“And might be the saviour of France; should be a close friend to the queen.” Mirabeau laughed again; but there was angry fire in his eyes, and a curve of scorn on his lips. “How long is it since the Countess Du Berry became the advocate of Marie Antoinette?” he demanded. “Ever since she was too generous for the persecution of a fallen enemy; ever since she has been cruelly unfortunate, and most unjustly reviled. Of all the people in France, I have most cause to love the woman for whose overthrow you are toiling.” “Nay, let me tell you a secret. You are a woman of sense, and can comprehend the situation—Marie Antoinette rejects the friendship of Mirabeau.” “Has it been offered her?” “Twice, indirectly.” “But the time may come when that friendship will be implored. Then, Mirabeau, be generous, be noble, use your great power for the defence of the throne. Earn the queen’s gratitude, force her to acknowledge the power of your genius, the grandeur of your magnanimity—promise this, my Mirabeau.” “When Marie Antoinette seeks my aid it will be time enough to promise.” “But if she does seek it—if she asks your influence with the people, your protection from her enemies—what will be your answer?” “Perhaps, that it is too late.” “The time will come, and then you must remember Du Berry, who wishes to aid in this; who implores your permission to pay a vast debt of gratitude to the grandson of Louis the Fifteenth—to the daughter of Maria Theresa, who was so pure and good herself that she never went out of her way to taunt and insult those who were less fortunate. To the clemency and forbearance of Louis, and his most persecuted queen, I am indebted for every franc that makes up my wealth; I ask nothing better than to employ it all in their service. When you are a friend of the monarchy, let me find the money which the cause will so much need. Thus you and I will unite in a holy work, which shall redeem much evil that we may have done. You, with your eloquence, and I, with money, which justly belongs to the crown, may, perhaps, be so fortunate as to save the monarchy of France.” The woman spoke earnestly, sometimes with passionate warmth, that astonished the man she addressed. He knew that she was in earnest, that a grander element than could be found in his heart was speaking through her words. Perhaps he felt, through all its subtle indirection, that something like a bribe for his influence lay under all this real generosity; but Mirabeau was not a man to revolt at an idea, so long as it took no offensive clearness. On the contrary, he reflected that his own power would be wonderfully enhanced by wealth, let it come in what form it would. If his proud old father fell short of his expectations, here was a resource. “Have you spoken of this to the queen?” he inquired.