Louison lifted the hand to her lips and covered it with kisses. “Ah!” she said, “this is coming from purgatory into heaven.” “But even angels must part sometimes, my friend.” “Yes, yes! Good-night. Ah, Mirabeau! how pleasant it is to be your slave!” “Slave! No, no! My mate—my friend!” “Call it by any name you will; but the jealous love which would have destroyed you an hour ago, now crouches at your feet in full submission. Good-night!” Mirabeau walked to the door and held it open, an act of courtesy seldom vouchsafed to her before. So, with smiles on her lips, she went out into the darkness. The moment she was gone, Count Mirabeau went back to his room, wild with the excitement he had suppressed with so much effort. Approaching the table, he struck his clenched fist upon it with a blow that sounded through the room, and fell into his chair, wiping great drops of perspiration from his forehead. Great heavens! the gulf that yawned before me! I can hardly make sure that it is bridged over yet. Another outburst of her furious jealousy between this and to-morrow, is absolute ruin. Fool, fool that I was to feel safe in my contempt of this dangerous woman. Surely few people should know better than myself that there is no fury like a woman scorned; but the fiend within is always tempting me to turn my doves into vipers. Heavens! when I think of the danger, it chills me; but she is tamed now. Mirabeau’s spell is upon her. I was tempted to take the letter from her bosom, but better not, better not. She knows too much. One token of distrust, and she would hasten to deserve it. She will not speak—she will not. When Mirabeau seals a woman’s mouth with kisses it is mute, save to obey him. Yes, she is safe—but how the whole thing shakes me! I did not think there was a woman living who could strike Mirabeau with a panic like this. The coward drops lie cold on my forehead even when I know the danger is passed. Oh, yes! it was better that I seemed to trust her—now I can. CHAPTER XCVII. BAFFLED AND DEFEATED. “The treason of Mirabeau! The treason of Mirabeau!” Robespierre had made his first attack in a bitter article hawked that morning through the streets of Paris; and the cry rose loud and long, like the howl of wild beasts scenting blood afar off. “The treason of Mirabeau! The treason of Mirabeau!” Robespierre heard it while walking toward the Assembly, and his black heart beat with triumph under that olive-green coat. Marat heard it as he lay in his bath, writing a still more furious attack on the popular idol, and a spasm of delight shook all his restless limbs till the water stirred around them.