THE FRAUD OF FASCINATION.
“Ah! you have thought better of it—I knew that it would be so,” said
Mirabeau, receiving the woman he had parted with in such bitter anger,
with a broad, frank smile. “Why will you degrade yourself with miserable
threats, my beautiful friend?”
“Threats! Only threats! Nay, it was something more. I am not to be
defied with impunity.”
“Defied! No. With me it was confidence, not defiance.”
“Confidence! How?”
“How? Not even yourself, Louison, can make me believe you capable of a
mean action.”
“A mean action! But you had concealments with me.”
“Only for a time. In a few days you would have known everything.”
“You made a confidant of that woman, Du Berry, who is worse than an
aristocrat, and only claims to be one of us when all else reject her.”
“On the contrary—I made her my tool.”
“You invited that insolent woman, Theroigne de Mericourt, to your table,
while I was almost driven from your door.”
Mirabeau laughed till the ruffles on his broad bosom shook again.
“Ah! you heard of that! Why, the whole troop of rioters forced
themselves upon me—these two women with the rest. Robespierre, Marat,
and some others, members of the Assembly, all came in a little mob
together. I could but entertain them. Such men resent neglect.”
“But Madame Du Berry! I was here—I overheard your conversation with that
woman.”
“Then you only learned one fact, that I considered her a useful
instrument, by which a great end might be attained. She still has
friends at court. I wished to draw myself into communication there.”
“Yes, I know,” answered Louison, with a bitter laugh. “You wished to
visit a little temple in the grounds at St. Cloud.”
Mirabeau winced, but the smile never left his lips as she went on.
“You desired, above all things, to kneel at the feet and kiss the hand
of the queen. For a citizen of France, sworn to make her people free, it
was a glorious ambition.”
“Go on,” said the count, leaning back in his chair—“go on. What more
have you learned?”
“What more? Why, that the kneeling was done—the kiss given. I saw your
perjured lips on the Austrian’s hand with my own eyes. The whole base
treason was made plain to me then, as it is now, when I have your letter
at command.”
Mirabeau’s eyes flashed. She had the letter still in her possession. His
greatest anxiety was laid at rest.
“Then,” he said, with a pleasant, mellow laugh, “you have been playing
the spy upon me all this time. Quite unnecessary, my friend. When my
plans were matured you would have had them all. These others were my
instruments; you had a grander and higher role to play.”
“Yes, I understand, that of a cast-off garment when the fashions change,
or an orange when the juice is exhausted,” answered the woman, tartly,
but wavering a little in her bitter unbelief.
“Mon Dieu! how thoroughly you play the jealous dame, Louison. I had
hoped better things of you; but it is folly, I suppose, to expect broad
confidence and a clear understanding of great aims in any woman.”
Louison flushed angrily. It had been her pride to mate her own bold
spirit with that of Mirabeau.
“Wise men or women do not act blindly when nations are at stake,” she
said, in a tone that was becoming more and more apologetic. “Deceive me
in ever so little, and you deceive me in everything.”
“But I have not deceived you, my beautiful tigress!”
“You have met the queen?”
“Granted.”
“Taken money from the queen?”
“That is false—a wicked slander that would blister honest lips,” cried
the count, sitting upright, and flashing a storm of fierce wrath upon
her.
Louison looked around the magnificent room, and bent her splendid eyes
upon him in silent unbelief. He understood the expression of her face,
and answered it.
“All this costs me nothing. It is the property of a refugee, and I
seized upon it as a servant of the people.”
“To ape the manners of an aristocrat,” answered Louison, with a faint
sneer.
“To win the power which shall hurl down aristocrats to a level with the
people, or lift Mirabeau and those he loves above that of any monarch.
Tell me, Louison, how will France be served best, by destroying all
fixed laws, or by placing a man who has a genius for government in
control of a weak and yielding king? The time may come, girl, when Marie
Antoinette will find the woman who aids Mirabeau in carrying out the
broad designs which fill his mind, lifted above herself in power, while
she has only the name of queen, another——”
“But that woman?”
“Need I name her?” cried the count, taking Louison’s hand in his, and
lifting his face to hers with an expression that made her heart swell.
“Still, Mirabeau, it is useless to say that of late you have ceased to
regard me.”
“Because I have had momentous plans in my mind; because it seemed to me
needful that the world should think with you, that there is neither love
nor confidence between us. It is important that I should have one firm
and trusting friend among my enemies. I had designed you for the
position, Louison. What human being is there who can so readily win
admiration and confidence? In their clubs, and in their private
committees, I wish you to be the soul. It was this desire that made me
seem less cordial than of old. I was willing my foes should think that
we had quarreled. In order that you might get your part well it was
necessary that you should feel it a reality. When the idea was once
established, I should have taught you how false it was by deeper
devotion, more perfect confidence. But you felt these preliminaries too
keenly and became dangerous.”
“Because I loved you. Oh, Mirabeau! it was from my great love which you
seemed to outrage.”
Louison threw herself upon her knees, and reached up her arms to
Mirabeau with a great longing for some return of tenderness, which she
had thought lost to her forever. This gesture disturbed the letter which
she had thrust deep down in her bosom, and the edge came up through the
loose folds of her dress. Mirabeau saw it, and his eyes flashed fire.
She caught their light, and grew gentle and yielding as a child under
it. Surely the man loved her, or his face would never have brightened
like that! How childish and wayward she had been! It was magnanimous in
Mirabeau to forgive her so readily; but then his nature was so grand—no
wonder the people adored him. Surely, if he could control the monarch of
France, all must be well with the masses.
“How could I distrust you so?” she murmured, resting her head against
him. “Look on me, beloved, and say that I am forgiven.”
He did look upon her with an expression that had made many a heart beat
faster to their peril.
“But you have not told me all?” he said, gently. “There was another
letter. How did you reach it?”
“Another letter? The queen’s answer. I waited for it, hoped for it; but
the little wretch would not give it up.”
“What wretch? Nay, nay! do not turn your head from me, Louison.
Confidence, to be perfect, must be mutual. Tell me what more you have
been doing.”
Louison told him how she had put Zamara on the track of his enterprise,
and confessed, with burning shame, the defeat that wary dwarf had
brought upon her.
“So he has the document!” said Mirabeau, carelessly. “No matter; we will
soon get it from him. I will force him to give it into your possession
before you leave the house, late as it is. Henceforth there shall be no
half confidence between us.”
Louison smiled, and her eyes shone triumphantly—some generous impulses
always exist in a woman who loves. Mirabeau’s forbearance brought all
that was good in that hard nature to the surface. She remembered, with a
pang of remorse, that the most dangerous action that had sprung out of
her jealousy was still untold—her interview with Robespierre. While
Mirabeau wrote a few brief lines and folded them, she thought of this,
and hesitated how to tell him that which would not fail to stir his
anger. The count was occupied with other things, and left her, for a
time, unnoticed at his feet, while he touched a bell on the table, and
gave some orders to a servant.
Louison started when she heard them.
“Take this to Madame Du Berry, she will send her attendant, the dwarf,
back with you. See that the imp speaks to no one. If he attempts to
evade you, bring him in your arms; but do not quite strangle him.”
CHAPTER XCV.
ZAMARA IS MASTER OF THE SITUATION.
THE man went out somewhat astonished, but resolute to obey the orders he
had received. Then Mirabeau leaned back in his chair and drew a deep
breath. He was a perfect dissembler, or that keen woman would have
detected something in his face that she did not like.
“Mirabeau,” she said, almost humbly, “I have not told you all. When I
went out from here to-night, my heart was full of rage and fire—I hated
you.”
“Foolish girl; weak, weak woman! How little you understand the man who
loves you. Well, go on. What further mischief has been done?”
“Mirabeau, I took that letter to Robespierre.”
The count started up and almost hurled her to the floor.
“To Robespierre! Fiend! fool! woman!”
He spoke the last word with concentrated scorn, as if it were the
hardest and most offensive he could apply to her.
“I took it to Robespierre because of his enmity to you. At that moment,
you know, I hated you, and longed for revenge.”
“And you gave him the letter? It is no longer in your possession?”
“He read it, and wanted to keep it, but I would not let him.”
“Ah! Well, what did he say to it?”
“That he would denounce you in the Assembly to-morrow.”
“Then he was to be my accuser, and you were to be ready with the
evidence. Was that the understanding?”
How quietly he spoke, scarcely above a whisper, yet there was something
in the sound that thrilled her like the hiss of a snake.
“This you cannot forgive,” she said. “Still I warned you.”
“Forgive? Oh, yes! We must not be hard on each other, Louison.”
He spoke quietly, but with an unnatural tone in his voice. Still, if she
had seen his face, the look of a fiend was there.
“The mischief can be arrested. Late as it is, I will go to him.”
Louison started up, and was preparing to go out; but the intellect of
this singular man was more rapid than her movement. Quick as lightning
he had discovered in her act a means of confounding his enemies.
“Let it alone,” he said, with animation. “Is it likely that he will dare
assail me?”
“I am sure of it,” answered Louison, hesitating to sit down.
“Your promise to give up the evidence was positive?”
“Yes,” faltered the woman, shrinking from his eager glances.
“There, let the whole thing rest. Here comes my man with the dwarf.”
The messenger came, bearing Zamara, like a child in his arms. The little
wretch was ashen white as far as his dusky skin would permit, and his
eyes gleamed like those of a viper when they fell on Louison.
“Let the creature down,” said Mirabeau; “and come again when I call
you.”
The man placed Zamara on his feet, and disappeared. Before any one could
speak, the dwarf came close to Mirabeau with one hand in his bosom.
“Guard yourself! Guard yourself! He carries a poisoned dagger there,”
cried Louison.
Zamara gave her a quick glance—all his color had come back. In an
instant his sharp wit mastered the situation. The hand was withdrawn
from his bosom; it held a paper, which he placed before Mirabeau with
low reverence, as if he had been a slave, and the count an Eastern
satrap.
“The woman who leans upon your chair tempted me to take this. When I
found that she intended to make a bad use of it, I refused to give it
up, being resolved to bring it back again. In the morning Count Mirabeau
would have found it under this pretty deer with the golden hoofs. There
was no need of sending a tall man after Zamara; he knows what is right,
and is not afraid when it is to be done.”
Mirabeau took the letter, glanced over it, then leaned forward and held
it in the flame of an antique lamp that burned before him. As the blaze
flashed up from his hand, it revealed the lines of that lowering face
with a vividness that made the dwarf tremble; but as the light faded,
this expression softened into carelessness, and brushing the black
flakes from his sleeves, he said, addressing Zamara,
“You can go now. I shall not kill you for this; but try it a second
time, and there will be one sharp, little dwarf less in France. Go!”
Zamara needed no second bidding, but left the room, muttering, “She
loves that man—she is jealous—his death would kill her. Good!”
After Zamara was gone, Mirabeau drew Louison toward him.
“The little viper would have cheated us both,” he said, “but for once we
have drawn his fangs. Now for the other letter. When that is in ashes,
we shall know how to meet this more venomous creature, Robespierre, and
his mates. So they had Mirabeau in a trap, had they! The letter,
Louison—the letter! We will send it after the one that is gone!”
“But it is not here,” answered Louison. “I went home first, and left it
there.”
Mirabeau started. Had she, indeed, left that letter with his enemies. He
looked keenly in her face, searching it for the truth. As his eyes
wandered downward, a corner of the folded paper he had seen before was
visible above the short, full waist of her dress. A crafty smile crept
over Mirabeau’s lips as he drew her downward and pressed them to hers.
He was tempted to secure the paper then, but his inordinate vanity
prevented it. Dangerous as she was, he would trust her, and thus test
his own powers of persuasion.
“Ah, you do love me!” murmured the woman, and tears rose to her eyes.
“How weak, how foolish to doubt it, my friend, my queen!”
This word brought back Louison’s distrust.
“Ah, the queen!” she said; “but for her I might not have doubted you.
You gave her what Louison never knew, reverence, homage.”
“Because there was no other way of winning her to my purpose. Cannot you
understand that we gain and rule people by their master passions? Now
there is not in all France a woman so proud of her power, and so
conscious of her loveliness, as Marie Antoinette. Would you have had me
wound while I wished to win her?”
“Win her, Mirabeau?”
“Yes, to those purposes which shall make your friend the ruler of
France, and yet give liberty to the people. In order to accomplish this
we must not pull down the throne entirely. France loves her traditions,
and in some form or another will keep them. The nation is now like a
noble ship reeling and plunging through the blackness of a storm. There
is but one man living who could guide the helm—that man is Mirabeau.”
“And but one woman who has the wit and courage to stand by his side, let
the storm rage as it will,” said Louison, kindling with enthusiasm. “Ah,
yes! this is far better than being a queen!”
Mirabeau took her hand and kissed it, as if she had, indeed, been a
sovereign, thus mocking her vanity in his heart.
“We understand each other thoroughly now,” he said. “There will be no
more doubt between us.”
“Never again!”
“And now we must say good-night, my friend. See how late it is.”
Louison lingered, not that she was afraid of going into the street
alone; but the exquisite delusions of the moment were upon her, and she
longed to continue them.
“The day has been an exciting one, and, spite of your dear presence, I
am weary,” said the count, reaching forth his hand to take leave.
Louison lifted the hand to her lips and covered it with kisses.
“Ah!” she said, “this is coming from purgatory into heaven.”
“But even angels must part sometimes, my friend.”
“Yes, yes! Good-night. Ah, Mirabeau! how pleasant it is to be your
slave!”
“Slave! No, no! My mate—my friend!”
“Call it by any name you will; but the jealous love which would have
destroyed you an hour ago, now crouches at your feet in full submission.
Good-night!”
Mirabeau walked to the door and held it open, an act of courtesy seldom
vouchsafed to her before. So, with smiles on her lips, she went out into
the darkness.
The moment she was gone, Count Mirabeau went back to his room, wild with
the excitement he had suppressed with so much effort. Approaching the
table, he struck his clenched fist upon it with a blow that sounded
through the room, and fell into his chair, wiping great drops of
perspiration from his forehead.
Great heavens! the gulf that yawned before me! I can hardly make sure
that it is bridged over yet. Another outburst of her furious jealousy
between this and to-morrow, is absolute ruin. Fool, fool that I was to
feel safe in my contempt of this dangerous woman. Surely few people
should know better than myself that there is no fury like a woman
scorned; but the fiend within is always tempting me to turn my doves
into vipers. Heavens! when I think of the danger, it chills me; but she
is tamed now. Mirabeau’s spell is upon her. I was tempted to take the
letter from her bosom, but better not, better not. She knows too much.
One token of distrust, and she would hasten to deserve it. She will not
speak—she will not. When Mirabeau seals a woman’s mouth with kisses it
is mute, save to obey him. Yes, she is safe—but how the whole thing
shakes me! I did not think there was a woman living who could strike
Mirabeau with a panic like this. The coward drops lie cold on my
forehead even when I know the danger is passed. Oh, yes! it was better
that I seemed to trust her—now I can.
CHAPTER XCVII.
BAFFLED AND DEFEATED.
“The treason of Mirabeau! The treason of Mirabeau!”
Robespierre had made his first attack in a bitter article hawked that
morning through the streets of Paris; and the cry rose loud and long,
like the howl of wild beasts scenting blood afar off.
“The treason of Mirabeau! The treason of Mirabeau!”
Robespierre heard it while walking toward the Assembly, and his black
heart beat with triumph under that olive-green coat.
Marat heard it as he lay in his bath, writing a still more furious
attack on the popular idol, and a spasm of delight shook all his
restless limbs till the water stirred around them.
At last they had him in a firm grip; this proud demagogue, this popular
idol, who loomed over them like a god, was in their power. They had
proofs of his treason—proofs written by his own hand; the proof of an
eye witness, who had seen him at the very feet of the queen. All this
the articles in the journal only hinted at; but when Mirabeau took his
seat in the Assembly that day, the storm would burst upon him. Hitherto
he had defied them, and trampled down accusations of which there was no
evidence that the people would accept. But now, yes now——
No wonder Marat laughed till the water shook and rippled around him as
if a serpent were uncoiling in them, then plunged into the bitterness of
his article again, storming on the foe that in his mind was already
down. Nay, he could not write, the brutal joy within him was too great.
Rather would he arise, dress himself, and witness the downfall of the
rival he hated and feared.
Mirabeau heard the cry, paused in his haughty progress, and bought a
journal, which he read quietly passing along the street, and those who
observed him, saw a keen smile shoot over his lips. Surely, whatever the
charge was, that man would fight it to the bitter end, and with such
weapons as his opponents could never wield. The people still believed in
Mirabeau, and cheered him as he moved toward the Assembly, even with
those virulent cries of “traitor” on the air. The power of that man was
something marvelous.
The Assembly was turbulent that day as the streets had been. Mirabeau’s
enemies were triumphant, his friends doubtful and anxious. Never had his
accusers seemed so assured of success. Even his composure could not
abate their joy. That calm seemed to them like depression.
At the very door of the Assembly, the cry of Mirabeau’s treason came up.
The galleries were full of women who were more tumultuous and eager than
the men. Some had brought their work, others carried parcels, in which
were bread or fruit, for it was believed that the sitting would be long
and violent. Mirabeau would not die easy; they had hedged him in like a
lion in the toils, and like a lion he was sure to defend himself. So the
women of France flocked to the Assembly, and crowded all its vacant
spaces, as the matrons of old Rome went to see gladiators and wild
beasts tear each other. In this mob, which called itself a deliberative
body, there was neither decorum, nor an attempt at order. Where all the
evil passions are let loose tumult and anarchy must follow.
Mirabeau’s enemies were all in their places. Clubs known to oppose him
had emptied themselves into the galleries. On the floor his foes
gathered in groups consulting together. There the beautiful face of St.
Just was contrasted with the austere features of Desmoulins and the
hateful coarseness of Danton. Everywhere Mirabeau saw preparations for
an attack that was to crush him; but this only shot fire to his eyes,
and curled his lips with haughty disdain. Not that he felt himself quite
safe, but he was sustained by the natural self-confidence of a spirit
that had never quailed before man. At all times Mirabeau was
self-sufficient, more so than ever when danger threatened him. There he
sat in the midst of his enemies, like a lion waiting for the gladiators
to appear, calm from inordinate self-poise.
Of all his enemies, Mirabeau’s defiant eyes sought out Robespierre the
most frequently. There was something amounting almost to a smirk on the
countenance of this little man, which would have been a smile in
another; but the dry, parchment-like countenance of Robespierre admitted
only of sneers and smirks—a broad, honest smile was impossible to it.
Robespierre, at this time, had scarcely developed the dreadful character
for cruelty and fanatical malice which blisters every page of history on
which his name is written. His movements had been sinister, and up to
this time, were more suggestive of atrocities than active in their
perpetration. While Mirabeau was in power, the reptile spirit of this
man had not ventured to crest itself, but slowly and with crafty
windings was creeping stealthily to the horrible power with which the
madness of an insane people at last invested him. Hitherto he had kept
in the background, and instigated others to attack the man whose
popularity stood between him and the position he thirsted for; but now
that disgrace and defeat were certain, he came forward on the great
man’s track like a hyena prowling along the path of a kingly beast.
Robespierre was ready to lead the onslaught. Mirabeau saw it in the
glitter of those evil eyes, and knowing how relentless and unprincipled
the man was, felt a thrill of doubt rush over him. Nothing but certainty
could have impelled that coward nature to creep into the light. Had
Louison failed him? Could she have broken through the thrall of his
persuasions and gone over to the enemy? The night before he felt a sort
of pride in trusting everything to the power of his own personal
influence over a woman that nothing else could tame or terrify; but now,
when he stood face to face with an awful danger, for the first time in
his life Mirabeau distrusted himself. What but a dead certainty could
give that assured air to Robespierre? Why had he trusted to those powers
of persuasion which never yet had failed him with the sex, but might
prove ineffectual, for the first time, when his honor and very life
depended on them? The night before his hand was almost on that very
paper; a movement of the fingers, and he might have drawn it from
Louison’s bosom, and, had he so chosen, defied her afterward. But
intolerable self-conceit had prevented this act of safety. How he cursed
the vanity which had filled his mind with all these harrowing doubts.
“Whom the gods destroy they first make mad,” he muttered to himself. “I
was, indeed, mad when I permitted her to leave me with _that_ in her
bosom.”
The galleries were already overrun with women—for that cry in the street
had sent crowds to the Assembly. Now they began to fill the floor, and
force themselves among the members with a feeling of equality which no
one had the courage to resist or rebuke.
All at once Louison Brisot appeared making a passage through the throng,
arrayed with a glow and flash of rich colors, and looking proudly
beautiful. Her eyes roved around the Assembly, and settled on
Robespierre, who was looking at her with the changeful glitter of a
serpent in his eyes. Louison met this look with an almost imperceptible
bend of the head. Mirabeau saw it, and the bold heart quailed within
him.
At last Louison’s eyes fell upon his face, which was turned anxiously
upon her. She gave him no signal. She did not even smile, but turned her
back, and began talking airily with one of his bitterest enemies. Now
and then he caught her glance turned on him from under her long
eyelashes, as if she enjoyed his anxiety. Then he cursed the woman in
his heart, but more bitterly cursed his own folly for leaving the means
of his destruction in her power.
The business of the Assembly went on—dull routine business, which no one
cared about, and was inexpressibly irksome to Mirabeau, whose bold
spirit was always restive under delay, even when action might injure
himself. Through all these details he could now and then hear the voice
and bold, ringing laugh of Louison, bandying jests with his enemies. The
sound made him desperate, but, for the first time he felt some respect
for the woman who had so adroitly outwitted him—inordinate self-love
would not permit him to despise her after this display of her ability.
At last a voice was heard asking leave for a privileged question; and
Robespierre stood up, speaking in low, hesitating accents, but growing
stronger as a dead silence fell upon the Assembly after his first words.
Mirabeau turned in his seat, and listened, smiling, while each point of
the charges made against him came in terse, bitter words from the man he
had, for a long time, despised and ridiculed. How sharply and with what
telling simplicity they fell upon his ear.
Count Mirabeau, a member of that Assembly, was charged with betraying
the people’s trust, inasmuch as he had entered into a secret league with
the court to throw the nation back into the power of the nobles. While
he professed to seek the liberty of the people, he had all the time been
working against their dearest wishes. He was in constant intercourse
with the king, and more especially with the Austrian woman, who was
known as Queen of France. It would be made clear before the people, that
Count Mirabeau had held repeated interviews with the king, and no longer
ago than in June, had met the queen privately, in her summer-house at
St. Cloud, where he entered into a compact to place the nation in her
power. More than this, Mirabeau had, from first to last, been a
pensioner of the court, and was in the habit of receiving vast sums of
money from the queen, which he expended in such aristocratic and riotous
living as no true patriot would indulge in while the people were
starving around him.
When Robespierre had done reading the carefully prepared charges,
Mirabeau leaned back in his chair and said loud enough to be heard by
all around him,
“Is that all? I thought they would have proven that I was plotting to
blow up the Assembly, and undermine all France with a pound of
gunpowder. The little viper yonder has not half done his work.”
There was more of audacity than courage in this speech, and desperate
anxiety gave a false ring to his voice as he uttered it. Then, with a
slow, arrogant movement, Mirabeau arose to his feet, and asked for the
proofs of these charges, which had been so often hinted or spoken that
they had lost all claim to originality, and were hardly worth answering,
even when brought seriously before that august body. Of course citizen
Robespierre did not expect him to answer accusations so loosely made,
when unsupported by proof. Even that must be from persons, and of a
character beyond question, if he deigned to notice it, even by a verbal
contradiction.
“The proof!” exclaimed Robespierre, in his sharp, disagreeable voice.
“Stand forth, citoyenne Brisot, and let the people know how grossly they
have been deceived. Answer: Did you not, in June last, see this man,
Count Mirabeau, in company with Marie Antoinette, in a temple hidden
away in the romantic grounds of St. Cloud? Did you not hear them make a
solemn compact together, which was to chain France once more to the
throne. Citoyenne Brisot, show to the people and their representatives
that letter addressed to the queen, in the handwriting, and bearing the
signature of Count Mirabeau, which is now in your possession. Citoyens,
there is no time for such forms of investigation as usually follow
charges like these; extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary
measures. I move that these proofs are laid before you now—and that
citoyenne Brisot have permission to speak.”
Mirabeau arose, smiling, and begged that it might be so.
Then, amid some confusion, Louison was called. She came out from the
group of women who had crowded around her, somewhat excited, and with a
light laugh upon her lips.
“What is it,” she said, demurely casting down her eyes, “that citoyen
Robespierre desires of me?”
“The letter, Louison—the letter!”
The Assembly was hushed; no sound arose but a rustle in the galleries,
as people in the crowd leaned eagerly over each other.
Mirabeau turned white in his chair. Even his fierce bravery could not
hold its own against the awful anxiety of the moment. His enemies saw
this, and murmurs of irrepressible triumph began to arise.
“The letter, citoyen Robespierre?” said Louison, lifting her eyebrows
with a look of innocent astonishment, “there must be some mistake—I have
no letter.”
Robespierre fell into his seat, and sat staring at the girl in wild
astonishment. Mirabeau leaned back in his chair, drew a deep breath, and
laughed. A roar of applause swept down from the galleries. This was
answered back by the women on the floor, and carried into the street,
where it ran like wild-fire among the people who could find no room
inside.
Louison cast one brilliant glance at Mirabeau, allowed a glow of
triumphant mischief to flash over her face, and, quick as lightning,
veiled her eyes again. Robespierre saw the glance, and a hiss of rage
came through his shut teeth. Louison caught his venomous eyes, and
shuddered.
CHAPTER XCVIII.
A THANKLESS LOVER AND HOSTS OF ENEMIES.
Once more Mirabeau was triumphant. The malice of his enemies had lifted
him still higher in the estimation of the people who gloried more than
ever in their idol. Louison shared in the popular favor. The fair maid
of Liege had never been an object of more admiring attention. She
gloried in the act which proved her devotion to Mirabeau, but had made
her bitter enemies, whom she believed herself strong enough to scorn.
She managed to draw near Mirabeau, who greeted her with a glowing smile.
“Have I done well?” she asked, turning her head.
“More than well,” he answered. “Count on something better than
gratitude.”
“There is but one thing better in the world,” she returned, in a low
voice; “give me that and I am content.”
Before Mirabeau could answer, Marat stood at Louison’s elbow.
“Citoyenne,” he said, with loud coarseness, “you have at least had
courage; but it needs a charmed life to play with vipers. Is yours thus
protected?”
Louison laughed in the man’s face. Was not Mirabeau more powerful than
ever. Had not she made him so?
“I understand,” said Marat, nodding his rough head; “but one life does
not hold all France. Mad love has made you blind. Citoyenne, for one
false man you have cut down an army of friends. Wait, and see.”
Louison turned upon this uncouth man, who seemed to have come fresh from
a stable, with disdain in her eyes. Just then renewed shouts went up for
Mirabeau.
“Hear that, citoyen, and tell me if there is one among you the people
love so. When there is, let that man threaten me. Bah! How mean and
small you are beside him!”
Marat turned his coarse, evil face upon her. There was something more
than a threat in that look; but Louison was too haughty in her triumph
even to regard it. She saw Mirabeau walking toward his seat, firm,
erect, and carrying himself like a monarch. Her eyes followed him
eagerly, and her heart swelled as his enemies shrunk away into their
places, beaten down by the storm of popular rejoicing that they had
failed in bringing anything but baseless charges against the supreme
idol of the hour. These men hated Mirabeau with bitter jealousy and
unconquerable distrust; but this feeling was nothing to the burning rage
and venomous repulsion with which Louison had inspired them. She had
dared to lead them into a grave error, cover them with the ridicule of
defeat, and scoff at their indignation. But a day of reckoning was sure
to come.
Louison cared nothing for this. Her idol was triumphant. By the act of
that day she had chained him to her and placed him more firmly than ever
in the hearts of the people. In his triumph hers was complete.
That night Mirabeau sought Louison at her lodgings. The peril he had
escaped brought a feeling of gratitude even into his selfish heart. In
her jealous rage she had thrust him into danger; but a gentle word of
affection had brought him out of it triumphantly, honored with double
strength, and a victor over the most relentless enemies that ever
pursued a man to ruin.
Louison came to meet him, radiant, with both hands extended, and wild
triumph in her eyes.
“Now tell me—could the queen have done so much for you?”
“The queen? Nay; she would rather see Mirabeau dead, save that he may be
useful. Why speak of her, Louison? I came only to talk of yourself—you
have made many enemies to-day.”
“Enemies? Yes, I know it. What then—are you not stronger than ever? And
I—have I not Mirabeau?”
The count reached out his hand and wrung hers.
“Who will defend you with his last breath.”
“And love me till then?”
A soft, pleading light came into her eyes; for the moment this brave,
bad woman was humble and tender as a child.
Mirabeau gave an impatient movement of the head. This talk of love from
her lips was like a proffer of dead flowers. Anything else he would give
her—but not that. Even in his supreme danger, the night before, a
semblance of the passion had been irksome—now it seemed impossible.
“Ask Mirabeau how he will act, and he can tell you; but feeling is
another thing, my friend.”
Louison’s eyes filled with questioning disappointment. Was he failing
her so soon?
“There, there! I meant nothing that should drive all that light from
your face. No woman has ever stood by me as you have done. Mirabeau may
be faithless to his loves—people say that he is. But who ever charged
him with desertion of a friend, much less one who has served him as you
have done?”
Louison heard him, and her great eyes filled with tearful reproach.
“Ah, Mirabeau! you never loved me!”
“On my soul I did, but that was when——”
Now her eyes were raised to his with wistful questioning, which made him
break off in the cruel thing he was saying.
“When?”
“When I looked upon you only as a woman.”
“Only as a woman! When I have done so much for France—so much for you.
This is hard, it is ungrateful.”
“Yes, I think it is; but not the less true. Men have strong sympathies,
firm friendships, sometimes high reverence, for each other, but no love;
that we give to women.”
Louison’s lip curved an instant, but a quiver of pain took all the scorn
from it.
“And that you can never give to me? What have I done?”
“Too much, my friend. The pride of manhood revolts at a false position.
Had you craved care, Mirabeau would have protected you.”
“Ah! I understand. You aspire to protect the queen. She is ready to be
cared for, and, perhaps, loved.”
“I hardly think she would amuse herself with an execution.”
“And you blame me for rejoicing when an enemy of France falls. You call
upon us women for help, and then despise us that we listen.”
“No, no! Only I do not usually betake myself to the scaffold when I have
love to bestow. Cannot you see a difference?”
“These are dainty distinctions, which a woman of the people is not
expected to know. One cannot be a patriot and helpless,” answered
Louison, whose hot temper was beginning to kindle fiercely under the
keen disappointment that man had brought upon her. “As for me, I give
love for love, and hate for hate.”
“Ah! but you and I will have nothing to do with either, for both are
dangerous. I did not come here to talk of such bitter and frail things;
but to announce danger.”
“A new one—to you or to me?”
“For myself, I have so many enemies, that half a dozen, more or less, is
of little consequence—that would not have moved me in the least.”
“Then it is for me?”
“This was a grand but dangerous day for you, Louison—for it made my
enemies yours, and they are counted by hundreds.”
“This morning I did not fear them, having you; but now I stand alone.”
“Not while Mirabeau lives. This is what I came to say—let us have done
with all meaner things. We are fellow patriots, given to one
purpose—comrades in a glorious cause. A great future lies before
France—you will stand by me while I work it out?”
Louison was pale and drooping, all the womanliness in her nature was
wounded unto death. He left nothing before her now but a man’s ambition.
Well, that was better than nothing.
“Nay, I will not stand by and watch your struggles, but help you as I
did yesterday,” she answered, proudly.
“That was bravely done; but such occasions do not repeat themselves
often. The strongest woman that ever lived is but a weak man when she
unsexes herself.”
Louison turned upon him with a burst of her own fierce rage.
“You leave me nothing,” she said.
“Yes, liberty!”
“But equality is the great war cry here. Is that to be denied because I
am a woman?”
“Yes,” answered Mirabeau, thoughtfully. “There is no equality between
men and women—nature forbids it. They are better and worse than each
other. The woman who seeks it loses all the delicacy of her own nature,
but never attains a man’s strength. No, Louison, there is no equality.”
CHAPTER XCIX.
FETE IN THE CHAMP DE MARS.
On the fourteenth of July, 1790, the city of Paris resolved to
commemorate the taking of the Bastille, and all France was invited to
rejoice with those who had laid this mighty fortress in ruins.
From a surface of two hundred thousand square miles came thousands on
thousands of dusty and tired travelers, moving toward the capital,
singly and in delegations, shouting hymns to liberty under the burning
rays of a July sun.
These men came from the foot of the Alps, crowned with eternal snows;
from the deep valleys of the Pyrenees, and the rugged regions of
Cevinnes and Auvergne; from the low dreary lands washed by the waters of
the Atlantic, and from the iron-bound coast of Bretagne. They came from
the valley of the Rhone, where ancient Rome has left its imperishable
monuments, and the vine-clad hills of Garonne; from the broad bosom of
the Loire, and the banks of the Seine; from the forests of Ardennes;
from the plains of Picardy and Artois; from every corner in France the
people came forth rejoicing to join the grand jubilee at Paris.
The people of the city were making noble preparations for their
patriotic guests. The grand ovation was to be given in the Champ de
Mars, a large, open space lying between the military school and the
Seine. The ground was turned into an amphitheatre by removing the earth
from the center, and piling it around the circumference, forming it into
seats of turf, tier above tier, until a space was secured larger by many
times than the arenas old Rome ever gave to her gladiators.
Twelve thousand men worked day and night in this arena, but the
impatience of the people was greater than their efforts. So the
Parisians fell to work themselves. Men and women, rich and poor, priests
and soldiers, came in sections, with banners and music, spades and
barrows, to work while the day lasted. When the signal was given, they
returned home singing and dancing by the light of their torches.
Before the day appointed the great amphitheatre was complete. In front
of the military school was stretched a noble awning of purple cloth,
ornamented with golden _fleur de lis_, and under this glittered the
royal throne, with seats for the president of the Assembly and the
deputies. In the center of the amphitheatre the people had built an
altar ascended by broad steps, from which a great cross rose toward
heaven with solemn significance.
At six o’clock on the fourteenth two grand spectacles were witnessed in
Paris. The morning was cloudy, and the rain came down in torrents, but
this had no power to check the enthusiasm of the people. They filled the
streets by thousands on thousands, and the sun, had it shone that day,
would have poured its light on more than three hundred thousand citizens
seated patiently in the Champ de Mars, waiting for the ceremonies which
were to commemorate their first great step toward the freedom they never
learned how to use or keep. In the vast space on which they looked,
fifty thousand soldiers were gathered, while three hundred priests, in
white surplices and broad, tri-colored sashes, slowly surrounded the
altar.
Beyond all this arose a second and more noble amphitheatre, of which the
Champ de Mars was the center, Montmartre, St. Cloud, Mudon, and Sevres,
swept in grand panorama around the basin in which Paris stands. Nearer
yet, the quay of Chailet and the heights of Passy were crowded with
eager spectators.
But at the sight of the Bastille a still more exciting scene presented
itself. There, federates from eighty-three districts of France, each
with the banner of its department, had assembled, prepared to march
forth and meet their brethren of Paris, who waited for them at the Champ
de Mars. Deputations from troops of the line, and sailors from the royal
navy, were ready with drums, trumpets, and banners, to escort them
through the city, in all the pomp of a grand military display.
Lafayette, mounted on a superb war steed and surrounded by a brilliant
staff, took the lead, and the deputations defiled out from the Place de
Bastille, amid the roar of cannon and the clash of military music which
thrilled all Paris with expectation. From the ruined stronghold these
guests of the nation poured into the streets and met a wild, riotous
welcome as they passed. Black clouds gathered over them like the smoke
of a hostile army, the rain came down in torrents, and the streets were
ankle deep in mud; but all this was overborne by the unconquerable
enthusiasm of a people who would read no evil omen in a lowering sky,
and scarcely felt the torrents of rain that beat upon their heads as
they crowded the pavement, the windows, and the house tops, to cheer
their guests as they moved through the city.
At the Place Louis Quinze, the Assembly joined the procession which
swept on with this vast stream of riotous human life, and merged itself,
as great rivers seek the ocean, in the crowds already assembled at the
Camp de Mars. Here thousands on thousands greeted them with a roar of
welcome to which the boom of the cannon was but a hoarse accompaniment.
The king of France, with the queen, the dauphin, and such members of the
court as still remained in Paris, entered the tent erected for them, and
seated themselves under the purple canopy. They were greeted with a roar
of artillery and wild shouts of welcome which must have, indeed, seemed
a cruel mockery to a monarch who had been forced there to witness his
own humiliation.
It was pitiful to see that forced smile on the proud lip of the queen,
more pitiful even than the grave, sad face of her royal husband, who
looked around at this vast concourse of people, guided, as he keenly
felt, by his enemies, with a thrill of unutterable anguish. There was no
sympathy with the scene among the courtiers, who regarded with grave
anxiety, or scarcely suppressed scorn, the insane joy of a people whom
they had been taught to despise, and were beginning to fear. The scene
filled them with mingled apprehension and contempt.
Then three hundred priests in snow-white surplices and broad tri-colored
sashes gathered close around the altar.
All was still now, for the Bishop of Autun was performing mass, and the
people of France had not yet learned to scoff at all religion; so the
voices of prayer, and the smoke of censors, rose up from the midst of
that vast multitude in holy union, and for a little time, half a million
of tumultuous revelers bowed before the cross of Christ, which arose
sublimely in their midst.
When the mass was ended, the bishop lifted the oriflame of France on
high, and blessed it with a solemnity that awoke a throb of hope in the
heart of the queen; after this he blessed the banners of eighty-three
departments, and laid them down amid a glorious burst of music from
twelve hundred musicians, who ended the solemn service with the Te Deum.
Now the military crowded up to the altar; both land and sea forces
flooding the sacred structure with superb coloring and rich flashes of
gold. Lafayette led the staff of the Paris militia, and upon the crowded
altar swore, in behalf of the troops and the federations, to be faithful
to the nation, the laws, and the king. The murmur of this sacred oath
ran from lip to lip till it had been echoed and re-echoed by the great
multitude.
Then King Louis arose, pale and firm, with the dignity of a monarch, and
the feelings of a martyr. Standing in front of his throne, he swore to
maintain the constitution and laws which had already been accepted. As
he finished, the queen came to his side, with the dauphin, a fair,
smiling boy, in her arms. With a gleam of maternal pride she presented
him to the people, and said with touching pathos, appealing to them
through her motherhood,
“See, my son, he joins with myself in the oath his father has taken.”
These words were drowned by a burst of enthusiasm, loyal at least for
the moment; and almost for the last time in her life, Marie Antoinette
heard voices from every part of France shouting, “_Vive le Roi! Vive la
reine! Vive le dauphin!_” Her heart throbbed, her beautiful eyes filled
with tears, her face brightened into youth again. She turned her look
upon the king and smiled—the dear old music of popular praise had never
touched her so keenly as now. She had taken Mirabeau’s advice, and in
good faith made an effort to assimilate with the people, who once loved
her so well. She wore no jewels, her dress was simple and matronly, but,
with that beautiful boy in her arms, she looked more royal than ever.
Then commenced a scene of indescribable hilarity. The crowd broke up,
marching and dancing to wild bursts of music. Men and women defiled
before the royal balcony, tossing words of endearment to the queen with
airs of intense patronage. They called that beautiful woman by a hundred
coarse and caressing names, and hurled advice to her with the gestures
of women feeding poultry. Fishwomen from the market crowded to the
throne, and called her mother, while they insisted upon shaking hands
with the little Dauphin.
CHAPTER C.
THE QUEEN GIVES UP HER RING.
Marie Antoinette bore this tumultuous scene with the spirit of a martyr;
nay, her own waning hopes had been exhilarated even by this rude homage,
and she was willing to deceive herself into a belief that the people of
France might yet be won to do her justice. So she smiled on the gay
throng that danced and shouted before her, took the child in her lap,
and told him to kiss his little hand to the people who loved him so, and
laughed outright at some of the quaint compliments paid to her beauty.
While she was thus occupied, a group of young girls came into the broken
procession, carrying garlands in their hands, and loose flowers in their
aprons. They were led by a fair and gentle young creature whom the queen
regarded with a glance of pleasant recognition. This girl stepped out
from her companions, approached the throne, and laid her flowers at the
feet of the queen, to whom her great blue eyes were lifted with a look
of touching affection.
Marie Antoinette gathered up the flowers and held them in her lap with
seeming carelessness, but her fingers had searched out the letter they
concealed, and while apparently admiring the blossoms, she read,
“Have I performed my promise? Is the monarchy saved?
MIRABEAU.”
For answer the queen gathered up some of the flowers, and fastened them
in the lace that shaded her bosom. A flash of light came into the young
girl’s face. She arose, and her sweet lips joined in the song of her
sister flower-girls, who broke into a regular dance, flinging up their
long garlands as they waited for her.
“Long live the king! Long live the queen!”
With this shout ringing sweetly from their fresh lips, the flower-girls
whirled away, waving their garlands, and tossing back loose blossoms to
the steps of the throne.
There was no etiquette in these proceedings; all was wild, and brilliant
confusion. The anarchy which followed was already foreshadowed in the
shouts, dances, and songs, that turned what should have been an august
assembly, into a revel.
After the flower-girls came the federates, full of enthusiasm, and after
them the legislative assembly, in which Mirabeau walked with a step more
haughty than any king of France ever assumed. His bold eyes fell upon
the flushed face of the queen with a look of proud triumph, and the
wonderful smile that made his strong face more than beautiful, swept it
as he saw the flowers on her bosom. These flowers had a language of
thanks that he read at a glance, and felt more keenly than words, for
there was a touch of romance in them that fired his imagination.
The deputations and the assembly passed on; then came a change in the
music, a hush, as if something of unusual interest were approaching.
This dead silence was broken by low murmurs, more thrilling than shouts,
while the thousands that still remained in the Champ de Mars surged
around the altar and crowded toward the throne.
It was only seven men, bowed, thin, white-haired, and broken, who came
slowly forward from a seat they had occupied, and with faltering steps,
were about to pass before the throne.
The color fled from Marie Antoinette’s face when she saw this pitiful
band of men, some old without years to make them so, all with a look of
broken-hearted apathy in their eyes, ready to pass before the throne
like ghosts calling for judgment. The king turned white, and a spasm of
pain shot athwart his face. The nobles, who stood behind the throne,
shrunk back, casting glances of sudden apprehension on each other. They
need not have dreaded those poor broken men, for grief and privation had
made them weak as little children. If any expression appeared upon their
wan faces, it was that of vague, wondering gratitude toward the king,
who saw them free, and made no protest.
The court of France was gathered, like ghosts, about the throne, upon
which a shrinking king and queen sat, while the live shadows of an
ancient despotism crept toward them with downcast faces, and steps that
faltered in their walking.
Then a look of infinite pity came into the king’s face, and clasping his
hands, like one who inwardly asks forgiveness of God for sins not
altogether his own, he bowed his head upon his breast, and waited for
these ghostly reproaches to pass on. But the queen sat upright, clasping
her child firmly, as if to shield him from the indignant murmurs of the
people, which came fearfully to her ear.
The seven prisoners—for these were all the Bastille contained when it
was torn down—paused an instant before the throne, and one of them
called out, in a broken voice,
“Thanks, sire, that you have made us free!”
The king lifted his head, and these wronged men saw that his eyes were
full of tears. The people who stood nearest saw it, and the vindictive
spirit which had forced this trying scene on their monarch, gave way to
bursts of generous sympathy.
“Down with the Bastille! Long live the king!” burst from a thousand lips
that had been bitter with curses a moment before.
“Down with the Bastille! Long live the king!” rolled back among the
thousands already defiling toward Paris; and that which the extremists
had intended as an insult, was rolled into the most glorious events of
the day.
“Thank God that you are free!” said Louis, in a low voice, that scarcely
reached any one but the queen. She spoke louder, and with generous
enthusiasm.
“There are none among all these thousands who grieve for your
sufferings, or desire their redress more than the king and his wife,”
she said.
A quivering shout broke from those feeble old men; some of them tried to
smile, others began to cry, and one came forward, tottering feebly in
his walk, and with his thin hand outstretched,
“Give it me! If you have pity, give it me! For your own sake, for mine;
for the sake of those who come after us, give me the ring upon your
finger!”
His eyes shone as he spoke; the white beard upon his bosom quivered with
the eager intensity of his words.
The queen hastily took a ring from the starlike jewels that flashed on
her hand, and leaning forward, held it toward the old man.
“Ah! if a ring could atone!” she said, with the brightness of great
sympathy in her eyes, “there is enough for you all!”
“Not that!” said the old man, impatiently shaking his head. “Give me
that other—the golden serpent—the green beetle that has slept in the
tombs of Egypt thousands on thousands of years! Give me that!”
“What, this?” said the queen, looking with a thrill of awe on the tiny,
golden serpent strangling a beetle, which was coiled around one of her
fingers, looking old and weird among her other shining jewels. “It came
to me in a strange way, and I have worn it long. Will no other do? This
is of less worth than any.”
“Give me that!” persisted the old man. “I want no other! Take it from
your finger, lady; the hand is cursed around which that serpent coils!”
How eager he was; how his faded eyes shone and sparkled. He clutched one
thin hand in the silver of his beard, and twisted it in an agony of
impatience.
“Grief has touched his mind,” thought the queen, drawing the ring from
her finger. “After all, why should I care for this more than another,
only because I found it on my toilet years ago, and could never learn
how it came there?”
Still she hesitated and held the ring irresolute. There seemed to be a
fascination about the antique gem that troubled every one who touched
it. The prisoner’s hands began to quiver, and his eyes grew keen as a
serpent’s. Inch by inch he crept nearer to the throne, with the look of
a man who meant to seize upon his prize if it were not readily given up.
“Give it to me! Give it to me! Your mother would not have withheld it a
moment!”
“My mother! You speak——”
“Of Maria Theresa—the empress! The great and good empress—my august
sovereign!”
The queen reached forth her hand and gave him the ring.
He grasped it; he pressed it to his bosom and lifted it to his lips in a
wild passion of delight. It seemed to fire both heart and brain with new
life—to lift a weight from his shoulders, and give vigor to his limbs.
He fell upon his knees before the queen, and pressed the hem of her robe
to his lips, murmuring thanks and blessings in her native language.
“It may be averted! This was a soul, a life to me, but the most venomous
serpent on your hand. It has filled your life with hate and tumult. Be
at rest now, the evil has departed from your house, from you and from
yours.”
The old man arose and stood upright, as if he had been aroused from a
long, dim dream. The unutterable sadness had gone out from his face; he
turned toward his astonished companions smiling.
“The old man is mad,” said Marie Antoinette, leaning toward the king.
“Why should he care for that ring more than another?”
Louis smiled. How could he answer? This scene had made but little
impression on him; and those around only knew that the queen had given a
ring from her own hand to the oldest and most picturesque of the seven
prisoners; but this was enough for a new excitement, and a shout of
“Long live the queen!” broke through the noise of their revelry.
CHAPTER CI.
ZAMARA IS TEMPTED TO EARN MORE GOLD.
One person in that vast crowd had marked the scene well, and crept close
enough to hear much that was said when Marie Antoinette gave her
scarabee ring to the old prisoner. This was the Indian dwarf Zamara. He
had come to the Champ de Mars in attendance on his mistress who sent him
into that portion of the crowd that he might bring her intelligence of
all that passed near the royal family. He went back to her now with a
gleam in his eyes that she had learned to understand.
“What is it, marmouset? I see that something has happened,” she said,
stooping toward him, as he pulled at the folds of her dress to enforce
attention.
“That ring.”
“What ring?”
“That which you took from the German doctor before he was sent to the
Bastille, and which I laid on the toilet of the queen, that she might
wear it and curse herself forever.”
“Hush! Hush! You speak too loud!” exclaimed the countess, turning pale
with affright.
“The German doctor is one of the seven prisoners.”
“Great heavens, no!”
“I saw him myself, and knew him. One does not forget such eyes.”
“Are you sure, Zamara?”
“Am I ever mistaken? The man has changed, but I knew him at once.”
“But the ring—you said something about the ring?”
“The ring you sent to the queen. Ah! I remember well, madame gave me one
hundred Louis d’ors for that; but she would not take my word, she waited
to see it on the hand of her majesty—that wounded Zamara to the heart.”
“I would give that sum over again to know it had left the queen’s hand,”
said Du Berry.
“Then it is mine, for I saw her take it from her finger and give it to
the prisoner.”
Zamara spoke eagerly, and his black eyes shone with sudden greed. The
one strong passion of his life gleamed up fiercely; deprived of much
else that men crave, the thirst of gain had grown to fearful strength in
him.
The countess shook her head. She had no great trust in the word of her
little slave.
“Ah! the greedy little monster,” she said, with a contemptuous laugh;
“he expects me to believe him, and pay him, too, as if Louis d’ors were
as plenty with me now as he found them when we lived at the Trianon.”
“But I saw the ring in his hand.”
“Perhaps! But I did not.”
“But you believe me?”
“Believe you! Ah, marmouset! you and I know each other too well.”
The countess touched her slave upon the head with her fan, and laughed
provokingly, for she still loved to torment the little creature, it
brought back a flavor of her old life.
The Indian ground his teeth and looked down, that she might not see the
gladiator-fire in his eyes. She laughed and gave him a smart rap over
the ear with her fan.
“Take that, for daring to grind your teeth at me!”
The dwarf gave her one glance, sharp and venomous, that would have
terrified a stranger; but madame only laughed the louder, and gave him
another blow across the forehead, leaving a mark of dusky scarlet there,
which girdled it like a ribbon.
Then, in his impotent rage, the little creature stamped his foot upon
the ground, and stooping suddenly, tore her silken robe with his teeth,
at which she laughed again, beating him off with vigorous blows, as if
he had been an unruly dog. It was not till she saw great tears in his
black eyes that she ceased to torment him. Then she held out her hand,
still laughing.
But the dwarf drew back in sullen wrath.
“Come, come! I will have no sulking!” cried the woman, half angry
herself, for she had no dignity of character to lift her above the
creature she so loved to torment. “Tell me more about the ring. If what
you say is true, I shall not mind giving you a handful of gold.”
“But how can I prove it? You will not believe me.”
“Ah, yes! there is a difficulty! Cannot you persuade the old man to lend
it to you for any hour. I should know the ring in an instant.”
A gleam of light shot into Zamara’s eyes.
“You would like to have it again?” he said, quickly.
“Heaven forbid! Why, marmouset, it was because the ring was said to
carry ruin with it to any but the hand of its owner that I had it placed
in the way of the queen. She was Dauphiness then, you know, and I had
not learned how forgiving and generous she could be. That act has given
me many an hour of pain since; and I would gladly give twice the gold
you crave to be certain that she is well rid of it.”
“And you will yet pay as much?”
“Yes; but I must see the ring with my own eyes.”
The dwarf began to rub his small hands slowly together.
“One hundred Louis d’ors. You said a hundred?”
“Why, what a greedy wretch it is. One would think he eats gold.”
“One cannot eat without gold,” answered the dwarf, with a grim attempt
at wit, which came awkwardly through his old anger. “Besides, what would
Zamara be without gold if he lost his mistress?”
Du Berry grew red in the face; to her the very mention of death was
worse than an insult.
“But your mistress is well. She is not old, but strong, and bright, and
young as ever,” she said, sharply. “She will outlive you, minion, a
hundred years. Hoard gold, if it makes you happy, little wretch, but
never tell me again, that it is because you expect to be alone. I could
brain you with my fan for the idea.”
Zamara laughed; the thoughts of so much gold had restored his
good-humor.
“Wait till I have brought you the ring, mistress; but tell me first what
it is which makes this twisted gold of so much importance?”
“Why ask me? Have you no memory? You heard this Dr. Gosner say that it
was endowed with strange mystic powers, bringing happiness and
prosperity to all and any of his blood, but continued misfortune to the
stranger that ventured to wear it. From his account it must be a
talisman of wonderful power. But you remember it all, for it was not
often that any conversation passed at the Trianon which you did not
manage to hear.”
“I remember what this Dr. Gosner said, and I had the ring in my hand,”
answered the dwarf; “but there is time enough to find out what it
means.”
“One thing is certain,” said Du Berry, thoughtfully; “the poor queen has
had little but misfortune since it touched her finger. I wish we had let
it alone.”
The woman arose from the turf seat she had occupied and prepared to move
after the crowd which had by this time swarmed into the streets, leaving
the great altar, with its incense, and the throne, with its rich
draperies, desolate and empty.
As the countess and her strange attendant passed out of the Champ de
Mars, they came suddenly upon the prisoner of the Bastille, who turned
his eyes upon them at first with listless indifference, but directly a
quick fire of intelligence shot into them, and he moved forward,
evidently intending to address the woman who had so ruthlessly torn the
very heart of his life out. But, with the vigilance of fear, Madame Du
Berry darted behind a group of revelers passing that moment, and thus
evaded the person she most dreaded on earth.
CHAPTER CII.
A LOVERS’ QUARREL.
Still many persons lingered, singly and in groups, around the vast
amphitheatre, from which the green turf was half trodden away. Among
them were two old women and the young girl, who had lavished all her
flowers at the feet of the queen. The girl was sitting quietly in her
seat, looking depressed and rather sad; something, or, perhaps, some
person whom she expected to see, had evidently disappointed her, and she
was still reluctant to go, probably from the fact that some little hope
still lay unquenched in her innocent bosom.
The two women, Dame Tillery, of Versailles, and Dame Doudel, were
discussing some point with great earnestness.
“If you must go, why, of course, I will walk with you as far as the
donkey cart—it were unsisterly to let you set forth alone. But
Marguerite is tired, you can see that by her face, poor thing! Let her
rest here till I come back.”
Dame Tillery, whose generous proportions had spread and bloomed into
more pompous splendor since the reader first made her acquaintance,
consented to this arrangement, and taking that fair young face between
both her hands, kissed it with unctuous tenderness.
“Be a good child, my dear, and never forget what has been done for you.
Thousands of people saw her majesty smile upon you from her throne this
day, and put the flowers you gave into her own bosom; but they did not
know that it was because the person understood to be your friend, once
had the honor of saving her majesty from a terrible death, and has since
been honored by a place in the royal household. No doubt, child, when
her majesty took your flowers, she remembered the golden butter these
hands have prepared for her table. But I am talking here when every hour
is precious, if I expect to reach home before nightfall. Come, sister
Doudel, I would gladly wait longer, but some of these deputations will
be making their way through Versailles; and since the court came to
Paris, The Swan has lost so much of its custom that one must look
sharply lest strangers pass its door. Do not be afraid, little one, my
sister will soon return.”
Dame Doudel had been waiting some minutes for this harangue to be
completed, and the moment her pompous sister paused for breath, she
moved away, leaving Marguerite quite alone.
The moment this young girl felt herself safe from observation, she gave
way to the sad disappointment that had been slowly settling around her
during the last half-hour. One sweet hope had haunted her ever since she
left home that day. She might see that being who had become all the
world to her. For weeks on weeks he seemed to have disappeared out of
her life. She had haunted the ruins of the Bastille, persuading herself,
poor child, that it was only to comfort that old man who still clung to
his ruined cell there, but all the time of her sweet ministrations, she
had listened for that footstep among the stones, and listened in vain.
Then she would go home sadly, with tears in her eyes, creep up to her
little room, and think herself grieving over the forlorn condition of
that good man to whom liberty had been given when it was only a burden.
If Marguerite went out in the morning with her sweet merchandise of
flowers, for an hour or so, her step would be elastic, and her eyes
bright with hope. When a stranger spoke to her quickly, she would start
and catch her breath, thinking for an instant that it was his voice, for
in that unexpected way he had often addressed her. But when the hours
wore on, a gentle sadness crept over her childlike features, and she
would turn homeward with a weight upon her heart, wondering if any one
on this earth was ever so unhappy before.
Marguerite had seen Mirabeau once or twice, and trusted him entirely,
because he was a friend of the royal family which it was a part of her
religion to reverence, and he was the foster-brother of Monsieur
Jacques. Besides, his age compared to her youth, seemed that of an old
man, and he had never shocked her by any attempt to lessen the distance
between them.
At this time Mirabeau was occupied both in his imagination and his
ambition by the influence he had gained, with so much trouble, over the
queen. His indomitable vanity had writhed under her haughty disregard of
himself and his power so long, that to win a conquest over her dislike,
inspired all his hopes, and rekindled his waning genius. To him
Marguerite was only a pretty messenger, whose sweetness and beauty
seemed a fitting link between himself and the only woman who had ever
presumed to scorn him.
Marguerite delivered Mirabeau’s note to the queen, and after that broke
away from her companions, for she had no heart for those graceful dances
and gay songs. In all that bright assembly he had not appeared. Was he
angry? Had he forgotten her? Would they never, never meet again?
As she asked herself these questions her head drooped, her hands clasped
themselves in her lap, and tears dropped slowly from her eyes. She did
not restrain them; her protectors were gone, and there was no one else
who cared to regard her; at least the freedom of grief was hers.
“Marguerite!”
The young creature started with a faint shriek—that voice came so
suddenly upon her. Then her face sparkled with smiles, and lifting her
eyes she said, with girlish emotion,
“Oh, monsieur! how you frightened me!”
That man had seen the girl before him leave the house of Count Mirabeau,
the most profligate man in Paris, alone, and after nightfall. He knew
that some mysterious link drew those two people together, yet, looking
in that face so fair, dimpling with smiles, bright with sudden joy, how
could he think ill of her. The suspicions that had haunted him for
weeks, now seemed like poisonous reptiles which it was a relief to
trample under foot.
“Marguerite, are you glad to see your friend again?”
A grave, sweet sadness chased the smiles from that sensitive mouth.
Those eyes, in all their innocent blue, were turned upon him
reproachfully.
“Ah, monsieur! why have you never asked before?”
“I have been very, very busy.”
“It is not I so much,” answered the girl, with an innocent attempt to
screen the secret throbbing, like a pulse, in her heart, “but my father,
who loves you so. Night after night you have left him alone—and it is so
desolate there; besides, you never come to the house now, and mamma is
away so much.”
The young man smiled; like a bird which betrays the nest it would
protect by its fluttering, Marguerite revealed the fact that she still
kept true to the old haunt, and waited for him there, perhaps,
unconscious that she was doing so.
“I will not leave him so long again—you must beg him to pardon me. But
first, Marguerite, can you forgive me yourself?”
Marguerite shook her head, and her lips began to quiver.
“It was very, very wrong to leave the poor man so many weeks; the
thought of it makes me sad.”
“But you went to see him every day,” said the young man, thirsting to
hear the fact from her own lips;—“sometimes he was with you at home.”
“Yes; but then I am only a girl, you know—he is old and feeble. To lead
him is the work of a strong, brave man. Ah! he missed you, monsieur! You
and I are the only persons who have his secret. We must be very, very
good to him.”
The young man sat down on the turf seat close by the girl, and looking
earnestly in her face, asked a question he almost scorned himself for
framing.
“Marguerite, will you answer me one thing?”
“Anything—that is, almost anything.”
“What took you to the house of Count Mirabeau on the thirteenth of last
month?”
Marguerite looked at him surprised; then a slow, earnest expression came
over her face, and she answered calmly,
“That is one of the things I must tell no one.”
“You confess to having secrets, then.”
“Yes, I confess it; just one or two, which I am to keep sacred.”
“Not from Count Mirabeau?”
“There is no need—he knows it himself.”
“Marguerite.”
The girl started. That voice had never spoken her name so sharply
before.
“Monsieur, are you angry with me?”
“Will you tell me what this secret is?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Why, girl, because I love you myself wildly, like a fool and madman.”
“Love me, me—love me yet; can this be true? Then why did you keep away
so long?”
“I love you, child, and have, since the day we first met. Even then,
Marguerite, I hoped that you might return my love with a feeling beyond
gratitude, which I had not earned, by a simple act of humanity.”
“I—I told you that it was love more than gratitude; but you doubted me
after I had said that.”
“How could I help doubting? With my own eyes, I saw you enter that man’s
dwelling.”
“Yes, I went in. I saw him.”
“And you will not tell me why you went?”
Marguerite shook her head with a faint smile.
“That would be impossible.”
“Why impossible? You can have no interests in common with that
unprincipled man?”
“Unprincipled!”
“A man stained with every social crime.”
Marguerite’s eyes opened wide. A look of profound astonishment swept
over her features.
“I did not know this—how should I? The people adore this man.”
“The people? What do they care for those qualities which make a good
man?”
“But the people are great. The people are France, and France is
everything.”
“You have learned his language.”
“No; I learned it from you. That is why it sounds so sweet to me.”
“Marguerite, tell me what this secret is. You thrill me with delight,
and kindle suspicion at the same moment. Trust me.”