She looked at Robespierre in that olive-green coat, with its high rolling collar, under which his spare, angular figure seemed to shrink away into insignificance, and a smile of derision almost curled her saucy lips. She remarked with an inward jeer, the striped vest, in which lines of warm buff predominated, whose broad lapels, opening wide upon the bosom, gave place to a profusion of twisted muslin and clustering ruffles, from which that contracted face, lean, dry, and hard, rose in grotesque contrast. Louison almost laughed at herself for the thought of lifting this man into the seat of Mirabeau, whose brutal strength and dashing elegance came back upon her mind with the sudden force of contrast. She remembered how grandly the broad ruffles rolled back from his massive throat; how imperial was the poise of that haughty head, with its shock of tawny hair, and wonderful mobility of countenance. Even the supreme insolence of his bearing had its charm for this woman, who was ready to adore the man whose ruin she was planning, while she solemnly believed that it was hate which led her on. She turned away from the contemplation of Robespierre’s meagre figure, wondering at herself that she had even so far put a creature like Mirabeau into his power. After all, Louison Brisot was a woman, and capricious even in the wild patriotism and burning jealousy, which led so many of the women of France into acts that seemed to unsex them. She began to scorn herself for the idea of casting a grand, leonine creature like Mirabeau into the power of a man, whose appearance was so utterly insignificant. No, Louison would not do it. Mirabeau should have another chance. It was like chaining a lion that foxes might torture him. No,—no! That letter once given up, and where was she? Simply an informer, to be used for that eager little man, who could not even smile frankly. Louison put the letter in her bosom, while Robespierre was gazing on it with eager longing. “But you are not going? You will not take it away?” he exclaimed, sharply. “It belongs to me—I shall not harm it. When all is ready you know where to find it.” “But, citoyenne, that paper belongs to the people.” “And I am one of the people,” answered Louison, laughing. “Leave it—leave it with me.” “Yes, when I like you better than myself.” Robespierre measured the woman with a keen, hungry glance. He was not altogether a brave man, but crafty and cruel enough to have killed her with his own hands, if that would have given him possession of the paper; but Louison, a handsome, bright woman, was, in fact, powerful enough to have defended herself against two such men as Robespierre. He glanced at her tall, subtle person, her strong, white arms, and burning eyes, that seemed to read the craven purpose that was creeping through his brain and felt how useless any struggle would be against her. So he slunk back into the chair, from which he had half-started, with a feeling of abject defeat.