Zamara needed no second bidding, but left the room, muttering, “She loves that man—she is jealous—his death would kill her. Good!” After Zamara was gone, Mirabeau drew Louison toward him. “The little viper would have cheated us both,” he said, “but for once we have drawn his fangs. Now for the other letter. When that is in ashes, we shall know how to meet this more venomous creature, Robespierre, and his mates. So they had Mirabeau in a trap, had they! The letter, Louison—the letter! We will send it after the one that is gone!” “But it is not here,” answered Louison. “I went home first, and left it there.” Mirabeau started. Had she, indeed, left that letter with his enemies. He looked keenly in her face, searching it for the truth. As his eyes wandered downward, a corner of the folded paper he had seen before was visible above the short, full waist of her dress. A crafty smile crept over Mirabeau’s lips as he drew her downward and pressed them to hers. He was tempted to secure the paper then, but his inordinate vanity prevented it. Dangerous as she was, he would trust her, and thus test his own powers of persuasion. “Ah, you do love me!” murmured the woman, and tears rose to her eyes. “How weak, how foolish to doubt it, my friend, my queen!” This word brought back Louison’s distrust. “Ah, the queen!” she said; “but for her I might not have doubted you. You gave her what Louison never knew, reverence, homage.” “Because there was no other way of winning her to my purpose. Cannot you understand that we gain and rule people by their master passions? Now there is not in all France a woman so proud of her power, and so conscious of her loveliness, as Marie Antoinette. Would you have had me wound while I wished to win her?” “Win her, Mirabeau?” “Yes, to those purposes which shall make your friend the ruler of France, and yet give liberty to the people. In order to accomplish this we must not pull down the throne entirely. France loves her traditions, and in some form or another will keep them. The nation is now like a noble ship reeling and plunging through the blackness of a storm. There is but one man living who could guide the helm—that man is Mirabeau.” “And but one woman who has the wit and courage to stand by his side, let the storm rage as it will,” said Louison, kindling with enthusiasm. “Ah, yes! this is far better than being a queen!” Mirabeau took her hand and kissed it, as if she had, indeed, been a sovereign, thus mocking her vanity in his heart. “We understand each other thoroughly now,” he said. “There will be no more doubt between us.” “Never again!” “And now we must say good-night, my friend. See how late it is.” Louison lingered, not that she was afraid of going into the street alone; but the exquisite delusions of the moment were upon her, and she longed to continue them. “The day has been an exciting one, and, spite of your dear presence, I am weary,” said the count, reaching forth his hand to take leave.