CHAPTER LXXX.

TAKING AN OBSERVATION.

With no hesitation or fear, Louison turned toward the Chaussée d’Anton. The thoroughfares were full of people, men and women, conversing together in knots, and fraternizing with the municipal guards, in coarse and equal companionship. More than once she was hailed by some person in the crowd, who received a sharp or witty reply in return, which often sent shouts of laughter after her. Now and than she stopped to speak with some patriot, whose notoriety gave him a claim to her attention, but moved on again, laughing and flinging back jokes and jeers as she went.

As Louison turned a corner, with a feverish laugh still upon her lips, a man came suddenly around the angle, whom she recognized at once. This man she knew to be the secret and most bitter enemy of Mirabeau, and at another time would have avoided him; for his small, lean figure, fantastically arrayed in a well-worn coat, and buff small-clothes, brushed thread-bare, was well calculated to inspire contempt and ridicule from a creature so reckless in her liking as Louison. But she paused in her swift progress, and spoke to the man now.

“Ah, citizen Robespierre! is it you that I was almost running against? Have the Cordeliers become so strong that they can spare you from the club so early?”

The man hesitated, occupied himself a moment with the buttons of his olive-green coat, and passed his hand over the plaited ruffles that fluttered in his bosom. Louison had never addressed him so familiarly before, and he was by nature a timid man—so timid, that he was disconcerted by the abrupt speech of a woman who had hitherto avoided him. Before he was ready to reply, Louison relieved his embarrassment by a new question.

“It is well to look modest, citizen, and keep in the background. Only great men can afford to retire into the shadow; but I knew what spirit inspires the club, and the women of Paris are as well informed. Surely you must be aware of that?”

Robespierre answered her now, for vanity gave him courage.

“I did not think that a friend of Mirabeau would find any merit in a man who has so little hold on the good will of the people,” he said, in a low, rasping voice, while a faint sneer stole over his lips, which was the nearest approach to a smile any one ever saw on his face.

“How modest we are!” exclaimed Louison, showing her white teeth, as she smiled upon the little man, whom it was the fashion to ridicule even in the Assembly, where his terrible force of character was, at the time, but imperfectly known. “A true patriot, citizen, sees merit in every one who loves his country and hates the king; but what is the homage of a poor girl like me worth, compared with Theroigne, of Liege? Was it not you who introduced her to the Cordelier, and called out, that was the Queen of Sheba?”

“No; that was Laclos. Theroigne is a woman for poets to adore, and she inspired him.”

“But they tell me that Robespierre is himself a poet, and that great genius fires his patriotism.”

The sneer so natural to Robespierre’s lip melted into a simper, and the lids drooped over the greenish gray of his eyes.

“I do not know who has overrated my poor ability,” he said; “but if a spark of poetry ever inspired me, mademoiselle would enkindle it. Why does she so entirely confine herself to the Jacobins? Is it because Mirabeau reigns there as a god?”

“Not so, citizen. A true woman of France claims perfect freedom to think and worship where she pleases. I have been at the Cordeliers many a time, and listened to the eloquence of a man whom the nation will yet learn to know as one of its greatest orators, and most potent leaders.”

Louison bent her stately head, thus enforcing her compliment, and prepared to move on; but Robespierre followed her.

“Mademoiselle, I speak in the Assembly to-morrow. Will you come?”

“Does Mirabeau speak?”

“Yes, and I oppose him; for that reason you will not come?”

“For that very reason I will come. The man who possesses power enough to defeat any measure urged by Mirabeau, must be worthy of adoration.”

“Ah! if I could inspire such homage from women, and such power among men!” said Robespierre, with a sort of bitter sadness. “Count Mirabeau carries the heart of France with him.”

“But it may not be forever,” said Louison, almost in a whisper. “What would Mirabeau be if the faith of the people fell from him?”

“You ask this question, mademoiselle?”

“Why not? All men should be watched. The price of liberty is eternal vigilance. Some American said that; or, is it my own thought? I cannot tell; but some day the place of Mirabeau will be vacant. Who is ready to fill it?”

“Mademoiselle, you suggest an impossibility.”

“There is but one man in France. Others may not see it; but to me his destiny is plain. That man, shrouded in modesty, stands before me.”

“Mademoiselle!”

“That man is Maximilien Robespierre.”

Louison moved swiftly away, as she spoke, and left the man standing quite alone, so amazed, that he did not move till she was out of sight. Then he turned from the course he was pursuing, and went to his sordid lodgings, inspired by new ambition. Louison had divined the one great weakness in his character, and, while inspiring his vanity, aroused a more powerful ambition than she dreamed of. Still, she had spoken something of the truth, and with her quick intellect saw more in this lean, little man than those who sat with him every day had yet discovered.

“That is well done!” said Louison, as she walked toward the Chaussée d’Anton. “This man is becoming a favorite with the people. He is shrewd, cold-hearted, indomitable. Sooner or later he will stand in the path of Mirabeau, perhaps undermine the foundations of his popularity; for, much as Robespierre loves France, he hates the count. Yes, yes; I did well to flatter the man. My next effort shall be with Marat.”

Louison fairly started with surprise when she reached the residence of which Mirabeau had just taken possession. It was a grand structure, that had been abandoned as it stood, by some noble emigrant, who was now safe upon the borders. The eloquent demagogue had rather seized than hired the building, with all its luxurious appointments; and, even at that early day, was entertaining a party of riotous friends in the grand saloon.

A servant, out of livery, but still richly dressed, opened the door, and let a flood of light upon Louison where she stood, with calm audacity, waiting for admission, as if the place had been her own home. The servant had belonged to the noble family by which the house had been deserted, and recognised the woman in her real character. When she asked for Mirabeau, he answered, with something like a sneer in his voice, that the count was entertaining his friends, and must not be disturbed.

Louison laughed, gave her handsome head a disdainful toss, and, passing by the astonished servant, entered the hall, which she surveyed with tranquil curiosity, lifting her face to examine the exquisitely carved corbel of the ceiling, and giving a general survey of the statues and antique ornaments which surrounded her. After her curiosity was satisfied, she took the scarf from her shoulders, and, untying the gipsy bonnet from her head, hung them both on the arm of a mailed statue that stood near the door, gave the bright, crisp ringlets on her head a vigorous shake, and, guided by a riot of voices, walked toward the saloon, with all the easy confidence of an invited guest.

The picture which this woman intruded upon was something wonderful in its splendid incongruity. A Venetian chandelier, whose heavy pendants of flat, half opaque glass swayed to and fro in a sea of radiance, shed a broad blaze of light upon a table gorgeous with exquisite china, malachite and crystal vases, running over with flowers, glittering with gold and silver plate. Crystal goblets, sparkling with wine, amber-hued, ruby-tinted, and of purplish darkness, swayed to and fro in the hands of half a dozen loosely-clad women, who were busily wreathing them with flowers, in imitation of the ancient Greeks, themselves looking like heathen goddesses, rather than Christian women.

A group of men in full dress, worn awkwardly, except in one or two cases, leaned upon the table in various attitudes, and watched the women as they proceeded in their classical work, now and then rifling the vases, and tossing their blossoms across the table in aid of the growing garlands.

Everything that the light touched was warm with rich coloring. Masses of frescoed flowers glowed out from the ceiling. Each panel in the wall was an exquisite picture. Broad mirrors were sunk deep in frames carved in masses of delicate golden foliage, broken up by clusters of white lilies, devised at the royal works at Sevres. These lilies seemed to be cut from luminous pearls, and shed their own light upon the mirrors; for the stamens were of perfumed wax, and burned like a star, while a perfume, like that of the natural flower, stole out from each tiny flame.

All this splendor Louison took in at a glance, which filled her soul with fiery indignation. Who were these women whom Mirabeau had invited to his new home without consulting her? By the immodest splendor of their dresses they might belong to the court or the theatre. Her lips curved and her eyes flashed as she regarded them. She stood unobserved, with one foot advanced on the Gobelin carpet, searching the group with indignant curiosity. Growing calmer, she recognised some of the men as among the most talented and dissolute of Mirabeau’s companions. They were arrayed in court dresses, and disguised by wigs of long, curling hair, that floated in love-locks over the glowing velvet of their coats; while the women had combined the loose scantiness affected even then by the Jacobins, with rich materials hitherto known only to the nobility. The brilliant crimson of their rouged cheeks, the black patches scattered on forehead and chin, masses of hair, piled roll upon roll, and curl upon curl, would have deceived any person not born of the court, into believing them of noble birth and breeding.