“_He!_ Well, I must not ask. But perhaps Jacques could tell me.” “Monsieur Jacques, no, no. He seldom comes near us now.” Marguerite did not see the smile that passed over that mouth, or the laughter that sparkled in the eyes that Mirabeau bent upon her. Her mind had gone back tenderly to the prisoner of the Bastille, and she wondered in her heart what he would do if any harm should take her away from him. “Oh, yes!” she murmured; “there is good reason that I should be careful.” “The best reason in the world,” answered Mirabeau; “for, without caution, you can do nothing for our friends at St. Cloud—with it, a great deal.” “Then you also are friendly to the king?” Mirabeau looked into the girl’s face with a strange, puzzled expression in his own. The simple truth that he read there was enough. One element of this man’s power lay in his almost intuitive knowledge of character, and in the prompt selfishness with which he seized upon the talent and labors of other men, adapting them to his own genius so completely that even to himself he seemed to make them entirely his own. The firm resolution which lay in her heart was made known to the man. As a gentle, truthful girl, he would not have trusted her, but he saw more than that, and spoke out frankly. “Yes, my girl, I _am_ friendly to the king. I am so friendly to this great nation, too, that the one grand aim of my life shall be to bring the people and the court into harmony.” “Oh! if you could! If you only could!” cried the girl. “It is the work of an angel you undertake.” “That is why Mirabeau seeks an angel to help him,” he said, bending his head toward the flower girl, as if she had been a duchess. “Do not mock me, monsieur. I am only a poor girl, with so few to care for in the world, that I can afford to take a little danger on myself. When you want me, I shall not stand back.” “I am sure of that, and say, good morning! knowing that I have one true friend more.” As Mirabeau said this, he lifted his hat with a courteous bend of the head, and swept down the street, forgetting to pay the sous which Marguerite had named as a fair price for her flowers. In this one act the nature of that little, great and most wonderful man, betrayed itself. He was ready to toss away gold for a tuft of flowers, but forgot entirely the trifling sum which was their just value. Prodigality has always a germ of meanness lying at the core. All this time Louison Brisot had been watching them. CHAPTER LXXXVI. ANOTHER CUSTOMER. “Will you sell me a flower?” Marguerite started, with a thrill of surprise. “Was it Count Mirabeau come back with the money he had forgotten? Or was it—”