“Well, well, go on with your story,” said the count, while suppressed laughter still trembled on his lips. “I, for one, am ready to believe anything, even that Marie Antoinette, having trampled _me_ and my services under her feet, is ready to atone for it by a tender passion for my foster-brother.” “Do not scoff at me,” said Jacques; “I cannot bear that from you.” Mirabeau was touched by the deep pathos which lay rather in Jacques’ voice than his words. “I did not scoff, man; go on, go on. My father is ready to listen, and I am anxious to believe. Indeed, an explanation is necessary, for I fully expected that you would have preceded me here, and was somewhat annoyed on hearing that you had not yet presented yourself.” “I come now in all haste directly from Versailles.” “And what took you there?” asked the count. “A young girl whom you saw in her mother’s room. You know what her business was, and how hopeless it seemed that she should obtain an interview either with the king or queen.” “Yes, I can imagine that.” “But she would go; helpless, young, beautiful as she was, the girl was determined, and I was not coward enough to let her undertake the journey alone. A second time, I took advantage of my acquaintance with my friend, the locksmith, and in his stead forced myself into the king’s presence.” “And the girl; did she, too, obtain an interview?” “No; the guard refused her admission through the gates. I went in to urge her cause; and, God forgive me! came away without having mentioned it.” “How?” “It was because I love France better than anything on this earth; how else could I have forgotten the poor girl, who sat weeping in the public house, while I was pleading for the country, and forgetting her?” “Sit down, Jacques; sit down, my good friend,” said the old noble, composing himself in an easy chair. “This is a strange story, and I should like to hear all its details. Be seated, my son, here is evidently something worth listening to.” Mirabeau seated himself but Monsieur Jacques stood leaning on the back of his chair, while he related all that had happened to him at Versailles the day before. “I went there,” he said, “with a forlorn hope of helping this young girl; but when I found myself in the presence of the king, and saw how kind and good he was, enthusiasm for once swept everything else out of my mind, and my heart turned traitor to this unhappy girl.” “And what did you say to the king?” Jacques repeated his conversation with Louis in the work-shop, word for word. “And he endured this without anger—he listened?” “Without anger, truly, but not without agitation. Indeed, I could see that he felt every word I said, and would ponder over it.” “Yes,” muttered the count, “until the next man comes to argue it all out of his head.” “Do not think so, count; the king is a good man, and loves France.”