CHAPTER VIII.

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

As Monsieur Jacques was speaking, a knock sounded at the door—a fierce, loud knock, as if the person without had become impatient.

Jacques was going toward the door, when it was flung open, and a man entered—a large, powerful man, dressed carelessly, but with something of courtliness; for his clothes were of rich material, and slightly adorned with embroidery; but his hair was of its natural warm brown, thick, wavy, and abundant, giving a leonine power to the great head, remarkable, because it was free of powder, and fell downward in natural waves, which stirred heavily whenever he turned.

“Monsieur le count! I did not expect you so early.”

“So it seems,” answered the man, glancing at Madame Gosner, with mischievous significance. “But I beg pardon; hearing voices in this room, I supposed you had changed lodgings, and came in more rudely than madame will forgive, I fear.”

The rough manner which had marked this person on his entrance, changed to the most elegant courtliness the instant he saw Marguerite standing near her mother. The hat was instantly lifted from his head, and once more he begged leave to apologize.

He came in search of his foster-brother, and had no idea of the company he was honored in finding himself.

The contrast of this man’s address, which was soft and persuasive, with the rude grandeur of his head, had a sort of fascination in it. The two ladies felt themselves transferred back to the saloons which nature and education had given them a right to enter. In this man the energy of the people seemed blended with the elegance of the court; thus they found him in harmony with old memories and recent ideas.

Madame received his apologies with the grace of a Roman matron. She waved her hand toward one of the rude chairs, and requested him to be seated, while Monsieur Jacques, recovering from his surprise, presented his visitor as the Count De Mirabeau.

Mirabeau seated himself, and began to converse; his words were directed entirely toward Marguerite, who listened in breathless awe to his brilliant sayings, without dreaming that they were all intended for her; and that each glance of those eyes were sent to measure their effect.

In this presence Monsieur Jacques allowed himself to subside into insignificance. He spoke in monosyllables, and sat with his hands clasped, as if in adoration of the talent which broke forth in every word this strange man uttered.

Marguerite, too, was fascinated and enthralled. At first the exceeding ugliness of their visitor had repelled her; but the moment he spoke, this feeling changed, and she listened with all her soul, and that shone in her beautiful eyes.

Count Mirabeau saw all this, as only a man of quick intellect and insatiable vanity can observe. He soon discovered that the surroundings of these two women were far inferior to the rank to which they were entitled—and this both inspired and surprised him. In his own person he blended so much of the extremes of social life—coarse strength with vivid imagination, pride of birth and pride of humanity—that a wild sympathy for these two persons awoke almost to a passion in his nature at the first sight. They were refined, delicate, sensitive, yet still of the people, suffering with them, and, to a certain extent, feeling with them.

If Count Mirabeau had any fixed ideas at this time, they were vague and incomplete, shifting and changing with the current of public opinion, which was firm only to one fixed point, a concentration of power in the people. Mirabeau had watched the storm rising, which was to devastate all France, with the interest of a man born to lead in tempests. How the whirlwind, which he saw gathering, might rage, he, probably, had no idea. Events rush forward in revolutions with a force that defies individual strength; but he was a man to seize upon every means of power as they presented themselves; and even now, with that lovely girl and the stately woman before him, he was calculating how far they might be made available to his ambition.

After a little, Mirabeau arose, and, with a graceful reverence, such as he might have denied to a queen, left the room; begging permission to call again when he might have the happiness to be of service to the ladies.

Monsieur Jacques followed him, looking proudly back upon his friends.

“How strange, how grand, how ugly!” said Marguerite, drawing a deep breath as the door closed. “Oh! if kings were like him, we should not plead in vain!”

Madame Gosner answered with less emotion. She was wondering if this man, who seemed both of the court and the people, would be able to aid her in the one great wish of her life. If he had that power, she was ready to become his slave.