“Ah, citizen Robespierre! is it you that I was almost running against? Have the Cordeliers become so strong that they can spare you from the club so early?” The man hesitated, occupied himself a moment with the buttons of his olive-green coat, and passed his hand over the plaited ruffles that fluttered in his bosom. Louison had never addressed him so familiarly before, and he was by nature a timid man—so timid, that he was disconcerted by the abrupt speech of a woman who had hitherto avoided him. Before he was ready to reply, Louison relieved his embarrassment by a new question. “It is well to look modest, citizen, and keep in the background. Only great men can afford to retire into the shadow; but I knew what spirit inspires the club, and the women of Paris are as well informed. Surely you must be aware of that?” Robespierre answered her now, for vanity gave him courage. “I did not think that a friend of Mirabeau would find any merit in a man who has so little hold on the good will of the people,” he said, in a low, rasping voice, while a faint sneer stole over his lips, which was the nearest approach to a smile any one ever saw on his face. “How modest we are!” exclaimed Louison, showing her white teeth, as she smiled upon the little man, whom it was the fashion to ridicule even in the Assembly, where his terrible force of character was, at the time, but imperfectly known. “A true patriot, citizen, sees merit in every one who loves his country and hates the king; but what is the homage of a poor girl like me worth, compared with Theroigne, of Liege? Was it not you who introduced her to the Cordelier, and called out, that was the Queen of Sheba?” “No; that was Laclos. Theroigne is a woman for poets to adore, and she inspired him.” “But they tell me that Robespierre is himself a poet, and that great genius fires his patriotism.” The sneer so natural to Robespierre’s lip melted into a simper, and the lids drooped over the greenish gray of his eyes. “I do not know who has overrated my poor ability,” he said; “but if a spark of poetry ever inspired me, mademoiselle would enkindle it. Why does she so entirely confine herself to the Jacobins? Is it because Mirabeau reigns there as a god?” “Not so, citizen. A true woman of France claims perfect freedom to think and worship where she pleases. I have been at the Cordeliers many a time, and listened to the eloquence of a man whom the nation will yet learn to know as one of its greatest orators, and most potent leaders.” Louison bent her stately head, thus enforcing her compliment, and prepared to move on; but Robespierre followed her. “Mademoiselle, I speak in the Assembly to-morrow. Will you come?” “Does Mirabeau speak?” “Yes, and I oppose him; for that reason you will not come?” “For that very reason I will come. The man who possesses power enough to defeat any measure urged by Mirabeau, must be worthy of adoration.”