At last they had him in a firm grip; this proud demagogue, this popular idol, who loomed over them like a god, was in their power. They had proofs of his treason—proofs written by his own hand; the proof of an eye witness, who had seen him at the very feet of the queen. All this the articles in the journal only hinted at; but when Mirabeau took his seat in the Assembly that day, the storm would burst upon him. Hitherto he had defied them, and trampled down accusations of which there was no evidence that the people would accept. But now, yes now—— No wonder Marat laughed till the water shook and rippled around him as if a serpent were uncoiling in them, then plunged into the bitterness of his article again, storming on the foe that in his mind was already down. Nay, he could not write, the brutal joy within him was too great. Rather would he arise, dress himself, and witness the downfall of the rival he hated and feared. Mirabeau heard the cry, paused in his haughty progress, and bought a journal, which he read quietly passing along the street, and those who observed him, saw a keen smile shoot over his lips. Surely, whatever the charge was, that man would fight it to the bitter end, and with such weapons as his opponents could never wield. The people still believed in Mirabeau, and cheered him as he moved toward the Assembly, even with those virulent cries of “traitor” on the air. The power of that man was something marvelous. The Assembly was turbulent that day as the streets had been. Mirabeau’s enemies were triumphant, his friends doubtful and anxious. Never had his accusers seemed so assured of success. Even his composure could not abate their joy. That calm seemed to them like depression. At the very door of the Assembly, the cry of Mirabeau’s treason came up. The galleries were full of women who were more tumultuous and eager than the men. Some had brought their work, others carried parcels, in which were bread or fruit, for it was believed that the sitting would be long and violent. Mirabeau would not die easy; they had hedged him in like a lion in the toils, and like a lion he was sure to defend himself. So the women of France flocked to the Assembly, and crowded all its vacant spaces, as the matrons of old Rome went to see gladiators and wild beasts tear each other. In this mob, which called itself a deliberative body, there was neither decorum, nor an attempt at order. Where all the evil passions are let loose tumult and anarchy must follow.