on the hand of a queen, you
could afford to scoff at a woman of the people. But I will give you
proofs of your mistake. The people shall know of this treason before the
night is an hour older.”
With a mighty power of self-control Mirabeau sat down at his table, took
up the pen, and went on writing. He would not let the woman see that she
had shaken his nerves by a single thrill of apprehension.
“You do not believe me. Well, what if I tell you exactly how much gold
has been drawn from the royal treasury to gild the treason of Count
Mirabeau?”
The pen in Mirabeau’s hand gave a sudden leap upon the paper, then
glided on evenly as before.
“What if I tell you what fair girl it was who brought a letter from St.
Cloud this very evening?”
“Even then,” said Mirabeau, at last, pausing a moment in his work, “what
would the word of Louison Brisot be against that of Mirabeau? Foolish
woman! you are wasting time! Go, carry your bundle of falsehoods where
you will, they only weary me, and I am busy.”
“I will,” answered the woman. “Henceforth there is war between us two.”
Again Mirabeau smiled; though startled, and full of keen apprehension,
he would not let the woman see how terribly her words had disturbed him.
Still they were but words, and an accusation, without evidence, could
easily be borne down, especially as it would seem to spring from the
jealousy of an angry woman, whose vindictive character was well known at
the clubs.
Louison stood a minute pale and silent, waiting for him to speak; but
the proud man would have perished rather than show, by word or look, the
wound she had given him. His calmness hurt her worse than his anger had
done. He did not believe her; before the hour was over she would
convince him.
“The clubs are still in session, before they close your treason will be
known there.”
“And you will have done your worst. Come and tell me how the news is
received. It will be interesting. I shall wait for you,” said Mirabeau,
without lifting his head.
“Yes, I will come, if it is only to be the first who shall tell you that
your power in France is at an end. Count Mirabeau, you stand from this
night exposed to the world as a demagogue and a traitor!”
“Be sure and come. You shall have no trouble in reaching me this time.”
Louison left the room and the house. When the door closed upon her,
Mirabeau flung down his pen, and resting his head upon his two hands,
gave way to the terrible shock her words had brought upon him. She was
right; let France once know that he had been in treaty with the court,
and his great power would melt away like a snow-wreath. All that he
possessed on earth was his influence with the people. In the clubs and
the Assembly he had almost as many enemies as friends. The extremes both
hated him and feared him. They would seize upon anything which promised
to injure him.
Would Louison go to them with her charge? It was more than likely. Her
keen wit and vindictive thirst for vengeance would find the shortest way
of reaching him. But she had no evidence; his letter reached the queen,
and her answer was safe in his own possession. What, then, but
unsupported suspicion, had the woman to offer his enemies. Such evidence
he could afford to scorn. After all, why should he care for the threats
of a woman like Louison Brisot—a creature who would never have been
heard of but for the notice he had given her.
Mirabeau remained a full hour thinking over all that threatened him.
Then he remembered the queen’s letter and, rendered cautious by anxiety,
resolved to burn it after another careful perusal. A deer of lapis
lazuli, with hoofs and antlers of burnt gold, crouched upon a small
block of agate at his elbow. Under this dainty toy he had placed the
queen’s letter after reading it. Mirabeau reached forth his hand, lifted
the deer, and found nothing underneath. He gazed in consternation at the
empty space, then searched among the papers on his table with a hand
that began to shake violently. Had that evil creature stolen the letter?
No, that was impossible; she stood on the other side while looking over
his shoulder, in that position the deer was beyond the reach of her arm.
But the letter was gone, and he had not, for a moment, left the room
after it was placed in his hands by that fair girl. Where could it be?
Why had it left his hand for a single moment? Mirabeau ground his teeth,
and cursed his own carelessness as he tossed the papers to and fro on
his writing-table; but it was of no avail—the queen’s letter was gone.