Mirabeau’s enemies were all in their places. Clubs known to oppose him had emptied themselves into the galleries. On the floor his foes gathered in groups consulting together. There the beautiful face of St. Just was contrasted with the austere features of Desmoulins and the hateful coarseness of Danton. Everywhere Mirabeau saw preparations for an attack that was to crush him; but this only shot fire to his eyes, and curled his lips with haughty disdain. Not that he felt himself quite safe, but he was sustained by the natural self-confidence of a spirit that had never quailed before man. At all times Mirabeau was self-sufficient, more so than ever when danger threatened him. There he sat in the midst of his enemies, like a lion waiting for the gladiators to appear, calm from inordinate self-poise. Of all his enemies, Mirabeau’s defiant eyes sought out Robespierre the most frequently. There was something amounting almost to a smirk on the countenance of this little man, which would have been a smile in another; but the dry, parchment-like countenance of Robespierre admitted only of sneers and smirks—a broad, honest smile was impossible to it. Robespierre, at this time, had scarcely developed the dreadful character for cruelty and fanatical malice which blisters every page of history on which his name is written. His movements had been sinister, and up to this time, were more suggestive of atrocities than active in their perpetration. While Mirabeau was in power, the reptile spirit of this man had not ventured to crest itself, but slowly and with crafty windings was creeping stealthily to the horrible power with which the madness of an insane people at last invested him. Hitherto he had kept in the background, and instigated others to attack the man whose popularity stood between him and the position he thirsted for; but now that disgrace and defeat were certain, he came forward on the great man’s track like a hyena prowling along the path of a kingly beast.