Louison waited for no protest, but made her way at once into the library, where Mirabeau was writing. He lifted his eyes as the woman presented herself, and looked at her from head to foot with a stern, questioning glance, still holding the pen in his hand. She gave him back a look of reckless defiance. Then Mirabeau laid down his pen, and touched a silver bell that stood upon the table. The porter had followed Louison, anxious to exculpate himself, and was instantly at the door. “I gave orders that no one should be admitted. How is it that they have not been obeyed?” said the count. “Pardon, monsieur. I am distressed to say it, but the lady was informed, and still she came in.” “Very well. You may go!” Mirabeau took up his pen as he spoke, and went on writing as if Louison had not been in the room. The insulting coolness of the act drove Louison beside herself. She went to the table, and bent her white face close to the calm, massive features of this strange man. “Are you afraid of me that your man has such orders?” she whispered, for her voice was locked with intense anger. Mirabeau looked up and smiled as he uttered the single word, “Afraid!” “Yes, afraid!” she said, with biting scorn. “No, only tired,” answered the man, leaning back in his chair, with a slight yawn, which drove the woman mad. “Tired! Tired of what?” “Of you, I think.” His insolent calmness struck the woman dumb. She could neither speak nor move. Her consternation amused Mirabeau, to whom a woman’s anger was generally a subject of ridicule or philosophical speculation. Just now he rather enjoyed the rage of his visitor; it was picturesque, sweeping thus over the stormy beauty of her face. “Count Mirabeau, this is an insult!” Mirabeau smiled. “An insult for which you shall pay dearly.” This fierce threat brought a faint color over the man’s face. She saw it and exulted. At least, she had the power to stir the blood in his veins. A little more, and she would make a tiger of him. Oh! for words bitter enough! They would not come. If she could have coined bullets into insults, they would been too weak for the need of her seething anger. Mirabeau took up his pen and began to write. A half-completed letter lay before him, and he went on with it calmly. All at once he felt her white face droop toward his shoulder, and her breath bathed his cheek. She was reading the letter over which his hand moved. With his fist dashed down on the paper, and his frowning face uplifted, he thundered out, “Begone, woman! Begone, I say!” In his anger, Count Mirabeau was terrible. Sometimes he concealed it beneath smiles, and sharp, witty jeers, holding himself under firm control, as he had done during this unwelcome interview; but Louison had, in fact, worn out his patience—and he was not a person to bear threats tamely from man or woman. Now the coarse nature broke out, and once more he bade his tormentor begone, as if she had been some repulsive animal in his path.