CHAPTER XCVIII.
A THANKLESS LOVER AND HOSTS OF ENEMIES.
Once more Mirabeau was triumphant. The malice of his enemies had lifted him still higher in the estimation of the people who gloried more than ever in their idol. Louison shared in the popular favor. The fair maid of Liege had never been an object of more admiring attention. She gloried in the act which proved her devotion to Mirabeau, but had made her bitter enemies, whom she believed herself strong enough to scorn. She managed to draw near Mirabeau, who greeted her with a glowing smile.
“Have I done well?” she asked, turning her head.
“More than well,” he answered. “Count on something better than gratitude.”
“There is but one thing better in the world,” she returned, in a low voice; “give me that and I am content.”
Before Mirabeau could answer, Marat stood at Louison’s elbow.
“Citoyenne,” he said, with loud coarseness, “you have at least had courage; but it needs a charmed life to play with vipers. Is yours thus protected?”
Louison laughed in the man’s face. Was not Mirabeau more powerful than ever. Had not she made him so?
“I understand,” said Marat, nodding his rough head; “but one life does not hold all France. Mad love has made you blind. Citoyenne, for one false man you have cut down an army of friends. Wait, and see.”
Louison turned upon this uncouth man, who seemed to have come fresh from a stable, with disdain in her eyes. Just then renewed shouts went up for Mirabeau.
“Hear that, citoyen, and tell me if there is one among you the people love so. When there is, let that man threaten me. Bah! How mean and small you are beside him!”
Marat turned his coarse, evil face upon her. There was something more than a threat in that look; but Louison was too haughty in her triumph even to regard it. She saw Mirabeau walking toward his seat, firm, erect, and carrying himself like a monarch. Her eyes followed him eagerly, and her heart swelled as his enemies shrunk away into their places, beaten down by the storm of popular rejoicing that they had failed in bringing anything but baseless charges against the supreme idol of the hour. These men hated Mirabeau with bitter jealousy and unconquerable distrust; but this feeling was nothing to the burning rage and venomous repulsion with which Louison had inspired them. She had dared to lead them into a grave error, cover them with the ridicule of defeat, and scoff at their indignation. But a day of reckoning was sure to come.
Louison cared nothing for this. Her idol was triumphant. By the act of that day she had chained him to her and placed him more firmly than ever in the hearts of the people. In his triumph hers was complete.
That night Mirabeau sought Louison at her lodgings. The peril he had escaped brought a feeling of gratitude even into his selfish heart. In her jealous rage she had thrust him into danger; but a gentle word of affection had brought him out of it triumphantly, honored with double strength, and a victor over the most relentless enemies that ever pursued a man to ruin.
Louison came to meet him, radiant, with both hands extended, and wild triumph in her eyes.
“Now tell me—could the queen have done so much for you?”
“The queen? Nay; she would rather see Mirabeau dead, save that he may be useful. Why speak of her, Louison? I came only to talk of yourself—you have made many enemies to-day.”
“Enemies? Yes, I know it. What then—are you not stronger than ever? And I—have I not Mirabeau?”
The count reached out his hand and wrung hers.
“Who will defend you with his last breath.”
“And love me till then?”
A soft, pleading light came into her eyes; for the moment this brave, bad woman was humble and tender as a child.
Mirabeau gave an impatient movement of the head. This talk of love from her lips was like a proffer of dead flowers. Anything else he would give her—but not that. Even in his supreme danger, the night before, a semblance of the passion had been irksome—now it seemed impossible.
“Ask Mirabeau how he will act, and he can tell you; but feeling is another thing, my friend.”
Louison’s eyes filled with questioning disappointment. Was he failing her so soon?
“There, there! I meant nothing that should drive all that light from your face. No woman has ever stood by me as you have done. Mirabeau may be faithless to his loves—people say that he is. But who ever charged him with desertion of a friend, much less one who has served him as you have done?”
Louison heard him, and her great eyes filled with tearful reproach.
“Ah, Mirabeau! you never loved me!”
“On my soul I did, but that was when——”
Now her eyes were raised to his with wistful questioning, which made him break off in the cruel thing he was saying.
“When?”
“When I looked upon you only as a woman.”
“Only as a woman! When I have done so much for France—so much for you. This is hard, it is ungrateful.”
“Yes, I think it is; but not the less true. Men have strong sympathies, firm friendships, sometimes high reverence, for each other, but no love; that we give to women.”
Louison’s lip curved an instant, but a quiver of pain took all the scorn from it.
“And that you can never give to me? What have I done?”
“Too much, my friend. The pride of manhood revolts at a false position. Had you craved care, Mirabeau would have protected you.”
“Ah! I understand. You aspire to protect the queen. She is ready to be cared for, and, perhaps, loved.”
“I hardly think she would amuse herself with an execution.”
“And you blame me for rejoicing when an enemy of France falls. You call upon us women for help, and then despise us that we listen.”
“No, no! Only I do not usually betake myself to the scaffold when I have love to bestow. Cannot you see a difference?”
“These are dainty distinctions, which a woman of the people is not expected to know. One cannot be a patriot and helpless,” answered Louison, whose hot temper was beginning to kindle fiercely under the keen disappointment that man had brought upon her. “As for me, I give love for love, and hate for hate.”
“Ah! but you and I will have nothing to do with either, for both are dangerous. I did not come here to talk of such bitter and frail things; but to announce danger.”
“A new one—to you or to me?”
“For myself, I have so many enemies, that half a dozen, more or less, is of little consequence—that would not have moved me in the least.”
“Then it is for me?”
“This was a grand but dangerous day for you, Louison—for it made my enemies yours, and they are counted by hundreds.”
“This morning I did not fear them, having you; but now I stand alone.”
“Not while Mirabeau lives. This is what I came to say—let us have done with all meaner things. We are fellow patriots, given to one purpose—comrades in a glorious cause. A great future lies before France—you will stand by me while I work it out?”
Louison was pale and drooping, all the womanliness in her nature was wounded unto death. He left nothing before her now but a man’s ambition. Well, that was better than nothing.
“Nay, I will not stand by and watch your struggles, but help you as I did yesterday,” she answered, proudly.
“That was bravely done; but such occasions do not repeat themselves often. The strongest woman that ever lived is but a weak man when she unsexes herself.”
Louison turned upon him with a burst of her own fierce rage.
“You leave me nothing,” she said.
“Yes, liberty!”
“But equality is the great war cry here. Is that to be denied because I am a woman?”
“Yes,” answered Mirabeau, thoughtfully. “There is no equality between men and women—nature forbids it. They are better and worse than each other. The woman who seeks it loses all the delicacy of her own nature, but never attains a man’s strength. No, Louison, there is no equality.”