The mailed statue stood between Louison and this creeping object. She felt sure that he had not observed her; but a faint light streaming into the hall through the door he had left ajar, made her position a difficult one to conceal. She cast wistful glances at this little stream of light, which came, she was convinced, from some apartment adjoining the banqueting-saloon. At last, keeping within the shadow of the statue, she glided toward this opening, and found herself in a small apartment, lighted only by the faint gleams that came from the hall, and broke through the side of a panel, which evidently was used as a concealed door connecting with the saloon. Some antique tapestry fell apart just before this panel, and under it the woman concealed herself, drawing the tapestry so close as to obstruct all light from the room. Through the crevice she commanded a full view of everything that transpired in the saloon, and could distinctly hear each spoken word. Never had a jealous woman and a spy better opportunities of observation. Directly in the line of her vision sat Mirabeau, leaning back in his chair with an expression of broad, animal enjoyment on his face. Near him, with the delicate whiteness of her garments clinging around her superb form, and her bare arm uplifted, stood Theroigne de Mericourt, waving the goblet she had crowned with flowers over her head, as she called out, “To Mirabeau, the god of the people! The man who flung his title underfoot that the _canaille_ may trample on it. He did not wait for the people to tear off his coronet.” A dozen goblets flashed in the air as she spoke, so quickly that the flowers fell from them bathed in a rain of wine-drops. “To Mirabeau! Life to him! Destruction to all tyrants!” The mingled voices of men and women went up simultaneously in this shout. The crystal light of the goblets rippled around a dozen heads, while Mirabeau sat still, smiling like a sultan, to whom homage in any form was an inheritance. After this riotous toast was given, Theroigne remarked that the host was drinking pure water instead of wine. Then kissing her goblet, and bathing her red lips in the perfume of its flowers, she leaned over the table, and bade them drink to the toast, which should be a crowning one of the festival. Mirabeau took the goblet and swung it around his head, as Theroigne snatched another from the table, and cried out, “Fill! fill with red wine now! and drain each glass to the dregs, as we will yet drain the hearts of Louis and his Austrian wife.” A shout followed, a crash of glasses, and the mellow gurgle of wine, as it flowed down the thirsty throats of the company. Theroigne drained her goblet, and drew a deep, long breath; with her tongue, she lapped the wine from her lips, and muttered in a low voice, but loud enough for all to hear, “It has a rare taste of blood!”