All this was not wonderful to him. Such mental excitements were sure to follow Mirabeau whenever he condescended to converse. Indeed, his most subtle power lay among the women of Paris. But eloquent as Mirabeau was, Jacques had more telling powers, for he had the merit of honest conviction. There was truth in all this man said, for he possessed that to which his foster-brother often pretended—a thorough knowledge of the people, of their wants and aspirations. Even in the chaotic state into which society was at this time thrown, Monsieur Jacques had wonderful influence, of which his foster-brother took the credit. When madame and Marguerite were left alone, the mother began to pace the room to and fro in great excitement. “Marguerite,” she said, laying a firm hand on each of her daughter’s shoulders, “up to this day we have been cold and selfish.” “Selfish! Oh, mamma!” “Yes; cold, selfish, egotistical—and for this God has not prospered us.” “Oh, mamma! have we not given up all? Have we saved anything, or spared anything to win liberty for my father?” “It is for this that I blush, Marguerite. Our poor martyr is but one of many. The Bastille is crowded full. You are not the only child who pines for her father’s liberty.” “Alas, no!” “Yet it is of him, and him alone, we have been thinking.” “But what else could we do?” “Open our arms, and embrace all humanity.” “But we are only women—helpless and suffering women.” “So much the better; our sister sufferers will have faith in us.” “But what is it you intend? Something grand and strange—I can see it in your eyes.” “No, there is nothing grand in my object; it is simply to perform a duty to others as well as to ourselves. To-day I am going among the market-people. I know some of them, from whom we have made our meagre purchases. They are brave and ardent, ready to act if they only had a leader. The good dame who was here this morning will aid me in my first step.” “And that leader? Not my mother, surely! I see a power of command in your gestures. All this terrifies me—what does this mean?” “It means that our poor prisoner shall yet feel the grim walls of the Bastille tremble around him like an earthquake. It means liberty for him and for all. It means that while a woman loves the husband of her youth, she should never forget the country of her birth.” “But how can you, a lonely woman, without money or friends, accomplish this?” “I will make friends of my fellow-sufferers. I will make friends of famine and want. Starvation shall be made powerful. Elements of great strength are running to waste. I will gather them up, and hurl them against the walls of the Bastille—hurl them against the throne itself.” “Mother, you have been dreaming; the fatigue of yesterday has made you ill.” “No, I have not been dreaming. Last night I never closed my eyes; but I thought, while you slept, thought of him, thought of France, till my brain burned, and my heart grew large.”