CHAPTER LXX.

ENEMIES RECONCILED.

The Queen of France reached the summer-house just as the sun was pouring a flood of crimson and gold into the violet shadows that lay among the trees which sheltered the little temple. The windows, where they were visible through the clustering ivy and flowers, blazed with the arrowy light that broke against them, and the soft grass that lay around grew ruddy in the rich glow.

This seemed a good omen to the queen, who stepped lightly over the turf and entered the temple where Mirabeau was standing, so swiftly that he had hardly time to turn from the window, where he had been watching for her, before she stood face to face with him.

Marie Antoinette had never been within speaking distance of this magnificent demagogue before. She was astonished by the wonderful power that lay in supreme ugliness. His face had the fascination which some wild animals possess, and his large eyes dwelt upon her with the half-sleepy, half-pleading look which these animals have when but half aroused.

She came forward, radiant from her walk, fresh from the soft breeze that had swept over her, but with some shyness, real or apparent, such as a woman of sensitive modesty feels in meeting a stranger. When Mirabeau saw her face, and the light that shone in those splendid eyes, he sunk upon one knee, and bent his head, but not so low as to conceal the smile that transfigured all his face.

“Ah, madame! how long I have pined and prayed for this hour,” he said, lifting his eyes to her face with an expression that made her breath come fast, for it changed the whole aspect of that face like a miracle, and drew her toward him with irresistible fascination. This troubled her; for hatred of the man had been to her a sure safeguard, and she began to tremble lest it should pass away. She expected audacity, but looked down upon a strong, powerful man, who had thrown himself at her feet with the docility of a Newfoundland dog.

“Arise, Monsieur Count,” she said, smiling upon him; and she was astonished to find how naturally the smile came to her lips. “If we have not been friends before, it is rather our misfortune than yours.”

“Ah! if your highness could have thought so! But my enemies prevailed against me until it is now almost too late.”

“Nothing is too late for a man like Mirabeau,” said the queen again, motioning that he should arise. “You, who have taught the people of France to hate their king, can, with the same powers of eloquence, convince them that he is their best friend.”

Mirabeau arose to his feet, and again that smile flashed upon the woman, who could not turn her eyes from the marvelous brightness that transfigured his face.

“Ah! if I had the power your highness awards me, and you would deign to use it, no slave of the thousands who have knelt at your feet would be so grateful as Mirabeau.”

The queen seated herself on a divan that curved in with the walls of the temple. Mirabeau followed, and stood near her; but she swept the folds of her dress together, and motioned that he should take the place by her side.

“This is honor, better still, happiness,” he said, accepting the seat. “How often, fair queen, have I wondered why you kept me from you. Never in the world had sovereign a more devoted subject.”

Marie Antoinette sighed heavily; she began to comprehend how much power had been flung away in keeping this man from the court. She could appreciate now the wonderful influence he possessed with the people.

She answered him graciously, “cannot the past, with its mistakes, be forgotten? Of all people in the world, a sovereign is most likely to be deceived with regard to those who surround him. We were led——”

Mirabeau forgot that it was the queen who spoke, and with the same impetuous roughness which made his popularity with the people, broke in upon her half-finished sentence.

“You were led to believe me wild, unprincipled, selfish; a man who belonged to the people only because he was rejected by his own class. Part of this is true, but more false. Had you deigned to call me to your aid, madame, a more devoted slave would not have lived.”

Marie Antoinette sat in supreme astonishment. How was she to reach this man—through his greatness or through his sins?

For the first time in her queenly life this woman doubted herself. In Mirabeau she saw the two contending elements which already distracted France—the refinements of the court and the fierce strength of its antagonists, inordinate self-love and ready self-abasement. She knew at once that her intellect, clear and acute as it was, could not cope with his; but in those soft flatteries of look and speech, that undermine and persuade, she was more than a match for any man or woman of France. Men who do not like to be convinced are the most easily persuaded.

“They have, indeed misled us,” she answered, leaning gently toward the man, who turned upon her for the instant with the gleam of a wild beast in his eyes; but the look softened beneath her glance, and the upright form bent imperceptibly toward her. “I will not say how many cruel things have poisoned the ear of my august husband, or wounded my own self-love.”

Here Mirabeau started to his feet.

“Have they dared to hint that I ever whispered one word against your highness as a queen, and the loveliest woman in Europe?”

“Perhaps I have heard worse than that.”

“Worse than that? Nay, then, I should have been the brute they call me. Tell me, your highness, who my traducers are?”

“Forgive me if I withhold all such knowledge. If Count Mirabeau is to be our friend, he must not exhaust himself in private quarrels.”

“If I am to be your friend, madame? Who ever knew Mirabeau war against a woman?”

“But when that woman is a queen, the wife of a king, and the daughter of an empress, the weight of her royalty may overpower every thing else.”

Marie Antoinette said this in a tone of apology, as if she longed to make some excuse for the thrice regal power that might weigh against her loveliness.

Mirabeau was struck by this sweet humility; a soft protesting smile stole over his face. The queen lifted her eyes to his, and held his gaze in fascination.

“Madame, turn those eyes away. Ah! I was told truly; a man must be brave to audacity who could refuse anything to that glance. Mirabeau is your slave already, only tell me how I can best begin my service.”

The heart of Marie Antoinette leaped to her lips, but, no look of the triumph she felt came to her eyes, they were moist with sweet thankfulness, nothing more.

“It is not for me to say how you can best serve us. The genius that has struck us so deeply will know how to reassert itself. In the Assembly, no voice has been so eloquent against royalty as that of Count Mirabeau.”

“I know it! I know it! But how am I to unsay that which the people have accepted as gospel?”

“Tell them that they are mistaken in their belief about the king. Oh, monsieur! you have no true knowledge of that brave and good man. You heap the sins of all the previous kings of France upon his head. You have made him odious with the people, when they have no better friend on earth. Tell the people this; as you alone can express a noble truth. Wing it with your eloquence. Enforce it by the profound respect which you must feel when the heart of Louis the Sixteenth is really known to you. I say to you, Count Mirabeau, there is not a man in all France who has the good of his people so close at heart. Has he not forgiven much—granted more? Do the people who malign him never think of the great outrages that have been perpetrated against him? Are not the ruins of the Bastille before their eyes? A kingly fortress so completely identified with the royalty of France, that it was like tearing out the jewels of her crown when the people razed it to the ground. Yet no man has been punished for the traitorous deed. The king forgave what was an insult to his power and a wrong against himself. Nay, since then, has he not heaped concession on concession to the people—opened the very barriers of royalty, that they might rush in; changed his ministers, and disgraced his best friends at their insolent bidding——”