The delicate and slender fingers of the old man clung around the large, white hand of his son with a touch of irrepressible affection. The light blue eyes, a moment before keen and anxious, grew misty; and the thin lips moved with a visible tremor before they framed the words of welcome, that seemed to harden and grow cold as they were uttered. In his pride, the first impulse of nature was suppressed on the moment; and dropping the hand he had not touched in many a year, the old nobleman sat down quietly, and motioned his renegade son to occupy a chair close by. Mirabeau threw himself heavily on the chair, and dropped his hat carelessly on the floor beside it; at which the old man motioned the servant, who still lingered, and bade him place Count Mirabeau’s hat in a proper place, and then betake himself from the room. Mirabeau laughed, stretched himself lazily in his chair, and waited for the man to withdraw. When he had gone, the count turned abruptly toward the old man, and said, in a voice full of the deep feeling which made his eloquence so impressive, “Father, I am grateful to you for coming here. It is long since we have met, and longer, I fear, since you have cared to meet me. But now, I think, you will confess that I have not altogether degraded the name I bear. If men of my own class shrink sometimes from Mirabeau—the people love him.” “Yes, I have learned this, even in the seclusion of my retirement. But I have also learned that Mirabeau uses this influence against his own class—against his king.” “Not when his king is true to the people!” answered the count, promptly. “It is only when he refuses to be the monarch of all France that I oppose him.” “They tell me also that my son has degraded himself into becoming the editor of a factious journal.” “Degraded himself! Who dares to call a full use of one’s intellect degradation? I cannot make myself heard and known to the people of France by speeches only—the thought in these speeches must take various forms, and be brought home to every man’s understanding. Yes, I am the editor of a journal which speaks of hope, progress, liberty for the people. If such engines of power are a terror to the king and his haughty Austrian wife, so much the worse for him, and the better for us.” “But, this is treason!” broke in the old man, angrily. “Father, there is no such word as treason now. We have rebaptized the sentiment, and call it liberty!” “And is this the doctrine taught by a son of mine! He forgets the noble blood in his veins, and gives himself up to the rebellious spirit which would equalize refinement with ignorance, nobility with degradation. The very ermine of royalty he is ready to drag in the dust.” “And why not, if it fails to protect the people?” “But the people are rising up in antagonism against the class to which you belong; this feeling may reach the king.” “May!” exclaimed the count, with a mocking laugh. “Why, it is already upon him.” “And you exult over it?”