“If he had the strength to govern France it would be better; good hearts are charming in social life, but to govern kingdoms power of intellect and power of will must be added, and these Louis the Sixteenth never had. Those around him will always govern—most of all the Queen.” “Ah! my brother,” said Jacques, resting one hand on the count’s shoulder, “if you and the queen only could understand each other all would go well with France.” “But we never shall understand each other; her prejudices are bitter; her ideas of royal prerogatives tenacious. Among them she considers that of crushing all who swerve from the royal path as an inherited power. I have joined my interests with those of the people, and Marie Antoinette will never forgive it.” “Not while your enemies keep so resolutely in the way,” answered Jacques. The old man listened to the conversation, but just then took no part. He seemed astonished at the familiarity which existed between his son and the foster-brother, whom he had always considered as little better than a servant. Was this the fraternity and equality which was becoming so broadly popular in France? The very idea shocked all his lordly prejudices. Yet Jacques was, in fact, seconding his own arguments, and rendering them far more forcible than anything he could have uttered. The old man felt this, and the idea galled his pride. “There it is, my enemies always are in the way, and my worst enemy is here.” Mirabeau turned his face full upon Jacques, and smoothed his chin with one hand. It was indeed, a rough face, but full of power, like that of a sleeping lion—a face that, from its very ugliness, carried fascination with it. The expression was so intense, the outlines so full of rugged grandeur, that no man could look upon it without feeling its force, and no woman turn from it with indifference. Still this proud and most reckless man was, sometimes, angry with the rude features that met him in the glass; and there had been seasons in his life when he would gladly have exchanged them for the beauty of weaker men, which is so taking at first sight, especially with women. This distrust of himself had in early life, no doubt, led Mirabeau into many adventures unworthy of a great mind. His restless vanity was forever asserting itself, and calling for proofs which he was always ready to seek for at the sacrifice of his own self-respect. It was the glory of this man to step in between some elegant courtier and his love, and, spite of his ugly face, carry off the prize, which he really did not care for after it was won. It filled him with bitterness when women of his own rank would sometimes resist his efforts at conquest, and ridicule them, as beautiful women sometimes will. It was here that the bitter drop lay.