CHAPTER XXV.

THE LINK WHICH CONNECTED MIRABEAU WITH THE COURT.

“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.”

“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.

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.”

“What good can you expect to win out of this heroism; for, pass it over slightingly as you may, it was still a brave act? In what will it affect the count?” asked the elder noble.

“I hope that it will bring him face to face with their majesties.”

Mirabeau’s eyes sparkled. He started up and began to pace the floor, as he had done on his first entrance to the room. This was his habit when any new idea struck him. After a time, he slackened the heavy pace at which he had been walking, and moved slowly, and more slowly across the room as the thoughts which had sprung, hot and fast, into his mind cooled down to a deliberate purpose. This woman had scorned him, repulsed his aid, laughed at his supreme ugliness; but this was in the days of her triumph, in the first bloom of her beauty, when all men worshiped her. Now clouds were gathering around the throne upon which she sat; her footsteps were beset by enemies; her actions were misrepresented; her words distorted. The man she had so scornfully repudiated might hope for a different reception now. But he would not seek a rebuff; the queen must be won to send for him and offer the interview once so scornfully refused. If Jacques managed his one opportunity adroitly, she might be won to this measure. He turned to Jacques with a frank smile that transfigured his face into something almost beautiful.

“Yes, my brother, you shall do this, and both my father and myself will thank you; for his sake I will consent to make concessions. Mirabeau is a stronger and more powerful person than he was when no higher aims were known at court than a masked ball, or a state drawing-room. He might not have figured to the content of a handsome queen in such pastimes; but where sterner matters are to be handled, she will be mad to turn her back upon the help he can offer. Go, my brother, and for reward, know that half France will bless you.”

“And I have leave to use your name as I may think best to the king or queen?” said Jacques, turning his radiant face first to the count, then to the elder noble.

“Always remembering that it is the influence of an old and noble family that you offer,” said the old man, with a courtly bend of the head.

“And of one who controls multitudes when he but opens his lips,” added Mirabeau, with haughty triumph.

“I will remember,” answered Jacques; “the honor of the house and of the man shall suffer nothing in my handling.”

The singular man turned as he spoke, made a low, sweeping bow, and left the room.

The father and son looked at each other in silence, until the sound of Jacques’ footsteps was lost in the noise of the street; then the count said, with more respect than he usually exhibited to any one,

“I trust that you are satisfied, my father.”

“More than satisfied, Mirabeau; the coming of this man is fortunate. It would have been a severe stain upon our pride had I been compelled to make advances in your behalf, though I would have done it for the sake of my country—I would have done it; for it wounds me to know that a son of mine should be an alien from the court of his sovereign—not to say a leader among his enemies. The adventure of our retainer will save us from much humiliation. Is his discretion to be trusted?”

“Entirely. He has but one ambition in this world, and that rests in the exaltation of our family. Even your fastidious pride is safe with Jacques.”

“I am glad to hear it. If this reconciliation can be brought about, I shall go back to my estate satisfied that a noble work has been done.”

The old gentleman took out his gold snuff-box, tapped the diamond-studded lid daintily, and gathering a pinch between his thumb and finger, inhaled it with gentle satisfaction.

“Now,” he continued, softly, inhaling his snuff, while he held the box in his left hand ready for a second application, “I can pay my homage to their majesties without a blush. Once more my son is in harmony with his family—all shall be forgotten, all forgiven.”

Mirabeau’s face kindled hotly. He had so long commanded those around him that this tone of forbearance and forgiveness irritated his pride, and the effeminate indulgence into which the old man so readily sunk, came near to arousing his contempt. To a man whose life was spent among the clubs of Paris, and whose ambition had been appeased by the homage of that roaming class of citizens, which was even now ready to throw off all law at his command, the refinements to which he was born seemed trivial and weak. In his riotous life he had long since cast aside all the gentler habits of his class, and was disposed to regard the old man, who had spent half his life in redeeming the waste of a son’s extravagance, as a supine old aristocrat, who might be induced to make even greater sacrifices, in order to win him back from the people.