“The people shall love you, or hate me!” exclaimed Mirabeau, with enthusiasm. “Do not speak so sadly; do not despair of a just appreciation. When Mirabeau says to the people, ‘I have seen this lady whom you call the Austrian; she is fair, she is wise, her heart yearns toward the people of France,’ they will believe me.” “Heaven grant it!” said the queen, clasping her hands more firmly, while her tears dropped upon them. “Give us back the love of our people, and there is no honor, no influence that shall not be yours. Ah! I remember well when I first came to France, so young, so trusting—a child given up to them wholly by an imperial mother. How they loved me then. When I entered the theatre, they arose in one body and filled the air with joyous salutations. If I drove through the streets, they cast flowers in my path. Oh, what have I done? What have I done that they should change so terribly, now that I have lived so long among them, and am a mother to the children of France—the wife of the best king they ever knew? What _have_ I done?” Mirabeau reached forth his hand to take hers; in her tears and her helpless sorrow she was only a woman to him; but he bethought himself and drew back with a heavy sigh. Had he, indeed, the power he had boasted of? Could he, with all the force of his wonderful eloquence, bring back the popularity which had once followed this woman, as if she had been a goddess? Would not the people question his motives, and ask a reason for his change of opinion? Dare he arise in his place, and say to the world that he had just come from an interview with the Queen of France, and was henceforth her friend and advocate? Would he have the courage to confess that even his glowing ideas of liberty had yielded to the tears and reasonings of a beautiful woman? Yes, he dared do even that—the people would still have faith in their leader; that which he had taught with such ardor could be softened, moulded into new forms. He would bring the royalty of France into favor with its subjects by apparent concessions, which should all seem to spring from the queen. Marie Antoinette read his thoughts, and her face grew anxious. “Had she humbled herself for nothing? Was this man’s power already exhausted against her? Would the people listen when he came out in favor of a court which his eloquence had done so much to destroy?” He read her face also, and answered it as if she had spoken. “That which I have pledged myself to accomplish shall be done, if it cost Mirabeau his fame, and his own life. Have no fear, madame; these people are like children, they want strong men to think and act for them. Who among all their leaders has my strength, or has ever so thoroughly controlled them? With my pen, with my voice, with every power of my soul, I will work to bring these people in harmony with the court. Can you trust in me, lady?”