“With a warm, earnest heart.” Here Louison sunk down to the foot of the couch, and bowing her face to her knees, began to sob. Mirabeau took her hand. “Why do you weep, my friend?” “Because I once had a warm, earnest heart, that is all,” cried the girl, lifting her head, and sweeping the hair back from her face. “Women who aspire for love or power should have no hearts.” “You are wrong, my friend; a warm heart is necessary to true eloquence. Without that, the magnetism which thrills crowds would be wanting. It is because you can speak clearly and feel intensely, that I predict for you a glorious career among the women of France. That which Mirabeau is to the men, Louison shall be to the women of this nation.” “And this is all you have to tell me?” “All. If I have nothing more to confide, it is because my heart is always open to my friends, most of all to you.” “Traitor!” The word was not spoken, but it hissed like a serpent in the woman’s brain. She dashed the tears from her eyes and stood up. “I will go now.” Mirabeau fell indolently back among the cushions of his couch. “Must you go?” he questioned, dreamily. “Well, well, think of what I have said.” “I will.” CHAPTER LXXVII. AMONG THE FLOWERS. When St. Just and Marguerite left the ruins of the Bastille, a man came out of a half destroyed building near which they had stood, and followed them at a distance. His step was heavy, his head drooped, once or twice he pressed a clenched hand over his heart as if the pain there was intolerable. This man was Monsieur Jacques. Every evening when Marguerite sought the ruins he had followed in sad solicitude, but faithful as a dog. She had never seen him nor dreamed of his loving vigilance. Indeed, he seldom sought her now, and seemed to have forgotten the suit he had urged or the promise she had made. Sometimes she thought of this with thankfulness, but never guessed the cause, or dreamed of the suffering which locked that noble heart in silence. This evening he saw the lovers pause in the Cour de Gouvernment, and by the glorified light in their faces knew what was passing between them. Then the last hope went out of that strong heart. But Monsieur Jacques knew how to suffer and be strong. He watched that couple from a distance as, in the sweet silence of contented love, they slowly approached the humble dwelling, which was the only home the poor girl could claim in the wide, wide world. He saw them hesitate a little at the door and pass in. Then he turned away into the darkness. The passage was dark which St. Just and Marguerite entered. “You will not leave me yet!” pleaded the girl, unconscious of wrong as a child; “no one is home; it will be lonely waiting for them.”