“But you will keep it safe? It will be forthcoming when the patriots of the Assembly call for it?” “You have seen it—and who doubts the word of Robespierre?” “But I must have the proof—too many unfounded or unproved charges have been made against this man. They only make him more defiant and more powerful.” “But the letter will be in my keeping—you can find it at any time.” “Then you will not leave it?” “No!” “But promise me that you will not part with it to another.” “Well, I promise. Good-night, citoyen.” Robespierre followed the woman with his keen eyes, longing to spring upon her and wrest the document from her bosom. His thin hand clutched and opened itself on the table with an impatient desire to be at work. At the door of Robespierre’s lodgings Louison met two men, whom she knew and recognized. For one moment she paused. If her design was carried out, these were the very persons whose aid she wanted; but she only hesitated a moment, then passed on, saying, “Good-evening, citoyen Marat. Good-evening, St. Just.” Marat answered her with a careless jest. St. Just simply bent his head, but neither smiled on her, or at the wit of his companion. Louison stood a moment in the passage, and watched these two men as they mounted a flight of stairs leading to Robespierre’s room. “Shall I go back,” she thought, “and settle the whole thing with these men at once? No, not yet. By to-morrow I may have the other letter, or it may be—it may be——” Louison hurried into the street with this half-uttered sentence on her lip, and walked rapidly toward the Chaussée d’Anton. When she came opposite Mirabeau’s house her face lighted up. She had said to herself, “If I find it dark, then it shall be Robespierre; if not, Mirabeau shall have another chance. I will not give him up to these hounds without that.” Womanhood was strong within her that evening. She panted to conquer this great man, but not destroy him. When she thought of that, a feeling of terrible desolation fell upon her. She shuddered to think how near the scaffold was to a political offence. The porter made no objection to her entrance this time, but waved his hand toward the library, as if she had been expected. CHAPTER XCV. THE FRAUD OF FASCINATION. “Ah! you have thought better of it—I knew that it would be so,” said Mirabeau, receiving the woman he had parted with in such bitter anger, with a broad, frank smile. “Why will you degrade yourself with miserable threats, my beautiful friend?” “Threats! Only threats! Nay, it was something more. I am not to be defied with impunity.” “Defied! No. With me it was confidence, not defiance.” “Confidence! How?” “How? Not even yourself, Louison, can make me believe you capable of a mean action.” “A mean action! But you had concealments with me.” “Only for a time. In a few days you would have known everything.”