Louison cast down Mirabeau’s letter to the queen as she spoke. Robespierre took it up and read it carefully. He was a cool, wary man, slow of conviction, impossible to move when his opinion was once formed; but the woman who watched him saw that hard, dull face light up with almost ferocious satisfaction, and his gray eyes were absolutely black with excitement as he turned them upon her. “This letter; how came it in your possession, citoyenne?” “I bribed Mirabeau’s messenger to give it up.” “It is genuine! It is genuine! Louison Brisot, you have done wonderful service to those who love France. I will lay this letter before the Assembly.” Louison turned white. This prompt action, which would sweep all power of retreat from her, took away her breath. As yet she had made no terms for herself. “When Mirabeau is dethroned, and another sits in his place, then what of Louison Brisot?” she said. “She will have the gratitude of all France,” answered Robespierre, looking up from the letter, which he was perusing a second time. “What more can a true patriot want?” “That which Mirabeau has, and you seek for—power!” “Power?” “The man who controls all others must share his power openly, or in secret, with Louison Brisot.” A faint, hard smile crept over Robespierre’s face; it disturbed the woman who gazed so fixedly upon him. Had she done well to exchange the insolent forbearance of Mirabeau for this iron man? “At last we can lay his black heart bare before the people he has duped. Nothing can save him. The man who arraigns him is immortal.” Robespierre was speaking to himself. Louison listened. She saw that he had no thought of her—that keen, selfish ambition possessed him entirely. She drew toward him softly as he pored over the paper, reached over his shoulder and took the letter from his hand. He started and uttered a faint snarl, like some wild animal when its food is torn away. “Why have you taken it?” he said, “I was getting his treason by heart.” “But I have scarcely read it myself. Besides, there are others who love France.” “No, no! Let this rest between you and me. Robespierre must strike the blow himself.” The sight of this man’s eagerness to crush his rival made Louison doubly anxious to keep the power she possessed under her own control. What, if in ruining Mirabeau, she only acted as the instrument of a harder man’s ambition. After all, had she not been too hasty in allowing the jealous feelings of a woman to hurry her so completely into a combination with Mirabeau’s enemies? Had she been wise to threaten this man, to whom defiance, in any form, was like flashes of scarlet to an enraged animal?