He did look upon her with an expression that had made many a heart beat faster to their peril. “But you have not told me all?” he said, gently. “There was another letter. How did you reach it?” “Another letter? The queen’s answer. I waited for it, hoped for it; but the little wretch would not give it up.” “What wretch? Nay, nay! do not turn your head from me, Louison. Confidence, to be perfect, must be mutual. Tell me what more you have been doing.” Louison told him how she had put Zamara on the track of his enterprise, and confessed, with burning shame, the defeat that wary dwarf had brought upon her. “So he has the document!” said Mirabeau, carelessly. “No matter; we will soon get it from him. I will force him to give it into your possession before you leave the house, late as it is. Henceforth there shall be no half confidence between us.” Louison smiled, and her eyes shone triumphantly—some generous impulses always exist in a woman who loves. Mirabeau’s forbearance brought all that was good in that hard nature to the surface. She remembered, with a pang of remorse, that the most dangerous action that had sprung out of her jealousy was still untold—her interview with Robespierre. While Mirabeau wrote a few brief lines and folded them, she thought of this, and hesitated how to tell him that which would not fail to stir his anger. The count was occupied with other things, and left her, for a time, unnoticed at his feet, while he touched a bell on the table, and gave some orders to a servant. Louison started when she heard them. “Take this to Madame Du Berry, she will send her attendant, the dwarf, back with you. See that the imp speaks to no one. If he attempts to evade you, bring him in your arms; but do not quite strangle him.” CHAPTER XCV. ZAMARA IS MASTER OF THE SITUATION. THE man went out somewhat astonished, but resolute to obey the orders he had received. Then Mirabeau leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath. He was a perfect dissembler, or that keen woman would have detected something in his face that she did not like. “Mirabeau,” she said, almost humbly, “I have not told you all. When I went out from here to-night, my heart was full of rage and fire—I hated you.” “Foolish girl; weak, weak woman! How little you understand the man who loves you. Well, go on. What further mischief has been done?” “Mirabeau, I took that letter to Robespierre.” The count started up and almost hurled her to the floor. “To Robespierre! Fiend! fool! woman!” He spoke the last word with concentrated scorn, as if it were the hardest and most offensive he could apply to her. “I took it to Robespierre because of his enmity to you. At that moment, you know, I hated you, and longed for revenge.” “And you gave him the letter? It is no longer in your possession?” “He read it, and wanted to keep it, but I would not let him.” “Ah! Well, what did he say to it?”