The Queen of France reached the summer-house just as the sun was pouring a flood of crimson and gold into the violet shadows that lay among the trees which sheltered the little temple. The windows, where they were visible through the clustering ivy and flowers, blazed with the arrowy light that broke against them, and the soft grass that lay around grew ruddy in the rich glow. This seemed a good omen to the queen, who stepped lightly over the turf and entered the temple where Mirabeau was standing, so swiftly that he had hardly time to turn from the window, where he had been watching for her, before she stood face to face with him. Marie Antoinette had never been within speaking distance of this magnificent demagogue before. She was astonished by the wonderful power that lay in supreme ugliness. His face had the fascination which some wild animals possess, and his large eyes dwelt upon her with the half-sleepy, half-pleading look which these animals have when but half aroused. She came forward, radiant from her walk, fresh from the soft breeze that had swept over her, but with some shyness, real or apparent, such as a woman of sensitive modesty feels in meeting a stranger. When Mirabeau saw her face, and the light that shone in those splendid eyes, he sunk upon one knee, and bent his head, but not so low as to conceal the smile that transfigured all his face. “Ah, madame! how long I have pined and prayed for this hour,” he said, lifting his eyes to her face with an expression that made her breath come fast, for it changed the whole aspect of that face like a miracle, and drew her toward him with irresistible fascination. This troubled her; for hatred of the man had been to her a sure safeguard, and she began to tremble lest it should pass away. She expected audacity, but looked down upon a strong, powerful man, who had thrown himself at her feet with the docility of a Newfoundland dog. “Arise, Monsieur Count,” she said, smiling upon him; and she was astonished to find how naturally the smile came to her lips. “If we have not been friends before, it is rather our misfortune than yours.” “Ah! if your highness could have thought so! But my enemies prevailed against me until it is now almost too late.” “Nothing is too late for a man like Mirabeau,” said the queen again, motioning that he should arise. “You, who have taught the people of France to hate their king, can, with the same powers of eloquence, convince them that he is their best friend.” Mirabeau arose to his feet, and again that smile flashed upon the woman, who could not turn her eyes from the marvelous brightness that transfigured his face. “Ah! if I had the power your highness awards me, and you would deign to use it, no slave of the thousands who have knelt at your feet would be so grateful as Mirabeau.”