“Stand aside, I wish to go. You have sneered at and insulted me so often that this blade quivers in my hand—a touch of its point and you are dead.” Louison stepped aside, for the gleam of a serpent was in the little creature’s eyes, and she knew that he had a serpent’s longing to strike her down. When Zamara was gone, Louison sat down utterly confounded. Her instrument, her slave, the creature whom she had depended on for help, had openly defied her. What would he do? Show the letter to Mirabeau’s enemies, and thus make it useless to her? Or would he go to the count himself and tell him all that she had done? CHAPTER XCIII. THE QUEEN’S LETTER. It was getting late, but Louison cared nothing for that, the exactions of society had long since been thrown away in her wild life. She hastily arranged her dress and went into the street. She had intended to seek Mirabeau that evening, ready for a contest, with two letters,—that which Mirabeau had written to the queen, and the answer which she had failed to obtain. As it was, she went forth half armed, but feeling sufficiently secure. After all, it was of less importance what the queen had written to Mirabeau, than what this revolutionary leader had written to the queen. Like a good general mustering his forces after a partial defeat, this woman arranged her thoughts as she threaded the streets of Paris. When she had reached the Chaussée d’Anton, her courage returned with that supreme audacity which no misfortune or rebuff could conquer. A subject of bitter anger met Louison at the very door of Count Mirabeau’s dwelling. The porter denied her that free admission which she had always commanded. She was requested to wait in the hall till Count Mirabeau’s pleasure could be learned. “He did not receive now as formerly, and no one was admitted, unannounced, to his presence.” Louison was white with sudden wrath; as she turned upon the man specks of angry foam shot to her lips. “Is this a rule for all?” “Yes; all but very intimate friends, of whom I have a list.” “See if the name of Louison Brisot is on that list.” The haughty confidence in her tone rather startled the man, who drew a memorandum-book from his pocket, and turned over the leaves in nervous haste. Louison possessed neither fear nor delicacy. While the man was glancing over some names written in his book, she drew close and read them for herself. She saw two names that kindled her wrath to a white heat—Madame Du Berry, and lower down Marguerite. “No, madame—or, I beg pardon, mademoiselle, the name is not here,” said the man, closing his book. “That is because there should not be a servant in this house so ignorant as to ask my name. I will find Count Mirabeau myself.”