CHAPTER XCVII.

BAFFLED AND DEFEATED.

“The treason of Mirabeau! The treason of Mirabeau!”

Robespierre had made his first attack in a bitter article hawked that morning through the streets of Paris; and the cry rose loud and long, like the howl of wild beasts scenting blood afar off.

“The treason of Mirabeau! The treason of Mirabeau!”

Robespierre heard it while walking toward the Assembly, and his black heart beat with triumph under that olive-green coat.

Marat heard it as he lay in his bath, writing a still more furious attack on the popular idol, and a spasm of delight shook all his restless limbs till the water stirred around them.

At last they had him in a firm grip; this proud demagogue, this popular idol, who loomed over them like a god, was in their power. They had proofs of his treason—proofs written by his own hand; the proof of an eye witness, who had seen him at the very feet of the queen. All this the articles in the journal only hinted at; but when Mirabeau took his seat in the Assembly that day, the storm would burst upon him. Hitherto he had defied them, and trampled down accusations of which there was no evidence that the people would accept. But now, yes now——

No wonder Marat laughed till the water shook and rippled around him as if a serpent were uncoiling in them, then plunged into the bitterness of his article again, storming on the foe that in his mind was already down. Nay, he could not write, the brutal joy within him was too great. Rather would he arise, dress himself, and witness the downfall of the rival he hated and feared.

Mirabeau heard the cry, paused in his haughty progress, and bought a journal, which he read quietly passing along the street, and those who observed him, saw a keen smile shoot over his lips. Surely, whatever the charge was, that man would fight it to the bitter end, and with such weapons as his opponents could never wield. The people still believed in Mirabeau, and cheered him as he moved toward the Assembly, even with those virulent cries of “traitor” on the air. The power of that man was something marvelous.

The Assembly was turbulent that day as the streets had been. Mirabeau’s enemies were triumphant, his friends doubtful and anxious. Never had his accusers seemed so assured of success. Even his composure could not abate their joy. That calm seemed to them like depression.

At the very door of the Assembly, the cry of Mirabeau’s treason came up. The galleries were full of women who were more tumultuous and eager than the men. Some had brought their work, others carried parcels, in which were bread or fruit, for it was believed that the sitting would be long and violent. Mirabeau would not die easy; they had hedged him in like a lion in the toils, and like a lion he was sure to defend himself. So the women of France flocked to the Assembly, and crowded all its vacant spaces, as the matrons of old Rome went to see gladiators and wild beasts tear each other. In this mob, which called itself a deliberative body, there was neither decorum, nor an attempt at order. Where all the evil passions are let loose tumult and anarchy must follow.

Mirabeau’s enemies were all in their places. Clubs known to oppose him had emptied themselves into the galleries. On the floor his foes gathered in groups consulting together. There the beautiful face of St. Just was contrasted with the austere features of Desmoulins and the hateful coarseness of Danton. Everywhere Mirabeau saw preparations for an attack that was to crush him; but this only shot fire to his eyes, and curled his lips with haughty disdain. Not that he felt himself quite safe, but he was sustained by the natural self-confidence of a spirit that had never quailed before man. At all times Mirabeau was self-sufficient, more so than ever when danger threatened him. There he sat in the midst of his enemies, like a lion waiting for the gladiators to appear, calm from inordinate self-poise.

Of all his enemies, Mirabeau’s defiant eyes sought out Robespierre the most frequently. There was something amounting almost to a smirk on the countenance of this little man, which would have been a smile in another; but the dry, parchment-like countenance of Robespierre admitted only of sneers and smirks—a broad, honest smile was impossible to it.

Robespierre, at this time, had scarcely developed the dreadful character for cruelty and fanatical malice which blisters every page of history on which his name is written. His movements had been sinister, and up to this time, were more suggestive of atrocities than active in their perpetration. While Mirabeau was in power, the reptile spirit of this man had not ventured to crest itself, but slowly and with crafty windings was creeping stealthily to the horrible power with which the madness of an insane people at last invested him. Hitherto he had kept in the background, and instigated others to attack the man whose popularity stood between him and the position he thirsted for; but now that disgrace and defeat were certain, he came forward on the great man’s track like a hyena prowling along the path of a kingly beast.

Robespierre was ready to lead the onslaught. Mirabeau saw it in the glitter of those evil eyes, and knowing how relentless and unprincipled the man was, felt a thrill of doubt rush over him. Nothing but certainty could have impelled that coward nature to creep into the light. Had Louison failed him? Could she have broken through the thrall of his persuasions and gone over to the enemy? The night before he felt a sort of pride in trusting everything to the power of his own personal influence over a woman that nothing else could tame or terrify; but now, when he stood face to face with an awful danger, for the first time in his life Mirabeau distrusted himself. What but a dead certainty could give that assured air to Robespierre? Why had he trusted to those powers of persuasion which never yet had failed him with the sex, but might prove ineffectual, for the first time, when his honor and very life depended on them? The night before his hand was almost on that very paper; a movement of the fingers, and he might have drawn it from Louison’s bosom, and, had he so chosen, defied her afterward. But intolerable self-conceit had prevented this act of safety. How he cursed the vanity which had filled his mind with all these harrowing doubts. “Whom the gods destroy they first make mad,” he muttered to himself. “I was, indeed, mad when I permitted her to leave me with _that_ in her bosom.”

The galleries were already overrun with women—for that cry in the street had sent crowds to the Assembly. Now they began to fill the floor, and force themselves among the members with a feeling of equality which no one had the courage to resist or rebuke.

All at once Louison Brisot appeared making a passage through the throng, arrayed with a glow and flash of rich colors, and looking proudly beautiful. Her eyes roved around the Assembly, and settled on Robespierre, who was looking at her with the changeful glitter of a serpent in his eyes. Louison met this look with an almost imperceptible bend of the head. Mirabeau saw it, and the bold heart quailed within him.

At last Louison’s eyes fell upon his face, which was turned anxiously upon her. She gave him no signal. She did not even smile, but turned her back, and began talking airily with one of his bitterest enemies. Now and then he caught her glance turned on him from under her long eyelashes, as if she enjoyed his anxiety. Then he cursed the woman in his heart, but more bitterly cursed his own folly for leaving the means of his destruction in her power.

The business of the Assembly went on—dull routine business, which no one cared about, and was inexpressibly irksome to Mirabeau, whose bold spirit was always restive under delay, even when action might injure himself. Through all these details he could now and then hear the voice and bold, ringing laugh of Louison, bandying jests with his enemies. The sound made him desperate, but, for the first time he felt some respect for the woman who had so adroitly outwitted him—inordinate self-love would not permit him to despise her after this display of her ability.

At last a voice was heard asking leave for a privileged question; and Robespierre stood up, speaking in low, hesitating accents, but growing stronger as a dead silence fell upon the Assembly after his first words.

Mirabeau turned in his seat, and listened, smiling, while each point of the charges made against him came in terse, bitter words from the man he had, for a long time, despised and ridiculed. How sharply and with what telling simplicity they fell upon his ear.

Count Mirabeau, a member of that Assembly, was charged with betraying the people’s trust, inasmuch as he had entered into a secret league with the court to throw the nation back into the power of the nobles. While he professed to seek the liberty of the people, he had all the time been working against their dearest wishes. He was in constant intercourse with the king, and more especially with the Austrian woman, who was known as Queen of France. It would be made clear before the people, that Count Mirabeau had held repeated interviews with the king, and no longer ago than in June, had met the queen privately, in her summer-house at St. Cloud, where he entered into a compact to place the nation in her power. More than this, Mirabeau had, from first to last, been a pensioner of the court, and was in the habit of receiving vast sums of money from the queen, which he expended in such aristocratic and riotous living as no true patriot would indulge in while the people were starving around him.

When Robespierre had done reading the carefully prepared charges, Mirabeau leaned back in his chair and said loud enough to be heard by all around him,

“Is that all? I thought they would have proven that I was plotting to blow up the Assembly, and undermine all France with a pound of gunpowder. The little viper yonder has not half done his work.”

There was more of audacity than courage in this speech, and desperate anxiety gave a false ring to his voice as he uttered it. Then, with a slow, arrogant movement, Mirabeau arose to his feet, and asked for the proofs of these charges, which had been so often hinted or spoken that they had lost all claim to originality, and were hardly worth answering, even when brought seriously before that august body. Of course citizen Robespierre did not expect him to answer accusations so loosely made, when unsupported by proof. Even that must be from persons, and of a character beyond question, if he deigned to notice it, even by a verbal contradiction.

“The proof!” exclaimed Robespierre, in his sharp, disagreeable voice. “Stand forth, citoyenne Brisot, and let the people know how grossly they have been deceived. Answer: Did you not, in June last, see this man, Count Mirabeau, in company with Marie Antoinette, in a temple hidden away in the romantic grounds of St. Cloud? Did you not hear them make a solemn compact together, which was to chain France once more to the throne. Citoyenne Brisot, show to the people and their representatives that letter addressed to the queen, in the handwriting, and bearing the signature of Count Mirabeau, which is now in your possession. Citoyens, there is no time for such forms of investigation as usually follow charges like these; extraordinary circumstances call for extraordinary measures. I move that these proofs are laid before you now—and that citoyenne Brisot have permission to speak.”

Mirabeau arose, smiling, and begged that it might be so.

Then, amid some confusion, Louison was called. She came out from the group of women who had crowded around her, somewhat excited, and with a light laugh upon her lips.

“What is it,” she said, demurely casting down her eyes, “that citoyen Robespierre desires of me?”

“The letter, Louison—the letter!”

The Assembly was hushed; no sound arose but a rustle in the galleries, as people in the crowd leaned eagerly over each other.

Mirabeau turned white in his chair. Even his fierce bravery could not hold its own against the awful anxiety of the moment. His enemies saw this, and murmurs of irrepressible triumph began to arise.

“The letter, citoyen Robespierre?” said Louison, lifting her eyebrows with a look of innocent astonishment, “there must be some mistake—I have no letter.”

Robespierre fell into his seat, and sat staring at the girl in wild astonishment. Mirabeau leaned back in his chair, drew a deep breath, and laughed. A roar of applause swept down from the galleries. This was answered back by the women on the floor, and carried into the street, where it ran like wild-fire among the people who could find no room inside.

Louison cast one brilliant glance at Mirabeau, allowed a glow of triumphant mischief to flash over her face, and, quick as lightning, veiled her eyes again. Robespierre saw the glance, and a hiss of rage came through his shut teeth. Louison caught his venomous eyes, and shuddered.