CHAPTER CIII.
PERFECT RECONCILIATION.
St. Just and Marguerite were so completely absorbed in each other, that they did not observe a group of gayly-dressed women, with bright ribbons streaming from their garments, who came laughing and dancing into the arena, chasing each other up the steps of the abandoned altar, and whirling off into the open space, while snatches of patriotic songs broke from their lips, now in chorus, and again full of riotous discord.
Scenes like this had been too frequent that day for any especial interest to be granted them, and the lovers scarcely heeded this one in the ecstasy of their renewed happiness. Marguerite, unmindful that she was seen, held out her hands in childlike earnestness, the young man seized them, and covered them with kisses.
One of the dancers separated from the rest, and leaping from one turf seat to another, came softly down behind the lovers, laughing quietly, and with a finger to her lips, as a sign that her companions should keep up their revel, and leave her to the mischief in hand.
The young man, feeling her shadow upon him, looked up suddenly. A frown crept over his face, and he motioned the woman away with his hand. But Louison Brisot was not a person who could be intimidated by a look or an imperious gesture. She gave a leap, and sat down at the feet of Marguerite, laughing.
Marguerite recognized her face, and uttering a cry of dread, clung to the young man, trembling violently.
There was a touch of malice in Louison’s laugh now, for she hated the poor girl, whom her voice alone had the power to terrify.
“Ho! ho! citoyen St. Just. Are you here with this white-faced cheat? What if I tell of this at the Jacobins to-night?”
“Tell it where and how you please,” answered the young man, starting up, and half lifting the frightened girl from the turf. “I answer to no man or woman for the way in which I spend my time.”
“Do you know how she spends her time, and where? Ask Count Mirabeau. Watch his door in the Chausee d’Antin, and see who creeps in and out like a cat.”
Marguerite cast a wild, piteous look at St. Just. She knew this woman, and her terror was complete.
“Ask her if she, born of the people, is not an aristocrat at heart; a traitoress, a——”
“Hush!” commanded St. Just; and his beautiful face became fierce and stormy with indignation. “With those foul lips dare you revile the angels? Come away, Marguerite, the atmosphere is poisoned around us.”
Louison Brisot started up pale and fierce with the sting of his words. She cast a withering glance, first upon St. Just, then upon the trembling young creature by his side. The laugh was gone from her face, bitter envy made her look fierce and old. She turned from them in silence, more threatening than her most boisterous words, and stepping cautiously from seat to seat, left them.
St. Just turned to the young girl, who saw her enemy disappear with strained eyes and aching heart.
“Marguerite! Marguerite!” he cried, gently disturbed, “how is this? Surely, you are not afraid of that brazen amazon?”
“Afraid? No, no, it is not that,” faltered the girl. “It is her words that still tremble in my heart.”
“Her words! What harm can they do you or me? They were only insolent bravado.”
“She called you by a name. She seemed to threaten you with harm?”
“Yes. What then?”
“Ah, monsieur! you are a member of the Assembly, and she boasts of her power there.”
“Yes, the youngest man in that august body, but not young enough to be afraid of this woman.”
“She is the friend of Robespierre?”
“Robespierre is an honest man, frugal, moral, a true patriot.”
“And of Marat?”
“That brutal man is useful to France, and will not become my enemy.”
“Let me go home,” pleaded the girl; “my heart aches, I am faint.”
“Marguerite, my poor child, do not look so miserably pale. Has that accursed woman driven the smile from your face forever?”
“Forever! Oh, my God! this is hard! You are the queen’s enemy if these men are your friends!”
“Marguerite, you drive me wild. What does this mean? I have said with my whole heart that I love you.”
“Notwithstanding the secret in my heart?”
“Foolish child, you have no secret. I guess it all now. You love the queen?”
“With all my life—all my soul!”
“And the king?”
“The king also; but you, monsieur, are the enemy of both.”
“This is not all your secret. Count Mirabeau has sold himself to the court.”
Marguerite was silent.
“He has held communication with the queen, and a little girl that I know of was his messenger.”
“Who has dared to say this?”
“I will tell you. Dame Doudel is my friend.”
“Ah, yes!”
“Dame Tillery is her sister. Think you she could visit St. Cloud and not tell all the particulars?”
Marguerite almost smiled.
“Besides, this woman Brisot was a spy upon you, and brought her news to Robespierre, who told it to his friends. She denied it all afterward, but that did not change our belief.”
Marguerite looked bewildered. St. Just smiled.
“Now where is the secret? Have I not known it and kept silence even when I suspected more?”
“But you are still a Jacobin—still an enemy to the royal family.”
“What is the meaning of all you have seen here to-day? Have not the people and their king taken an oath of amity before God and the nation? Even now you can hear the thunder of the cannon scattering this good news to the four winds of heaven.”
Marguerite’s face brightened.
“Ah! it is so; in my terror I forget that. The people and the king are one. I have not committed the sin of loving her enemy.”
Her little hand crept into his, the soft lovelight came into her eyes again.