Mirabeau had at one time dared to lift his eyes to the queen herself—a conquest there would have rounded his ambition grandly. To love Mirabeau was to be a slave, as many an aching heart had learned; to make the Queen of France his slave would have crowned this man’s vanity and his ambition at once. Through her he would have ruled the king, the court, and in his own might the people. It was a daring venture, founded upon the slanderous reports which had so long been in circulation regarding the queen, and it ended in an ignominious failure. Repulsed by his presence, and shocked by the character he bore, Marie Antoinette had absolutely refused to accord him an interview, and even opposed his appearance at court, thus unwisely adding to her personal enemies a man whose sarcasm was ruinous, and whose eloquence would yet make her tremble. To wound the vanity of a man like that was to fill his soul with bitterness. This had all happened at a time when Marie Antoinette was all powerful, when she could reward her friends unquestioned, and scorn the power of her enemies with all the force of her queenly pride. Is it wonderful, then, that Mirabeau spoke loftily, and waited for some advances from Versailles before he acceded to the wishes of his father, or the rough eloquence of his foster-brother? “The Queen of France does not look or speak like a woman who would turn from the face of a friend, because it did not happen to charm her eye at the first sight,” said Jacques, after awhile; “to me she appeared frank, simple, and honest. In her fright, at least, she was like any other woman. Not so brave as Marguerite, truly, for that brave girl sprang between her and danger; but she is no coward, I can swear to that, and not ungrateful; for, in spite of my protest, she would insist upon thanking me for an act any man living could have performed as well.” “And for all this she has accorded you an interview,” said the count, while his face darkened and took new shades of ugliness. “I shall scarcely have time to get back to Versailles before the hour appointed,” answered Jacques. “The moment I had left Marguerite in a place of safety, I travelled by night to Paris, and, failing to find you at home, came here.” “And you return at once,” inquired Mirabeau. “Within the hour. I shall not be in time else.” “And what is the object?” “The queen commanded it; and for the sake of the poor man who lies in the Bastille, I will accept gratitude for an act that deserves nothing of the kind. But that brave girl has herself earned freedom for her father. I can claim another reward without harming her—and it was for this I came. At first I refused any acknowledgment; but thinking of you and of France, I remembered that great good might be wrought out of this simple act of mine, both to the man I love, and the country I adore.”