The admirers of Marat chafed. Marat’s mouth shut, his eyes darted fire, his head was drawn back; he looked as if he could have swallowed his adversary at one mouthful. The friends of Camille, Frérone, and Danton, the enemies of Marat, took the part of Camille Desmoulins. They would have come to blows, despite Danton’s continuously ringing the bell for order, and his terrible voice sounding far above the din, and crying, “Silence! silence!” I passed with M. Drouet to the side of Camille Desmoulins, for whom I felt a sympathy as strong as my hatred of Marat. The attention of all, however, was now drawn to the entrance of a new personage, on whom all eyes were fixed. CHAPTER XVIII. THE FEMALE ELEMENT IN POLITICS. This new comer was a woman. But a strange one, having a good deal of the masculine in her composition—a perfect amazon—one might say a virago. She was habited in a long dress of red stuff, surmounted by a cape; she wore a plumed hat, and a large sword at her side. I touched M. Drouet’s arm. “Oh!” said I; “who is that?” “I am no wiser at present than yourself,” said he; “unless it is—yes, it is the famous Thèroigne de Méricourt.” I had once or twice heard the name of the heroine of the 5th and 8th of October—the impetuous Liègoise, beautiful, but terrible; who, at Versailles, with a smile and soft voice, had ordered the regiments of Flanders to lay down their arms. An unhappy affection—the treason of an unfaithful one, had thrust her out from woman’s life. She had embraced the cause of the Revolution with transport. It was her last love. The unhappy woman was whipped by the Royalists in the Garden of the Tuileries, became insane, and died in Bicetre, or Charenton, I forget which, after twenty years of agony. But at present she was young, pretty, proud, if not happy. Alas! her misplaced love had seared her heart. Her entrance was great. “There is the Queen of Sheba!” cried Camille Desmoulins, stammering more than ever. Then, turning to Danton, “Rise up, Solomon,” said he; “and go and receive her Majesty!” She stood boldly in front of Danton, put her hands on the hilt of her sabre, and said, “If thou art Solomon, build the temple. We have space enough on the site of the Bastille, or better on the Field of the Federation. I will head the subscription.” She took a gold chain from off her neck, and threw it to Danton. “I ask to speak,” said a tall, fair man, with a strong German accent; “to support the proposition of the Citizen Thèroigne.” “Citizen Anacharsis Clootz will address the meeting,” said Danton. “Place to the orator of the human race.” The Prussian Baron mounted the rostrum. “Look!” said Drouet; “there is a republican who has a hundred thousand crowns a year, and yet they say that only the bootless and stockingless are revolutionists.”