CHAPTER LXXVIII.

THE MARKET WOMAN.

“Ah, citoyen,” said the widow, pausing on the stair-case, “how shall I ever thank you for that kind attempt to save him?”

“I deserve no thanks, dame, so give me none. I but hurled half a dozen ruffians back as they seized upon that poor girl, but was altogether too late, so far as your husband was concerned. He died at her feet, poor fellow!”

“Poor fellow! You may well say that, monsieur. A better man never lived; had he been spared, Marguerite would want no better protector.”

“Why, surely, a creature like that, innocent and lovely as a child, can have no enemies.”

“I cannot tell that. More than one person saw her face that day; and heard her cry out that my poor husband was her friend.”

“But in all that tumult who could recognize her?”

“One person did, I know; Marguerite heard a voice call out ‘Strangle her! Shoot her! Strike her! And you bring that tall guard down from his post.’ It was a woman’s voice.”

“A woman!” repeated the young man, and his fine lips curved with disdain. “Say a fiend. I wish we had no such aids in our great cause.”

The vicious power which a few talented and infamous women had begun to wield in the revolution, had inspired others with a reckless idea of their own importance; and, spite of her sorrow, Dame Doudel grew angry that any one should doubt the power of her sex to wrestle with national wrongs, or step from a market-stall into the duties of statesmanship.

“Monsieur, then, does not think the women of France worthy to work for him?” she said.

“I think,” said the young man, who seemed rather amused than offended by the lofty air which the market woman assumed, “I think that when the men of a great nation cannot redress its wrongs, and protect its women, that nation is hardly worth saving.”

“Indeed!” answered the dame, sniffing the air like a war-horse, and breaking at once into the language of the clubs. “Who was it that urged on the attack, and led the way, when that huge monster, the Bastille was taken?—the women. Who cheered the state’s general on to tear down the king from his high horse?—the women. Who surrounded Santerre, and forced him to lead them to Versailles, to confront the king and his Austrian wife, but the women of Paris? Who brought the royal family out from their palace, and forced them through the storm and mud into the city? The women—the women, I tell you. Ah, monsieur! I have suffered—I am a widow. They tell me a woman did it. Still women have done brave work for France.”

“But it was also a woman, as you have just told me, who urged on a pack of brutal men to assail mademoiselle whom you seem to love.”

“Ah, there! Yes, I am with you there. It was an awful cruelty. Oh! it was heart-rending! but even that, one must endure for the sake of liberty; besides, the woman was not one of us. She has had her training among the aristocrats, and yet dares to come down among us, the real patriots, and make speeches to us, mounted on our own stalls; for my part, I want nothing of the sort. Only she always pretends that Mirabeau, our great Mirabeau, speaks through her, as if he felt above coming to us himself—not at all, I tell you. _He_ does not scoff at the help which comes from us. The women of Paris adore Mirabeau. It is a pity, though, he sends a creature like that to tell us our duty and kill our husbands.”

“But you have not told me who the woman is whom you seem to both fear and hate.”

“Fear! Oh! there is not a woman, or, for that matter, a man living, who could make me fear for myself. Ask Marguerite—ask my sister; perhaps you know her, Dame Tillery, landlady of the Swan, at Versailles, if Margaret Doudel was ever terrified by mortal face. But, about this girl, I confess to you, monsieur, that I sometimes do feel a trembling about my heart. If any harm come to her, I think it would kill me; and it is true that the woman prowls about the neighborhood asking questions, like a mean, vicious cat, creeping up to a bird’s cage.”

“Ha!”

St. Just uttered this sharp exclamation with unconscious force. He was evidently disturbed.

“Yes,” answered Dame Doudel, “I have noticed one thing,—we dames of the market have sharp eyes. This woman, to whom I used to sell flowers and fruit, when she carried her head high, as if she were Du Berry herself, contenting herself with a salad, when things turned against her—this woman is neither of the nobility nor the people, flesh nor fish, but may go with one, and then the other; I, for one, trust no such person. The women of the market are honest; but this woman is not one of them. She means to be our leader, but we want nothing of her. She does not love France half so much as she hates the queen. As if we could not win our rights without the help of such a creature as that. Oh, citoyen! the less you patriots harbor with such chaff the better.”

“I will try and profit by what you say, dame, when I know who it is you warn me against; the more especially as you tell me that she bears some malice against Marguerite.”

“Malice! I should think she did. And why? This is the reason. When we were in the midst of that glorious day at Versailles, our pretty Marguerite was chosen to go with the committee of women, who were sent to lay our wrongs before the king. This creature, whom I warn you of, wanted the honor, and appealed to Mirabeau, who had the power to send her if he would; but the count only laughed, and said that it was intended to petition the king, not insult him. The person chosen to make the address must be a child of the people, innocent, frank, honest, therefore it must be Marguerite Gosner. Then it was that the venom of this woman’s bad heart broke out. Marguerite was chosen against her,—our Marguerite, whose modesty and innocence touched the king with the most tender compassion. He kissed her on the cheek and promised well. Mirabeau had done this, and Louison Brisot loved Mirabeau. Was not this a good reason why she should hate our child?”

“Louison Brisot! I shall remember the name, good dame,” said the young man as he stepped out into the darkness.