“We must talk of this matter when there is more time,” he said. “I often think we are allowing the coarse minds of a few brutal men to carry the revolution beyond its proper limits. What, for instance, can be more vicious than these constant attacks on the queen?” “Ha!” His words ran through Louison’s heart like an arrow; her eyes opened wide, and flashed a look upon him that checked the breath on his lips. “You speak of that Austrian woman,” she said, controlling herself, “Louis Capet’s wife?” “I speak of Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, Louison; a woman who has been cruelly maligned and basely persecuted.” “By whom?” Louison spoke calmly, but her lips closed with a firm grip as this simple question left them, and she held her breath, waiting for his answer. “Perhaps we have all done too much of it.” CHAPTER LXXVI. CRIMINATION AND INDIFFERENCE. Louison Brisot, with all her secretiveness and self-control, felt her heart burn, and her cheeks grow hot, when Mirabeau insulted her solicitude with a rude answer. She arose and walked to a window; a pretty goldfinch, which had been taught to fly out of his cage at will, fluttered downward and settled upon her shoulder. She seized the tiny thing, wrung its neck, and flung it down to her feet. Mirabeau had settled back upon his couch, and his eyes were again wandering among the frescoed flowers. So the woman appeased her wrath by taking this little life before the poor thing could utter a breath of pain; and he only knew that his favorite was dead after she was gone. While the pretty thing was quivering on the floor, his murderer had sunk down by Mirabeau’s couch, and took his hand in hers, where it lay indolently, not once offering to return the grasp with which she clung to it. “Mirabeau!” “Well, Louison!” “You have ceased to love me?” “Ceased to love you! Well, what then? To be good patriots we need not be lovers.” The woman turned deadly white, and her hands wrenched themselves away from his. “You confess it.” There was a cry of pain in her words. All this time she had been actuated by a forlorn hope that he would contradict her. “No! I confess nothing! How should I, not being quite certain myself?” “Great heavens! you dare say this to me!” Mirabeau started up fiercely and shook back his hair like a roused lion. “Dare! Woman, is that word intended for Mirabeau?” The man was fully aroused now, his light gray eyes flamed, his sensuous mouth took a haughty curve; he had risen to his elbow, and his massive neck was laid bare almost to the bosom, where the delicately-crimped ruffles of his shirt fell open, revealing the blue veins that swelled over it, inflaming his face to the eyes, which suddenly became bloodshot. “The man who offends Louison Brisot dares everything,” answered the woman, in a low voice. Mirabeau laughed, for all the evil daring of his nature was getting uppermost. “So you threaten me?”