Louison cared nothing for this. Her idol was triumphant. By the act of that day she had chained him to her and placed him more firmly than ever in the hearts of the people. In his triumph hers was complete. That night Mirabeau sought Louison at her lodgings. The peril he had escaped brought a feeling of gratitude even into his selfish heart. In her jealous rage she had thrust him into danger; but a gentle word of affection had brought him out of it triumphantly, honored with double strength, and a victor over the most relentless enemies that ever pursued a man to ruin. Louison came to meet him, radiant, with both hands extended, and wild triumph in her eyes. “Now tell me—could the queen have done so much for you?” “The queen? Nay; she would rather see Mirabeau dead, save that he may be useful. Why speak of her, Louison? I came only to talk of yourself—you have made many enemies to-day.” “Enemies? Yes, I know it. What then—are you not stronger than ever? And I—have I not Mirabeau?” The count reached out his hand and wrung hers. “Who will defend you with his last breath.” “And love me till then?” A soft, pleading light came into her eyes; for the moment this brave, bad woman was humble and tender as a child. Mirabeau gave an impatient movement of the head. This talk of love from her lips was like a proffer of dead flowers. Anything else he would give her—but not that. Even in his supreme danger, the night before, a semblance of the passion had been irksome—now it seemed impossible. “Ask Mirabeau how he will act, and he can tell you; but feeling is another thing, my friend.” Louison’s eyes filled with questioning disappointment. Was he failing her so soon? “There, there! I meant nothing that should drive all that light from your face. No woman has ever stood by me as you have done. Mirabeau may be faithless to his loves—people say that he is. But who ever charged him with desertion of a friend, much less one who has served him as you have done?” Louison heard him, and her great eyes filled with tearful reproach. “Ah, Mirabeau! you never loved me!” “On my soul I did, but that was when——” Now her eyes were raised to his with wistful questioning, which made him break off in the cruel thing he was saying. “When?” “When I looked upon you only as a woman.” “Only as a woman! When I have done so much for France—so much for you. This is hard, it is ungrateful.” “Yes, I think it is; but not the less true. Men have strong sympathies, firm friendships, sometimes high reverence, for each other, but no love; that we give to women.” Louison’s lip curved an instant, but a quiver of pain took all the scorn from it. “And that you can never give to me? What have I done?” “Too much, my friend. The pride of manhood revolts at a false position. Had you craved care, Mirabeau would have protected you.” “Ah! I understand. You aspire to protect the queen. She is ready to be cared for, and, perhaps, loved.”