As often happens, one powerful passion silenced another. Mirabeau’s rude strength subdued the woman’s wrath till it came within the level of words. In bitter, stinging taunts, that man, with all his eloquence, was no match for the girl, who, for the moment, hated him. “Where shall I go, to that temple in the park of St. Cloud, where a vile traitor meets a——” Mirabeau started up, his face crimson, his large hand clenched. It was Louison’s turn to laugh—and her voice rang out in one long, mocking taunt. “You look surprised. Those eyes start from your head. You order me to begone, but forget to tell me where. If that temple does not please you, perhaps Madame Du Berry——” The girl broke off appalled. She had brought the tiger in Mirabeau’s nature uppermost, and even her courage shrunk a little under it. The man turned upon her like a wild beast, but even in that supreme moment restrained himself. Her words surprised him. He could not fathom the extent of her knowledge, and was too proud for questions; but doubt and keen anxiety broke through the storm on his face. How much did that evil creature know? “So you dared to level me with the crowd of silly women whose hearts you have trampled on,” said Louison, encouraged by his fierce agitation. “You thought a few curt words, and unmanly insults, would send me whining among their ranks. With your lips on the hand of a queen, you could afford to scoff at a woman of the people. But I will give you proofs of your mistake. The people shall know of this treason before the night is an hour older.” With a mighty power of self-control Mirabeau sat down at his table, took up the pen, and went on writing. He would not let the woman see that she had shaken his nerves by a single thrill of apprehension. “You do not believe me. Well, what if I tell you exactly how much gold has been drawn from the royal treasury to gild the treason of Count Mirabeau?” The pen in Mirabeau’s hand gave a sudden leap upon the paper, then glided on evenly as before. “What if I tell you what fair girl it was who brought a letter from St. Cloud this very evening?” “Even then,” said Mirabeau, at last, pausing a moment in his work, “what would the word of Louison Brisot be against that of Mirabeau? Foolish woman! you are wasting time! Go, carry your bundle of falsehoods where you will, they only weary me, and I am busy.” “I will,” answered the woman. “Henceforth there is war between us two.” Again Mirabeau smiled; though startled, and full of keen apprehension, he would not let the woman see how terribly her words had disturbed him. Still they were but words, and an accusation, without evidence, could easily be borne down, especially as it would seem to spring from the jealousy of an angry woman, whose vindictive character was well known at the clubs.