“It is not that; but you offer me too much. The flowers you have are worth only a few sous. I will take that, but no more.” “But if I insist upon it?” “Dame Doudel would not permit me to accept gifts even from monsieur.” “Dame Doudel! Oh! she sits in the market—I know her well. But what has she to say in this matter? When Mirabeau sees a pretty girl, and she pleases him with her merchandise, or her face, all the old women in France shall not limit his generosity. Take the gold, child—take the gold.” Still Marguerite shook her head. “I cannot take it, monsieur count. Dame Doudel is only a good, kind woman, who loves me; but she would never let me receive alms and call it selling.” Mirabeau was looking earnestly at the girl’s changing face as she spoke. “You were the girl I sent to the king that day, and a more lovely little embassadress never was chosen.” Marguerite blushed, but a bright smile flashed over her face. “I was honored. It frightened me; but I was so grateful that you permitted me to go.” “There was another person grateful, I doubt not, and that person was the queen, who dreaded something much worse, I will be sworn! I heard all about it, and have never repented the choice we made, though there was some fierce anger among the grand army of women at the time. You stood in the way of more than one whose brazen ambition would have confronted angels with satisfaction.” “Yes, I know,” answered the girl, lifting her earnest eyes to the count, and speaking with gentle confidence. “There was one in the market, this morning, who reviled me before all the women, as if I had been to blame in something.” “Indeed! And who was it?” “They called her Louison.” “Louison Brisot?” “Yes, that was the other name—a tall, handsome woman, with eyes like fire.” “Oh, yes! I recognize the description. So she dared to assail you. My favor has driven the creature mad, or she would not have found the courage to attack any one Mirabeau has exalted by his notice. This shall not happen again, I will answer for that.” “Oh! I am not afraid. It is only the sight of her face that can hurt me.” “Her face? Why it is bold enough, but one of the handsomest in Paris.” “Oh, it is terrible!” cried the girl, shuddering. “If I could only forget it.” “Why, what can distress you so in Louison’s face? Surely, it has done you no harm.” “I saw her kill a man with her own hands, only because he was faithful to the king.” The poor girl trembled as she spoke; her sweet, young face grew cold and white; and the eyes that she lifted to Mirabeau were full of the anguish she could not speak. “Louison Brisot has much to answer for, and she shall some day give a strict account,” said Mirabeau, sternly; “but let her pass now—I have something else to talk of. This man, was he your friend, and did he love the king?” “Better than his own life, or he would have joined the insurgents and been saved,” answered the girl, promptly.