Theroigne burst into a peal of laughter as he tugged at the sleeves, and distorted his shoulders in a fruitless effort to free himself from the splendid garment; for in his fury he had torn open the laced ruffles on his bosom, and revealed to the whole company under garments of his own, coarse, dingy, and scarcely fit for a beggar. “Let me help you, citizen!” cried the amazon, springing to her chair, placing one foot on the edge of the table and leaping across it. “Upon my life, you have hard work not to look like an aristocrat. There, now, the coat is off, and you have torn all this lovely lace to tatters. So much the better. Marat is himself again. You cannot chain our lion of the revolution with ribbons or ropes of flowers. “See! see!” cried one of the guests, “what mischief one woman can do! Theroigne, in her zeal to take Marat out of his trappings, has deluged herself with wine. See how it trickles down her dress!” Theroigne cast a glance at the table, which was scattered with broken crystal, that glittered like fragments of ice in a red flood of wine which her foot had spilled. Then she shook out the folds of her white dress, which were dabbled red as the table; and, turning to Marat, cried out recklessly, “We are friends now and forever! I have only taken your colors, Marat, in advance!” “All France shall wear them yet,” Marat muttered, as he spurned away the coat he had taken off, with his foot. “So be it!” cried Theroigne. “Like you, I detest anything an aristocrat has touched. Let us be ourselves.” The amazon tore a garland of roses from her head, and trampled them down with the coat Marat had flung off. “Oh! if it were but the crown of France!” she said, fiercely. “And the woman who wears it,” growled Marat, who had drank wine enough to render him more than usually ferocious. Mirabeau caught the ruffian’s scowling glance, as he muttered these words under his breath, and guessed their meaning. “It is, doubtless, a noble sentiment which the citoyen utters; but he speaks too low. If it promises good to France, let us all join in it.” “You shall all join in it before I have done,” answered Marat, sullenly; “but there must be a baptism first. You, Mirabeau, are not prepared as yet. If some one would draw the blue blood from your veins, our patriots would trust you, and ask no questions.” “As it is,” said Mirabeau, laughing, “the people trust me, and with that I am content.” “There speaks out the audacious pride of the aristocrat,” was the bold answer; “half noble, half plebeian—one eternally fighting against the other. Who can trust either? Not Marat, for one.” Mirabeau’s face, grand and powerful in its supreme ugliness, darkened like a thunder-cloud for one instant, then cleared away with a laugh. “The air of this mansion does not agree with Marat,” he said. “No!” cried the ruffian; “it stifles me.”