CHAPTER XCV.
ZAMARA IS MASTER OF THE SITUATION.
THE man went out somewhat astonished, but resolute to obey the orders he had received. Then Mirabeau leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath. He was a perfect dissembler, or that keen woman would have detected something in his face that she did not like.
“Mirabeau,” she said, almost humbly, “I have not told you all. When I went out from here to-night, my heart was full of rage and fire—I hated you.”
“Foolish girl; weak, weak woman! How little you understand the man who loves you. Well, go on. What further mischief has been done?”
“Mirabeau, I took that letter to Robespierre.”
The count started up and almost hurled her to the floor.
“To Robespierre! Fiend! fool! woman!”
He spoke the last word with concentrated scorn, as if it were the hardest and most offensive he could apply to her.
“I took it to Robespierre because of his enmity to you. At that moment, you know, I hated you, and longed for revenge.”
“And you gave him the letter? It is no longer in your possession?”
“He read it, and wanted to keep it, but I would not let him.”
“Ah! Well, what did he say to it?”
“That he would denounce you in the Assembly to-morrow.”
“Then he was to be my accuser, and you were to be ready with the evidence. Was that the understanding?”
How quietly he spoke, scarcely above a whisper, yet there was something in the sound that thrilled her like the hiss of a snake.
“This you cannot forgive,” she said. “Still I warned you.”
“Forgive? Oh, yes! We must not be hard on each other, Louison.”
He spoke quietly, but with an unnatural tone in his voice. Still, if she had seen his face, the look of a fiend was there.
“The mischief can be arrested. Late as it is, I will go to him.”
Louison started up, and was preparing to go out; but the intellect of this singular man was more rapid than her movement. Quick as lightning he had discovered in her act a means of confounding his enemies.
“Let it alone,” he said, with animation. “Is it likely that he will dare assail me?”
“I am sure of it,” answered Louison, hesitating to sit down.
“Your promise to give up the evidence was positive?”
“Yes,” faltered the woman, shrinking from his eager glances.
“There, let the whole thing rest. Here comes my man with the dwarf.”
The messenger came, bearing Zamara, like a child in his arms. The little wretch was ashen white as far as his dusky skin would permit, and his eyes gleamed like those of a viper when they fell on Louison.
“Let the creature down,” said Mirabeau; “and come again when I call you.”
The man placed Zamara on his feet, and disappeared. Before any one could speak, the dwarf came close to Mirabeau with one hand in his bosom.
“Guard yourself! Guard yourself! He carries a poisoned dagger there,” cried Louison.
Zamara gave her a quick glance—all his color had come back. In an instant his sharp wit mastered the situation. The hand was withdrawn from his bosom; it held a paper, which he placed before Mirabeau with low reverence, as if he had been a slave, and the count an Eastern satrap.
“The woman who leans upon your chair tempted me to take this. When I found that she intended to make a bad use of it, I refused to give it up, being resolved to bring it back again. In the morning Count Mirabeau would have found it under this pretty deer with the golden hoofs. There was no need of sending a tall man after Zamara; he knows what is right, and is not afraid when it is to be done.”
Mirabeau took the letter, glanced over it, then leaned forward and held it in the flame of an antique lamp that burned before him. As the blaze flashed up from his hand, it revealed the lines of that lowering face with a vividness that made the dwarf tremble; but as the light faded, this expression softened into carelessness, and brushing the black flakes from his sleeves, he said, addressing Zamara,
“You can go now. I shall not kill you for this; but try it a second time, and there will be one sharp, little dwarf less in France. Go!”
Zamara needed no second bidding, but left the room, muttering, “She loves that man—she is jealous—his death would kill her. Good!”
After Zamara was gone, Mirabeau drew Louison toward him.
“The little viper would have cheated us both,” he said, “but for once we have drawn his fangs. Now for the other letter. When that is in ashes, we shall know how to meet this more venomous creature, Robespierre, and his mates. So they had Mirabeau in a trap, had they! The letter, Louison—the letter! We will send it after the one that is gone!”
“But it is not here,” answered Louison. “I went home first, and left it there.”
Mirabeau started. Had she, indeed, left that letter with his enemies. He looked keenly in her face, searching it for the truth. As his eyes wandered downward, a corner of the folded paper he had seen before was visible above the short, full waist of her dress. A crafty smile crept over Mirabeau’s lips as he drew her downward and pressed them to hers. He was tempted to secure the paper then, but his inordinate vanity prevented it. Dangerous as she was, he would trust her, and thus test his own powers of persuasion.
“Ah, you do love me!” murmured the woman, and tears rose to her eyes.
“How weak, how foolish to doubt it, my friend, my queen!”
This word brought back Louison’s distrust.
“Ah, the queen!” she said; “but for her I might not have doubted you. You gave her what Louison never knew, reverence, homage.”
“Because there was no other way of winning her to my purpose. Cannot you understand that we gain and rule people by their master passions? Now there is not in all France a woman so proud of her power, and so conscious of her loveliness, as Marie Antoinette. Would you have had me wound while I wished to win her?”
“Win her, Mirabeau?”
“Yes, to those purposes which shall make your friend the ruler of France, and yet give liberty to the people. In order to accomplish this we must not pull down the throne entirely. France loves her traditions, and in some form or another will keep them. The nation is now like a noble ship reeling and plunging through the blackness of a storm. There is but one man living who could guide the helm—that man is Mirabeau.”
“And but one woman who has the wit and courage to stand by his side, let the storm rage as it will,” said Louison, kindling with enthusiasm. “Ah, yes! this is far better than being a queen!”
Mirabeau took her hand and kissed it, as if she had, indeed, been a sovereign, thus mocking her vanity in his heart.
“We understand each other thoroughly now,” he said. “There will be no more doubt between us.”
“Never again!”
“And now we must say good-night, my friend. See how late it is.”
Louison lingered, not that she was afraid of going into the street alone; but the exquisite delusions of the moment were upon her, and she longed to continue them.
“The day has been an exciting one, and, spite of your dear presence, I am weary,” said the count, reaching forth his hand to take leave.
Louison lifted the hand to her lips and covered it with kisses.
“Ah!” she said, “this is coming from purgatory into heaven.”
“But even angels must part sometimes, my friend.”
“Yes, yes! Good-night. Ah, Mirabeau! how pleasant it is to be your slave!”
“Slave! No, no! My mate—my friend!”
“Call it by any name you will; but the jealous love which would have destroyed you an hour ago, now crouches at your feet in full submission. Good-night!”
Mirabeau walked to the door and held it open, an act of courtesy seldom vouchsafed to her before. So, with smiles on her lips, she went out into the darkness.
The moment she was gone, Count Mirabeau went back to his room, wild with the excitement he had suppressed with so much effort. Approaching the table, he struck his clenched fist upon it with a blow that sounded through the room, and fell into his chair, wiping great drops of perspiration from his forehead.
Great heavens! the gulf that yawned before me! I can hardly make sure that it is bridged over yet. Another outburst of her furious jealousy between this and to-morrow, is absolute ruin. Fool, fool that I was to feel safe in my contempt of this dangerous woman. Surely few people should know better than myself that there is no fury like a woman scorned; but the fiend within is always tempting me to turn my doves into vipers. Heavens! when I think of the danger, it chills me; but she is tamed now. Mirabeau’s spell is upon her. I was tempted to take the letter from her bosom, but better not, better not. She knows too much. One token of distrust, and she would hasten to deserve it. She will not speak—she will not. When Mirabeau seals a woman’s mouth with kisses it is mute, save to obey him. Yes, she is safe—but how the whole thing shakes me! I did not think there was a woman living who could strike Mirabeau with a panic like this. The coward drops lie cold on my forehead even when I know the danger is passed. Oh, yes! it was better that I seemed to trust her—now I can.