The queen believed him, for there was no doubting his sincerity in the matter. Never in her life had this beautiful woman made so great a conquest, not only over the man himself, but over her own prejudices. She had come to the summer-house detesting the count; she left it impressed with his genius, flattered by his homage. Mirabeau still held her hand. To approach this lovely woman, and win her into admiration of his genius, had been the ambition of this erratic man for many a year. It was accomplished now. He knew by the light in those magnificent eyes how great his conquest was. She was still Queen of France—even his fierce eloquence had so far failed to bring her down from that sublime height. He saw in her the only woman he had ever met whose intellect reached his own, and whose position, at the same time, taught him to look up. Henceforth it would be his supreme object to keep her firmly on the throne; to enhance her influence, and guide it for the benefit of the people. It was a delicate task; but nothing seemed impossible to the proud, audacious man while that splendid woman stood with her hand in his. “Now, farewell,” she said. “I need not tell you to keep this interview a secret; it would be misunderstood, and might do much harm.” “It would be my glory that the whole world should know of this condescension, and of the grateful respect it has inspired; but those who lead a people must know how to be secret, and when to speak. That you have done me this honor, madame, shall be the one secret that will go with me to the grave.” With these words, the count bent low with a lofty grace that might have befitted the state-chamber at Versailles, and walked backward to the door, where he bowed again and disappeared, moving swiftly through the glowing purple of the twilight. CHAPTER LXXII. SPYING AND WATCHING. A woman followed Count Mirabeau when he went to St. Cloud—a young woman, some three or four-and-twenty years of age, but looking older from the stormy passions that had swept across her youth, and the corroding jealousy that consumed her now. Louison Brisot had ridden behind him all the way from Paris, but took good care not to come near enough to that imposing figure to give him a glimpse of her person, or allow him to hear the tread of her horse. When he halted in the grove, and tied his horse to a sapling, she drew behind a clump of beech-trees, and watched him as he passed through the gate; then she dismounted, fastened her own horse, and taking a circuit among the undergrowth, came out by the gate, which she tried cautiously and found unlocked.