CHAPTER LXXI.

MIND SWAYING MIND.

Marie Antoinette stopped suddenly. The passion in her voice, and the quick flash of her eyes were fast undoing the sweet impression she had made upon this singular man. She saw this by the changed expression of his face, and made haste to retrieve herself.

“It is of my husband, I speak,” she said; “and that makes me forget myself. A kinder sovereign never lived, or one more willing to make all reasonable concessions. If I am earnest in saying this, it is because those who wish to serve Louis must understand all his goodness, all that he is willing to grant and to suffer. Believe me, I do not speak thus, Monsieur Count, because he is my husband—that would be a weak reason, when dealing with a statesman of France; but in this I only think of him as a sovereign and a Frenchman, loving his country and his people with more than the affection of a father.”

Mirabeau looked upon the animation of that beautiful face with kindling admiration. He could appreciate the bright intellect which broke through all her sweetness and most feminine wiles. She was, in fact, a woman above all others to seize upon his imagination, and touch his wayward heart.

“I would rather tell the people of France of their queen,” he said.

Tears rushed to Marie Antoinette’s eyes. She clasped her hands in her lap.

“Ah! they will never, never believe anything good of me; and I loved them so well—so well!” she said.

“They shall be made to think everything that is good of you, or Mirabeau will have lost his power to carry the people with him,” cried the count, with enthusiasm. “Henceforth the man who does not worship Marie Antoinette is to me an enemy.”

“Oh! I do not ask worship, only a little justice. Why will they distort every thing I say or do?”

She was weeping in a soft, womanly way, that touched the heart of that man like the innocent cry of a child.

“Why will the people of France not look upon their queen as a French woman. I came among them so young, so earnest to make them love me; but it is always the Austrian! the Austrian! As if it were a sin to be the daughter of Maria Theresa!”

“Sweet lady! the people do not know you; their leaders do not know you. Up to this hour I have myself looked upon Marie Antoinette as the enemy of liberty—a stranger to France and her people.”

“How can I help this? How can I undeceive a people who are determined to think ill of me?” cried the queen.

“By letting them see their queen as I do; by granting all that can reasonably be conceded to them.”

“But concession belongs to the king.”

Mirabeau smiled more broadly than was becoming in the presence of his sovereign; but, during this whole interview, there had been so little of courtly ceremony, that the queen scarcely heeded it. The very act of her meeting any man in the solitude of that place, put court etiquette completely aside.

“The king must be unlike inferior men, if he were not guided in most things by so fair and sweet a counsellor.”

“That is hard,” answered the queen. “I can no more control the monarch of France than I can make the people love me.”

“The people shall love you, or hate me!” exclaimed Mirabeau, with enthusiasm. “Do not speak so sadly; do not despair of a just appreciation. When Mirabeau says to the people, ‘I have seen this lady whom you call the Austrian; she is fair, she is wise, her heart yearns toward the people of France,’ they will believe me.”

“Heaven grant it!” said the queen, clasping her hands more firmly, while her tears dropped upon them. “Give us back the love of our people, and there is no honor, no influence that shall not be yours. Ah! I remember well when I first came to France, so young, so trusting—a child given up to them wholly by an imperial mother. How they loved me then. When I entered the theatre, they arose in one body and filled the air with joyous salutations. If I drove through the streets, they cast flowers in my path. Oh, what have I done? What have I done that they should change so terribly, now that I have lived so long among them, and am a mother to the children of France—the wife of the best king they ever knew? What _have_ I done?”

Mirabeau reached forth his hand to take hers; in her tears and her helpless sorrow she was only a woman to him; but he bethought himself and drew back with a heavy sigh. Had he, indeed, the power he had boasted of? Could he, with all the force of his wonderful eloquence, bring back the popularity which had once followed this woman, as if she had been a goddess? Would not the people question his motives, and ask a reason for his change of opinion? Dare he arise in his place, and say to the world that he had just come from an interview with the Queen of France, and was henceforth her friend and advocate? Would he have the courage to confess that even his glowing ideas of liberty had yielded to the tears and reasonings of a beautiful woman? Yes, he dared do even that—the people would still have faith in their leader; that which he had taught with such ardor could be softened, moulded into new forms. He would bring the royalty of France into favor with its subjects by apparent concessions, which should all seem to spring from the queen.

Marie Antoinette read his thoughts, and her face grew anxious. “Had she humbled herself for nothing? Was this man’s power already exhausted against her? Would the people listen when he came out in favor of a court which his eloquence had done so much to destroy?”

He read her face also, and answered it as if she had spoken.

“That which I have pledged myself to accomplish shall be done, if it cost Mirabeau his fame, and his own life. Have no fear, madame; these people are like children, they want strong men to think and act for them. Who among all their leaders has my strength, or has ever so thoroughly controlled them? With my pen, with my voice, with every power of my soul, I will work to bring these people in harmony with the court. Can you trust in me, lady?”

“I do trust in you, and I thank you for myself and for the king. Nay, in time the people of France will look upon you as their saviour also. But what can we offer in return?”

A flush of hot red came into Mirabeau’s face. He remembered thoughts that had clung to him as he rode along—terms he had intended to make, and advantages that would relieve the necessities that were ever following the lavish extravagance of his habits. All these he had absolutely forgotten; and when the queen, in her gratitude, brought them back to his memory, all the pride of his manhood recoiled. Why was he forced to be so grand, and so mean at the same moment? He cast his eyes on the ground, while the swarthy color surged in and out of his face. At last he looked up so suddenly that the thick locks were tossed back from his forehead, like the play of a lion’s mane.

“Nothing,” he said, with the proud air of a Roman Senator. “When we have saved France and her king, the consciousness that Mirabeau has done it for Marie Antoinette, will sometimes win a smile from her, and that shall be his reward.”

The queen was greatly moved. She had seen the struggle in his mind, and partially understood it. The same thoughts had occupied her before leaving the palace. She had heard of Mirabeau’s extravagance, and of his proportionate greed. It had seemed to her an easy thing to purchase his help with gold, which, in the terrible difficulties that had fallen upon her, she had learned how to use as a sure political agent. But there was more in the man than she had been led to believe; and the hot flush of shame that rose to his face, when she spoke of reward, made her shrink from what might seem an offered insult.

“Those who help the king are the king’s friends always,” she said, with deep feeling, for this strange man had won his way to her gratitude. “But those who help us must have the means of helping.”

Again Mirabeau’s face flushed; but it was with pleasure that the queen had found an excuse for accepting some future bounty which had escaped him.

“One thing,” he said, with touching earnestness, “one thing there is which Mirabeau may accept from the Queen of France, and be exalted by the favor.”

“Name it,” answered Marie Antoinette, gently.

“Favored courtiers are permitted to kiss the queen’s hand when they give their lives to her service.”

The queen smiled, blushed, and reached forth her hand. Mirabeau took it, bent his knee to the ground, and pressed his lips upon it.

“Madame,” he said, standing erect, with the hand in his clasp, “madame, the monarchy is saved.”

“God grant it!” said the queen, with solemn emphasis.

“The monarchy is saved, or Mirabeau’s life will pay the forfeit,” he repeated, with solemnity.

The queen believed him, for there was no doubting his sincerity in the matter. Never in her life had this beautiful woman made so great a conquest, not only over the man himself, but over her own prejudices. She had come to the summer-house detesting the count; she left it impressed with his genius, flattered by his homage.

Mirabeau still held her hand. To approach this lovely woman, and win her into admiration of his genius, had been the ambition of this erratic man for many a year. It was accomplished now. He knew by the light in those magnificent eyes how great his conquest was. She was still Queen of France—even his fierce eloquence had so far failed to bring her down from that sublime height. He saw in her the only woman he had ever met whose intellect reached his own, and whose position, at the same time, taught him to look up. Henceforth it would be his supreme object to keep her firmly on the throne; to enhance her influence, and guide it for the benefit of the people. It was a delicate task; but nothing seemed impossible to the proud, audacious man while that splendid woman stood with her hand in his.

“Now, farewell,” she said. “I need not tell you to keep this interview a secret; it would be misunderstood, and might do much harm.”

“It would be my glory that the whole world should know of this condescension, and of the grateful respect it has inspired; but those who lead a people must know how to be secret, and when to speak. That you have done me this honor, madame, shall be the one secret that will go with me to the grave.”

With these words, the count bent low with a lofty grace that might have befitted the state-chamber at Versailles, and walked backward to the door, where he bowed again and disappeared, moving swiftly through the glowing purple of the twilight.