“You made a confidant of that woman, Du Berry, who is worse than an aristocrat, and only claims to be one of us when all else reject her.” “On the contrary—I made her my tool.” “You invited that insolent woman, Theroigne de Mericourt, to your table, while I was almost driven from your door.” Mirabeau laughed till the ruffles on his broad bosom shook again. “Ah! you heard of that! Why, the whole troop of rioters forced themselves upon me—these two women with the rest. Robespierre, Marat, and some others, members of the Assembly, all came in a little mob together. I could but entertain them. Such men resent neglect.” “But Madame Du Berry! I was here—I overheard your conversation with that woman.” “Then you only learned one fact, that I considered her a useful instrument, by which a great end might be attained. She still has friends at court. I wished to draw myself into communication there.” “Yes, I know,” answered Louison, with a bitter laugh. “You wished to visit a little temple in the grounds at St. Cloud.” Mirabeau winced, but the smile never left his lips as she went on. “You desired, above all things, to kneel at the feet and kiss the hand of the queen. For a citizen of France, sworn to make her people free, it was a glorious ambition.” “Go on,” said the count, leaning back in his chair—“go on. What more have you learned?” “What more? Why, that the kneeling was done—the kiss given. I saw your perjured lips on the Austrian’s hand with my own eyes. The whole base treason was made plain to me then, as it is now, when I have your letter at command.” Mirabeau’s eyes flashed. She had the letter still in her possession. His greatest anxiety was laid at rest. “Then,” he said, with a pleasant, mellow laugh, “you have been playing the spy upon me all this time. Quite unnecessary, my friend. When my plans were matured you would have had them all. These others were my instruments; you had a grander and higher role to play.” “Yes, I understand, that of a cast-off garment when the fashions change, or an orange when the juice is exhausted,” answered the woman, tartly, but wavering a little in her bitter unbelief. “Mon Dieu! how thoroughly you play the jealous dame, Louison. I had hoped better things of you; but it is folly, I suppose, to expect broad confidence and a clear understanding of great aims in any woman.” Louison flushed angrily. It had been her pride to mate her own bold spirit with that of Mirabeau. “Wise men or women do not act blindly when nations are at stake,” she said, in a tone that was becoming more and more apologetic. “Deceive me in ever so little, and you deceive me in everything.” “But I have not deceived you, my beautiful tigress!” “You have met the queen?” “Granted.” “Taken money from the queen?” “That is false—a wicked slander that would blister honest lips,” cried the count, sitting upright, and flashing a storm of fierce wrath upon her.