There was more of audacity than courage in this speech, and desperate anxiety gave a false ring to his voice as he uttered it. Then, with a slow, arrogant movement, Mirabeau arose to his feet, and asked for the proofs of these charges, which had been so often hinted or spoken that they had lost all claim to originality, and were hardly worth answering, even when brought seriously before that august body. Of course citizen Robespierre did not expect him to answer accusations so loosely made, when unsupported by proof. Even that must be from persons, and of a character beyond question, if he deigned to notice it, even by a verbal contradiction. “The proof!” exclaimed Robespierre, in his sharp, disagreeable voice. “Stand forth, citoyenne Brisot, and let the people know how grossly they have been deceived. Answer: Did you not, in June last, see this man, Count Mirabeau, in company with Marie Antoinette, in a temple hidden away in the romantic grounds of St. Cloud? Did you not hear them make a solemn compact together, which was to chain France once more to the throne. Citoyenne Brisot, show to the people and their representatives that letter addressed to the queen, in the handwriting, and bearing the signature of Count Mirabeau, which is now in your possession. Citoyens, there is no time for such forms of investigation as usually follow charges like these; extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures. I move that these proofs are laid before you now—and that citoyenne Brisot have permission to speak.” Mirabeau arose, smiling, and begged that it might be so. Then, amid some confusion, Louison was called. She came out from the group of women who had crowded around her, somewhat excited, and with a light laugh upon her lips. “What is it,” she said, demurely casting down her eyes, “that citoyen Robespierre desires of me?” “The letter, Louison—the letter!” The Assembly was hushed; no sound arose but a rustle in the galleries, as people in the crowd leaned eagerly over each other. Mirabeau turned white in his chair. Even his fierce bravery could not hold its own against the awful anxiety of the moment. His enemies saw this, and murmurs of irrepressible triumph began to arise. “The letter, citoyen Robespierre?” said Louison, lifting her eyebrows with a look of innocent astonishment, “there must be some mistake—I have no letter.” Robespierre fell into his seat, and sat staring at the girl in wild astonishment. Mirabeau leaned back in his chair, drew a deep breath, and laughed. A roar of applause swept down from the galleries. This was answered back by the women on the floor, and carried into the street, where it ran like wild-fire among the people who could find no room inside.