No, that was impossible; she stood on the other side while looking over his shoulder, in that position the deer was beyond the reach of her arm. But the letter was gone, and he had not, for a moment, left the room after it was placed in his hands by that fair girl. Where could it be? Why had it left his hand for a single moment? Mirabeau ground his teeth, and cursed his own carelessness as he tossed the papers to and fro on his writing-table; but it was of no avail—the queen’s letter was gone. CHAPTER XCIV. LOUISON BRISOT VISITS ROBESPIERRE. A little man sat alone in his lodgings where he led an existence of austere economy, such as many of the most noisy patriots only affected. This man was sincere in his simple mode of life, and honestly rigid in the self-denial, which had become a habit within him. The only gleam of vanity that broke around him lay in the showy color and cut of his clothes, which were unlike those of any other man in his class of life. With this exception, Robespierre cared nothing for his surroundings. He was proud of a very insignificant person, and ambitious for power, but had not thought of gain as a means of working out his ambition. Indeed, Robespierre, like many of his compatriots, was proud of his poverty, and used it as a stepping-stone to the influence he craved. “A woman wishes to see citoyen Robespierre.” These words from a slatternly servant aroused the man from a pamphlet which he was reading, and he started up surprised, and a little nervous, for it was getting late in the evening, and in order to read in comfort, he had thrown off the only coat he possessed, and unwound the voluminous cravat from his throat, both of which articles lay across the back of his chair. “A woman—a lady? Who is it?” “Don’t know.” “Well, what is she—young or old, beautiful or ugly?” “Beautiful, I dare say the citoyen will think.” “Well, well, keep her waiting till I get my coat on.” Robespierre ran to a little mirror hanging on the wall, and folded the soft, white cravat around his neck, caressed the ruffles of plaited linen that had begun to hang limp, and a little soiled upon his bosom, into something like their original crispness. Then he thrust his arms into a coat originally of bright olive-green, from which the nap had been considerably worn by constant brushing. Scarcely had he settled his slight figure in these garments when the door of his room opened, and Louison Brisot made her appearance. She had evidently been walking fast, for a warm, bright color glowed in her cheeks, and her bosom heaved and fell with her quick breathing.