“You are right. The man who is to lift France out of her chains must have but one duty, one idea—to that humanity itself must bow; for her sake life should be as nothing. The purposes of other men must bend to his will. Count Mirabeau is not that man. His soul wanders away from its wavering object back to his grosser self. He wastes his life in projects that have no issue. He loves himself rather than France. The aristocratic blood in his veins is forever leading him back to our enemies. He coquets with a great nation as if it were a woman.” “Yet the people love him, and follow him blindly—most of all, the women; and of these, with blind persistence, the women of the market, who wield a wonderful power over the starving multitude who come to them for food. “I know. I have seen their devotion. This man does not arise in his place without a crowd to cheer him on. His speeches are broken up with acclamations, and carried to the world on a thousand lips, warm with his praises. Yet, I declare to you, this man stands between these very people and their liberty—he blocks the way more earnest men are eager to tread. But why have I spoken thus, and to a woman known as his warmest admirer?” “Not so, citoyen. While Mirabeau was honest, I adored him. Now——” “Now? What have you discovered? Why are you here? Not because I am known as his friend? That is impossible. I look upon him as a stumbling block in the way of all true patriots.” “And I look upon him as a traitor!” “Ah! I know men say that; but the proof? Where is the proof? No one has been able to find it; and every futile charge only makes him the stronger.” “What if he were known to visit the queen privately?” “To visit the queen? No, no! He is not rash enough for that.” “But if he had?” “That would be a strong lever in skillful hands; but the proof must be clear, and the witnesses trustworthy.” “What if he had taken money from the court?” “Money! Why, that would kill him with the people.” “Where does the money come from with which he keeps up princely state in the Chaussée d’Anton? Has any one put that question home to him?” “As for that, it is understood that Mirabeau is reconciled with his father, a wealthy man in the provinces.” Louison broke into a laugh. “So that is the way he accounts for it; and the people are fools enough to believe him. Credulous idiots, have they no eyes?” “But suspicions are not proofs.” “Is this a _proof_?” cried the girl, losing all patience with these lawyer-like questions. “Is that Mirabeau’s handwriting? Will his besotted worshippers stand firm against a paper like that?”