Robespierre had seen this young person before, and received her with a feeling of disappointment. Notwithstanding the honied flatteries she had bestowed on him that night in the street, he distrusted her. Louison was known as the devoted friend of Mirabeau, and Robespierre regarded her with something of the dislike which he felt toward that powerful man, whose greatness had so overshadowed him both in the Assembly and with the people. “I am fortunate in finding you alone, citoyen,” said the girl, who scarcely heeded the confusion into which she had thrown the little man, whose character and ability had not yet found full recognition in France. “We are not known to each other much, but shall be better acquainted, I hope, after my errand is explained. Have I your permission to sit?” Robespierre came forward and placed one of the two chairs his room contained, for the accommodation of his visitor. Then he stood up, leaning one hand on the table, and waited in grave silence for her to speak. She did this suddenly. “You know Mirabeau well, but do not like him,” she affirmed rather than questioned. “Yes, the count has made himself well known in the Assembly.” “Where he overshadows more able members than he ever can be, and tyrannizes over the true patriots of France by the force of his own brutal character.” “Mirabeau is a powerful man,” answered Robespierre thoughtfully. “This day he stands with his foot upon the neck of France, and the people sustain him.” “Because they think him a true patriot.” “Yes, he has attained a marvelous hold on the people.” “But if those who worship him now could be made to see him false as he is—a traitor to their cause, a parasite of the court, a double-sided villain—what then? Would they cling to him still?” “Cling to him? No! The people are great; the people are just!” “One question more. Who is there among the patriots who could take his place?” For the first time, a slow, dull crimson came into Robespierre’s face, and his eyes shone with inward fire. The ambition that consumed him flashed out with an irrepressible illumination of the face that a moment before had seemed so parched and void of all expression. Louison answered the look as if he had spoken. “You are right, citizen. The man is Maximillian Robespierre. I, of all the women of France, have known it. While others reviled him, I have seen the elements of greatness rising and growing in this man. While Mirabeau trifles with his power, plays with his popularity, and loses his triumphs, this man hoards his strength and bends his energies to one great purpose—the liberty of the people.” Robespierre gazed on the woman in amazement. He believed himself to be all that she described, felt the indomitable spirit, which she understood so well, burning in his soul, and replied to her as if she had been talking to another person.