The queen was walking up and down the room in a state of unusual agitation. You could see by the light in her fine eyes, and the compression of her mouth, that she was about to undertake some task utterly distasteful to her. She turned sharply as her confidant came in. “Well!” “He is here, your highness. He has just passed.” “Alone?” “On horseback, and quite alone!” “Look again, and tell me which way he goes.” The duchess left the room, and Marie Antoinette resumed her impatient walk up and down the floor. There had been a terrible struggle before that proud woman and brave queen could prevail upon herself to give that reprobate count the special and private meeting that he had come to St. Cloud that day to claim. Now, in the sore strait to which royalty, in France, was driven, she had come to this sad humiliation, and was about to meet Count Mirabeau, the renegade from his class, the coarse noble, the eloquent leader of a riotous people, in private, and utterly alone. But time wore on, and her confidant did not return. Had she been mistaken? Had the man passed them, in the coarse mockery so natural to his character, thus flinging back years of contempt upon her, and scoffing at the concessions she had been compelled to make. The proud blood of Maria Theresa burned in her veins as the thought flashed across her brain. She clenched her hand in an agony of shame, and stood in the centre of the room, listening with the breathless eagerness of a girl waiting for her lover. Yet she hated this man with a thorough revolt of her whole nature. He was utterly disgustful to her taste as a woman, and she thoroughly despised the means by which he had obtained the power she dreaded, and was ready to conciliate. The lady came at last. She had gone to one of the topmost windows of the palace, and from thence had seen the count ride along the highway toward a distant grove, where he had evidently left his horse; for directly he came forth again, and passed into the Park, where he was now loitering, apparently, but making quiet progress toward the place of rendezvous. Marie Antoinette drew a deep breath; at least she had escaped a possible insult from the man she loathed. He had been faithful to his appointment. She must meet him. The beautiful woman and the proud queen went hand-in-hand with Marie Antoinette. It was not enough that she could command homage by her state; in order to make it perfect, she must win it by those womanly charms, which few men had ever resisted. In order to bind this man to her chariot-wheels, she must win him to her side, body and soul. There must be no appearance of dislike in her manner to him. All the force of her beauty and genius must be brought against him. He was not to be convinced by argument, but won in spite of himself.