“Malice! I should think she did. And why? This is the reason. When we were in the midst of that glorious day at Versailles, our pretty Marguerite was chosen to go with the committee of women, who were sent to lay our wrongs before the king. This creature, whom I warn you of, wanted the honor, and appealed to Mirabeau, who had the power to send her if he would; but the count only laughed, and said that it was intended to petition the king, not insult him. The person chosen to make the address must be a child of the people, innocent, frank, honest, therefore it must be Marguerite Gosner. Then it was that the venom of this woman’s bad heart broke out. Marguerite was chosen against her,—our Marguerite, whose modesty and innocence touched the king with the most tender compassion. He kissed her on the cheek and promised well. Mirabeau had done this, and Louison Brisot loved Mirabeau. Was not this a good reason why she should hate our child?” “Louison Brisot! I shall remember the name, good dame,” said the young man as he stepped out into the darkness. CHAPTER LXXIX. THE WOMEN OF FRANCE. Louison Brisot went from the presence of Mirabeau with a tumult of contending passions at war in her bosom. Ardent, vindictive, and egotistical, she guarded herself with a power of secretiveness and sharp cunning so completely, that it was not wonderful a man so reckless as Mirabeau should have misunderstood the depth and danger of her antagonism. He had no idea of the powerful self-control which curbed her fierce passions, and gave double force when she allowed them to break forth in all their fiery strength. Her coarse nature had mated itself so vehemently with the eloquent demagogue, that he was sometimes startled to find himself completely duplicated in the form of a woman—so completely that he began to dislike himself in her. This feeling often broke forth mockingly, as he was apt to scoff at himself when the worst traits of his own character forced themselves on his intelligence. Mirabeau forgave himself for thus reviling his own rude nature—but the woman forgave nothing. Men like Count Mirabeau are often the most fastidious beings alive, regarding delicate shades of propriety in their friends, and almost invariably look for objects of affection above their own level. In order to create a real impression upon this man, it was necessary to enlist his imagination, and that always lifted itself to the grand and beautiful, not to say the unattainable. Mirabeau held his immediate compeers but lightly, as, in his better moments, he often despised himself.