MIRABEAU left the Assembly; when he found himself in the face of danger, the strong athlete thought of neither the peril nor his strength.
When he reached home, he laid himself down on cushions in the midst of flowers.
Mirabeau had two passions: women and flowers.
Since the commencement of the session his health had altered perceptibly; although of a vigorous temperament, he had suffered so much, both physically and morally, from his persecutions and imprisonments, that he was never in a perfect state of health.
This time it seemed to be something more than ordinary, and he only feebly resisted his valet, who spoke of going for a physician, when Doctor Gilbert rang and was immediately admitted.
Mirabeau gave his hand to the doctor, and drew him down on to the cushions where he lay, in the midst of flowers.
“So! my dear count,” said Gilbert, “I thought I would not go home without congratulating you: you promised me a victory; you have succeeded better than that—you gained a triumph.”
“Yes, but you see it is a triumph like that of Pyrrhus—another such victory as that and I am lost!”
“In fine,” said he, “you are ill.”
Mirabeau shrugged his shoulders.
“That is to say, in doing what I have done, any one else but me would have died a hundred times. I have two secretaries: they are always at work, and are ill; Pelline, above all, who has to copy my manuscripts—and he is the only one who can read and understand my illegible scrawl—has been in bed these three days. Doctor, tell me, then, I do not say something that will make me live, but something that will give me strength as long as I live.”
“What do you want?” said Gilbert, after feeling his pulse; “for an organization like yours there is no advice to give—advise repose to a man who puts all his strength into motion, temperance to a genius which glories in excess! You have made a necessity of flowers, and their absence makes you suffer more than their presence, and yet they throw out oxygen in the day and carbonic acid gas at night. Should I tell you to treat the women as the flowers, and keep away from them, especially at night, you would tell me you would rather die. Live, then, my dear count, as you have lived, only contrive to have flowers without any perfume, and amours without any passion.”
“In this last particular, my dear doctor, you are admirably served. Amours of passion have succeeded too poorly for me to commence any again. Three years of imprisonment, a condemnation to death, and the suicide of the woman I loved, and that too for another, have cured me of these kind of amours. For a moment, I have told you, I dreamt something great: I had dreamt of the alliance of Elizabeth and Essex, of Anne of Austria and Mazarin, of Catharine the Second and Potemkin; but it was a dream. I have not again seen the woman for whom I struggle, and probably never shall. Believe me, Gilbert, there is no greater burden than to feel that on us depends the success of great projects, the prosperity of a kingdom, the triumph of its friends, the abasement of its enemies, and that by an unfortunate roll of the dice, by a caprice of fate, all may escape us! Oh! how the follies of my youth make me expiate them as they will expiate themselves! But why do they defy me! But have I not on two or three occasions been completely for them, and for them to the end? Was I not for the absolute right of veto when M. Necker even was only for the suspending veto? Was I not opposed to the 4th of August, a night in which I took no part, when the noblesse were deprived of their privileges? Did I not protest against the declaration of the rights of man?—Not because I did not believe in it, but because I thought the day for it had not arrived. To-day, to-day indeed, have I not served them more than they could have hoped? Have I not obtained for them, at the expense of honour, popularity, and life, more than any mind, be he minister or prince, could hare gained? And when I think—reflect well, thou great philosopher, on what I am going to tell you, for the fall of the monarchy perhaps lurks in this—and when I think that I, who ought to esteem it a great favour, so great that I have only been allowed to do so once, have seen the queen; when I remember that my father died through the taking of the Bastille, and that if decency had not forbid me pointing this out the day after the day on which Lafayette was named General of the National Guard, and Bailly Mayor of Paris, that I should have been named mayor in the place of Bailly!—oh! then things changed: the king found it necessary to enter into connection with me; I inspired him with other ideas; I obtained his confidence, and I brought him, before the evil had become too great, to pursue decisive measures; instead of a simple deputy, a man mistrusted, feared, hated, they have driven me from the king, calumniated me with the queen! Do you believe one thing, doctor?—when she saw me at Saint Cloud she turned pale! Ah! it is quite simple; they made her believe that it was I who caused the 5th and 6th of October. During this year I have done all they have tempted me to do; and to-day, ah! to-day, for the health of the monarchy as well as my own, I have much fear lest it be too late.”
And Mirabeau, with an expression of suppressed pain over his whole countenance, seized with his hand the flesh of his breast above his stomach.
“Are you in pain, count?” asked Gilbert.
“As one of the damned! There are days, on my honour, when what they do to my character with calumny I believe they do to my body with arsenic! Do you believe in the poisons of Borgia, in the aqua tofana of Perouse, doctor?” asked Mirabeau, smiling.
“No! but I believe the flame that burns in this blazing lamp so ardent as to crack the glass.”
Gilbert drew from his pocket a small crystal bottle, containing, perhaps, two teaspoonfuls of a green liquid.
“Here, count,” said he, “we will try an experiment.”
“What?” said Mirabeau, looking at the bottle with curiosity.
“One of my friends, whom I should like to see yours too, and who is very skilled in the natural sciences—nay, even pretends to a knowledge of the occult ones as well—has given me the recipe of a beverage which is almost like the elixir vitae. Often when I am troubled with those sad thoughts which lead our neighbours in England to melancholy, spleen, and even death, I take a few drops of this liquid, and I ought to tell you that the effect has always been salutary and prompt. Will you taste a little in your turn?”
“From your hands, doctor, I would receive anything, even the hemlock, much more the elixir of life. Is there any preparation, or must one drink it pure?''
“No; for this liquid in reality possesses great power. Order your valet to bring you a few drops of brandy or spirits of wine in a cup.”
“Diable! brandy or spirits of wine! so you want to dilute your potion?—it must be a fire-liquid. I do not know a man who could drink it, unless Prometheus came on earth again. I will tell you, however, that I do not believe my servant will find six drops of brandy in the whole house. I am not like Pitt, and I do not seek my eloquence in the bottle.”
The servant, however, returned a few moments afterwards with a cup holding the five or six drops of brandy necessary.
Gilbert added to the brandy an equal quantity of the liquid in the phial; when the two liquids combined, the mixture became the colour of absinthe, and Mirabeau, seizing the cup, drank what it contained.
“Morbleu! doctor,” said he to Gilbert, “you did well to warn me that your drug was strong—it seemed literally like a draught of lightning.”
Gilbert smiled, and seemed to await its effects with confidence.
Mirabeau remained for an instant as if burnt up by jets of flame, his head laid on his chest, and his hand holding his stomach; but all at once, raising his head: “Ah! doctor,” said he, “that is indeed an elixir vita you have given me to drink.”
Then he rose, his respiration clear, his forehead bright, his arms extended.
“Overset the monarchy now,” said he; “I feel I am myself able to sustain it.”
“You feel better, then?” he asked.
“Doctor,” said Mirabeau, “tell me where they sell this liquid, and if I must pay for each drop with a diamond as large—must I renounce every luxury but that of strength and life—I tell you I will have that liquid flame, and then—and then I shall look on myself as invincible.”
“Count,” said Gilbert, “promise me never to take this liquid more than twice a week, and to address yourself only to me to provide you with more, and this phial is yours.”
“Give it to me,” said Mirabeau, “and I promise you all you wish.”
“There,” said Gilbert; “but now this is not all. You are going to have horses and a carriage, are you not?”
“Well, live in the country. These flowers that vitiate the air of a chamber make the air of a garden pure. The drive which you will have to Paris every day will do you much good. Choose, if possible, a residence near a height, in a wood, or near a river—Bellevue, St. Germain, or Argenteuil.”
“Argenteuil!” replied Mirabeau; “I have just sent a servant to take a house there. Teisch, did you not say you had found something there that would suit me?”
“Yes, M. le Comte,” replied the valet, who had assisted at the cure that Gilbert had effected, “yes, a charming house, which my compatriot Fritz mentioned to me. He has inhabited it, it seems, with his master, who is a foreign banker. It is empty, and M. le Comte can have it when he will.”
“Beyond Argenteuil; it is called the chateau of the Marais.”
“Oh! I know it,” said Mirabeau; “very well, Teisch. When my father drove me from him with his curse, and beatings with his cane,.... you know, doctor, my father lived at Argenteuil?”
“Well, I said when my father drove me from him, I used often to go and promenade round the exterior walls of this beautiful habitation, and to say like Horace, pardon me if the quotation is false, 'O rus quando te aspiciam?'”
“Then, my dear count, the moment has come when you can realize your dream. Go, visit the chateau of the Marais—transport your family there—the sooner the better.”
Mirabeau reflected an instant, and then, turning himself towards Gilbert: “It is your duty, doctor,” said he, “to watch over the patient you have restored to health: it is only five o'clock, and we are in the long days of the year; it is very fine, so let us get into a carriage and go to Argenteuil.”
“Let it be so,” said Gilbert; “when one undertakes to cure a health so valuable as yours, one ought to take every care. Come, let us see your future country house.”
Mirabeau had not kept house as yet, and therefore kept no carriage. A servant went to fetch a hackney coach.
Why had Mirabeau chosen Argenteuil? Was it as he had just told the doctor, that certain souvenirs of his life attached him to this little town?
It was at Argenteuil that his father, the Marquis de Mirabeau, died on the 11th of July, 1789, as became a true gentleman to die who would not assist at the taking of the Bastille.
At the foot of the bridge of Argenteuil Mirabeau directed the carriage to stop.
“Are we there?” asked the doctor.
“Yes and no: we are not quite at the chateau of the Marais, which is a quarter of a league beyond Argenteuil. But what we are making to-day, doctor, I had forgotten to tell you, is not a simple visit, but a pilgrimage—a pilgrimage to three stations.”
“A pilgrimage!” said Gilbert, smiling, “and to what saint?”
“To Saint Riquette, my dear doctor, a saint whom you do not know, but one whom men have canonized. It is certain that here is buried Saint Riquette'', Marquis de Mirabeau, friend of man, put to death like a martyr by the agitations and debaucheries of his unworthy son, Honore Gabriel Victor Riquette, Comte de Mirabeau.”
“Ah! it is true,” said the doctor; “it was at Argenteuil that your father died. Pardon me, my dear count, that I had forgotten that. And where did your father live?”
At the very moment Gilbert put this question, Mirabeau stopped before the gate of a house situated on the quay, in front of the river, from which it was separated by a lawn of perhaps some three hundred paces and a cluster of trees.
An enormous dog, of the race of those of the Pyrenees, on perceiving a man stop before the gate, darted out and growled, and thrusting his head between the bars, tried to catch hold of Mirabeau's flesh, or at least the lapel of his coat.
“Pardieu, doctor,” said he, “nothing is changed, and they receive me here as if my father were living.”
While he spoke, a young man appeared on the steps, silenced the dog, called it to him, and advanced towards the strangers.
“Pardon, gentlemen,” said he; “many promenaders stop before this house, which was inhabited by the Marquis de Mirabeau, and as poor Cartouche does not understand the historic interest which is attached to the house of his humble masters, he growls eternally. To your kennel. Cartouche!”
The young man made a threatening gesture, and the dog went, still growling, and hid himself in his kennel, through whose open bars there soon passed two paws, on which he leant his head.
During this time Mirabeau and Gilbert exchanged a look.
“Gentlemen,” exclaimed the young man, “there is nothing now behind this gate but a host ready to open it and receive you if your curiosity is not satisfied with the exterior.”
Gilbert nudged Mirabeau as a sign that he would willingly visit the interior of the mansion. Mirabeau understood him; moreover, his wishes coincided with those of Gilbert.
“Monsieur,” said he, “you have fathomed our thoughts. We knew that this house had been inhabited by the 'Friend of Mankind,' and we were curious to visit it.”
“And your curiosity will redouble, gentlemen,” said the young man,” when you know that two or three times, while the father lived here, it was honored by the presence of his illustrious son, who, it is said, was not always received as he deserved to be, and as we would receive him if he should take it into his head ever to have the same curiosity as yourselves.” And bowing, the young man opened the gate to the two visitors, and walked before them.
But Cartouche did not seem disposed to let them thus enjoy the hospitality which had been offered to them; he darted again out of his kennel, growling horribly.
The young man threw himself betwixt the dog and that one of his guests against whom the animal seemed principally irritated.
But Mirabeau drew the young man aside with his hand.
“Monsieur,” said he, “both dogs and men have growled at me; men have bit me sometimes, dogs never. They say that the human eye is all powerful in its influence on animals. Let me, I beg, make an experiment.”
“Monsieur,” said the young man, quickly, “Cartouche is bad tempered. I must beg you to be very careful.”
“Never mind, monsieur,” Mirabeau replied, “I have to do with worse subjects than he is, every day, and to-day, even, with one quite as savage.”
“Yes, but to this savage,” said Gilbert, “you could talk, and no one will deny the power of your eloquence.”
“Doctor, I believe you are an adept at magnetism.”
“Then you ought to know the power of the eye. Let me magnetize Cartouche.”
“Oh, monsieur!” said the young man, “do not run any risk.”
“Not the slightest,” answered Mirabeau.
The young man bowed his consent, and drew off to the left, while Gilbert went to the right, as do the witnesses of a duel.
The young man ascended two or three of the steps leading to the door, and held himself ready to stop Cartouche, if the word and eye of the unknown should prove not to be sufficient under the circumstances.
The dog turned its head to the right and left, as if to see whether he against whom it seemed to have an implacable hatred was really without help. Then, seeing him without arms and assistance, it came slowly out of its kennel, more like a serpent than a quadruped, and all at once sprang forward, and at the first bound cleared one-third of the distance between its adversary and itself.
Mirabeau crossed his arms, and with that look which made him the Jupiter Tonans of the tribune, fixed his eye upon the animal.
At the same time all the electricity that his body seemed capable of containing mounted to his face. His hair stood up like the mane of a lion, and if it had been midnight instead of day, without doubt each one of his hairs would have shown a feeble electrical light. The dog stopped short and looked at him. Mirabeau stooped, and taking a handful of sand, threw it in its face. The dog growled, and took another bound, which brought it within three or four paces of its antagonist; but now it was the latter that advanced.
The animal remained a moment immovable as the stone dog of the chasseur cephale; but made uneasy by the approach of Mirabeau, it seemed to hesitate between fear and rage, and threatening with its teeth and eyes, retreated backwards. At last, Mirabeau raised his arms with a threatening gesture, and the dog, conquered and trembling in every limb, recoiled, and turning round, hastily entered its kennel. Mirabeau joyously turned round. “Ah! doctor,” said he, “old M. de Mirabeau was right when he declared that dogs were candidates for humanity. You have seen this cowardly fellow insolent, now you see him servile as a man!”
And then, with a tone of command, he said: “Cartouche, come here!”
The dog hesitated, but with a gesture of impatience, pushed its head a second time out of the kennel, fixed its eyes upon Mirabeau, and bounded across the space separating them, and arrived at the feet of its conquerer, raised its head slowly and timidly, and with its tongue licked Mirabeau's hand. “Good dog!” said he, “to your kennel!” He made a gesture, and the dog went and laid himself down.
Then, turning to Gilbert, while the young man, half frozen with fear and mute with astonishment, stood on the steps:
“Do you know what I was thinking of, my dear doctor,” said he, “as I was acting this folly which you have just witnessed?”
“No; but tell me. You did not do it by simple bravado!”
“I thought of the famous night of the 5th of October. Doctor! doctor! I would give the life left me, if the king, Louis XVI., had seen this dog dart upon me, return to the kennel, and then come and lick my hand.”
Then he added to the young man: “You will pardon me, monsieur, I hope, for having so humiliated Cartouche? Come, let us see the house of the 'Friend of Mankind,' since you are so kind as to show it us.”
The young man drew aside to let Mirabeau pass, who for that matter did not seem to require a guide, but appeared to know the house as well as if he had been there before.
Without stopping on the ground floor, he mounted the staircase quickly, and with his usual dominating habit, Mirabeau, from a mere spectator, became an actor—from a simple visitor, master of the house. Gilbert followed him.
During this time the young man went to call his father, a man of fifty or five-and-fifty, and his two sisters, young girls of fifteen to eighteen, to tell them what a strange guest they were about to receive.
While he was narrating the history of the taming of the dog, Mirabeau occupied himself with showing Gilbert the working room, chamber and saloon of the late Marquis de Mirabeau; and each room made him tell anecdote after anecdote in that pleasing manner which belonged especially to him.
The proprietor and his family listened to this eloquent cicerone, who told them the history of their own house, with open ears.
The rooms above having been visited, and seven o'clock ringing from the church-tower of Argenteuil, Mirabeau, who doubtless feared to be too late to accomplish his object, pressed Gilbert to descend, setting the example by jumping down the first four steps.
“Monsieur,” said the proprietor of the house, “you, who know so much of the history of M. de Mirabeau and his illustrious son, may be able to relate of these first four steps a story which will be equally as curious as those you have already narrated.”
“I intended that to have remained untold,” said Mirabeau.
“And why so, count?” asked Gilbert.
“I'faith, you shall judge. When Mirabeau left the dungeons of Vincennes, where he had been eighteen mouths, he came to see his father. There were two reasons why Mirabeau was badly received in the paternal mansion; firstly, he left Vincennes against his father's wishes, and secondly, he came to ask for money. It happened that the marquis was engaged in giving the last touch to a philosophical work, and raising his eyes, he saw his son, and at the first words about money which he pronounced, he darted on his son with his cane. The count knew his father well, and yet he thought that his age, thirty-seven, would save him from the threatened correction. The count soon found he was wrong, as the blows showered down upon him.”
“What! blows with the cane?” asked Gilbert.
“Yes, and good heavy blows, too—not such as those which are administered at the Comedie Francaise in Moliere's plays.”
“And what did the Count de Mirabeau do?” asked Gilbert.
“Parbleu! he did what Horace did in his first battle, he fled. Unfortunately, he had not, like Horace, a shield to throw away, so he ran at once, and jumped down the first four steps, as I did but just now, but a little quicker, perhaps. Arrived there, he turned about, and raising his walking-stick in his turn, 'Stop, sir,' said he, 'we are no longer relations:!' It was but a poor reply—all, what a pity the seneschal is dead; I could have written out that for him. 'Mirabeau,' continued the narrator, 'was too good a strategy not to make his retreat at once. He ran down the rest of the steps almost as fast as he had descended the first four, and, to his great grief, never entered the house again.' This Count de Mirabeau was a beggerly fellow, don't you think so, doctor?”
“Oh, monsieur!” said the young man, approaching Mirabeau, with clasped hands, as if he asked pardon of his guest for entertaining a different opinion, “rather say a very great man!”
Mirabeau looked the young man in the face.
“Ah, ah!” said he, “then there are people who do think so of the Count de Mirabeau?”
“Yes, sir,” said the young man, “and at the risk of displeasing you, I amongst the first.”
“Oh!” replied Mirabeau, smiling, “you must not say so so loudly in this house, or the walls may fall in upon you.”
And then, saluting the old man and the two girls respectfully, he passed through the garden, making a friendly sign to Cartouche.
Gilbert followed Mirabeau, who ordered the coachman to drive into the town and pull up opposite the church.
At the corner of the first street he stopped the carriage, and drawing a card from his pocket: “Teisch,” said he to his servant, “take this card to the young man, who is not aware that I am M. de Mirabeau.”
Then with a sigh: “Ah! doctor,” said he, “there is one who has not yet read 'The Great Treachery of M. de Mirabeau.'”
Teisch returned. He was followed by the young man. “Oh! M. le Comte,” said the latter, with an accent of great admiration, “allow me the honour which you have already permitted Cartouche, of kissing your hand.”
Mirabeau opened both his arms, and pressed the young man to his breast.
“M. le Comte,” said he, “I am called Mormais: if ever you want any one that is ready to die for you, think of me.”
Tears came to the eyes of Mirabeau. “Doctor,” said he, “such are the men who will succeed us. I think, on my honour, they will be better than us.”
The carriage stopped opposite the church.
“I have told you that I have never been at Argenteuil since my father struck me: I was mistaken; I was here when I placed his body in this church.”
And Mirabeau descended from the carriage, and, hat in hand, with slow and solemn step entered into the church.
Gilbert followed a few paces after him. He saw Mirabeau traverse all the church, and near the altar of the Virgin go behind a column whose Roman capital seemed to denote that it was of the twelfth century. .
Bending his head, he fixed his eyes upon a black tablet in the centre of the chapel. The doctor's eyes followed those of Mirabeau and read the following inscription:
Francoise de Castellane, Marquise de Mirabeau,
A model of purity and virtue; a happy wife
She was born in Dauphine in 1681, and died at Paris,
First buried at Saint Surplice,
And then transported here to be re-united with her worthy son in the same tomb.
Victor Riquette. Marquis de Mirabeau,
Born at Pertuis, in Provence, 4th of October, 1715,
Died at Argenteuil, the 11th July, 1789.
The influence of death is so powerful, that Gilbert bent his head, and sought in his memory for a prayer, in order to obey the invitation which the sepulchre addressed to every Christian beholder.
But if Gilbert had ever in his fancy known the language of humility and faith, doubt and philosophy had written in its place sophisms and paradoxes.
Finding his heart hard and his lips dumb, he raised his eyes and saw two tears coursing down the cheeks of Mirabeau.
These two tears of Mirabeau seemed strange to Gilbert—he went and took him by the hand.
The tears wept by Mirabeau in remembrance of the father who had imprisoned and tortured him would seem incomprehensible or trivial.
He would not, consequently, express the true cause of his sensibility to Gilbert.
“This Francoise de Castellane, mother of my father, was a worthy woman,” said he. “When all the world declared me hideous, she was satisfied to find me ugly. When all the world hated me so, she loved me still. But what she loved was his son! and so, you see, my dear Gilbert, I have united them. Who will bury me with them? By whose bones will mine be laid? I have not even a dog to love me!” And he laughed bitterly.
“Monsieur,” said a voice, with something of that reproach which only belongs to devotees, “people never laugh in a church!”
“Monsieur,” he replied with unusual sweetness, “are you the priest that serves this chapel?”
“Have you many poor in your parish?”
“More than there are people to give.
“You know some charitable hearts, however—some philanthropists?”
“Monsieur,” observed Mirabeau, “I thought you had done me the honour of informing me that no one laughed in churches.”
“Monsieur,” said the priest, half-angrily, “has the pretension to give me a lesson!”
“No, monsieur, I only wished to show you that the people who think it their duty to correct others are not so rare as you thought. Now, monsieur, I am going in all probability to inhabit the Chateau Marais. Well, every man wanting work shall find it there, and good pay; every hungry old man shall there find food; every sick man, whatever his politics, whatever his religion, shall there meet with assistance; and, monsieur, to commence today, I beg your acceptance, for charitable uses, of a thousand francs per month.”
And taking a leaf from his pocket-book, he wrote with a pencil:
“Good for the sum of twelve thousand francs, for which M. le Cure of Argenteuil can draw on me, being one thousand francs per month, to be employed by him in good works, to commence from the day I take possession of the Chateau Marais.
“Written in the church of the Marais, and signed on the altar of the Virgin,
Mirabeau wrote this letter of credit and signed it on the altar. Written and signed, he gave it to the cure, stupefied before he saw the signature, more so afterwards.
He then left the church, making a sign to Doctor Gilbert to follow. The carriage followed the principal street to the end; then it left Argenteuil and turned into the road leading to Bezons. It had not gone a hundred yards before Mirabeau described through the trees of the park the pointed gables of the chateau and its dependencies. This was Marais.
Five minutes afterwards, Teisch rang the bell at the gate of the chateau.
Mirabeau, as we have already said, knew it of old, but he had never had the opportunity of examining it so closely as he did now. The gate opened, and he found himself in the first court, which was nearly square. To the right was a place inhabited by the gardener, to the left was a similar lodge.
Heliotropes and fuchsias were climbing about the windows, and a bed of lilies, cactus, and narcissus spread the whole length of I this court. It seemed to be covered by a carpet worthy of being wove by the hand of Penelope.
In looking at the lodges, lost almost amongst the roses and other flowers, Mirabeau uttered a cry of joy.
“Oh!” said he to the gardener, “is this little place to let or sell?”
“Without doubt, monsieur,” he replied, “since it belongs to the chateau, which is either to be let or sold. It is let just now, but as there is no lease, if monsieur takes the chateau it will be easy to arrange the matter.”
“And who is the inhabitant?” asked Mirabeau.
“Well,” said Mirabeau, “we will see: a beautiful neighbour is never in the way. Let me see the chateau, mon ami.”
The gardener went before Mirabeau crossed a bridge which separated the first court from the second, and which was built over a small river, and then stopped.
“If monsieur,” said he, “should not wish to disturb the lady in the pavilion, it will be very easy, as this river separates the garden round the pavilion from the rest of the park of the chateau, and thus she would be by herself and monsieur alone too.”
“Good, good!” said Mirabeau; “and the chateau is here?”
And he slowly ascended the five steps leading to it.
The gardener opened the principal door.
This door opened into a vestibule in stucco, with niches containing statues and vases, on columns, according to the fashion of the time.
A door at the end of this vestibule, and opposite the entrance door, led into a garden.
To the right were the billiard and dining—-rooms.
To the left two saloons, a large and a small one.
This first arrangement pleased Mirabeau, who otherwise seemed impatient and uncomfortable. They passed on to the first floor. It consisted of a great saloon, admirably adapted for study, and three or four bedchambers. The windows of the saloon and the chambers were shut. Mirabeau went and opened one of them himself. The gardener would have opened the others; but Mirabeau made a sign with his hand, and the gardener stopped.
Just below the window which Mirabeau had opened, at the foot of an immense weeping willow, sat a woman reading, while a child of some five or six years played among the flowers.
Mirabeau understood at once that this was the lady of the pavilion. It was impossible to be dressed more gracefully and elegantly than this lady. Her hands were small and long, her nails beautiful.
The child, dressed entirely in white satin, wore a strange mixture—but sufficiently common at that time—hat a la Henri Quatre, with one of those three-coloured bindings which were called national ribbons.
Such was the costume that the young Dauphin wore the last time he had appeared on the balcony of the Tuileries with his mother.
The sign made by Mirabeau expressed his wish not to disturb the fair reader.
It was the lady of the Pavilion aux Fleurs; it was indeed the queen of the garden of lilies, cactus, and narcissus; it was indeed the beautiful neighbour that chance had given to the voluptuous Mirabeau.
Immovable as a statue, he watched this charming creature for some time, ignorant as she was of the ardent gaze fixed on her. But whether by accident, or some magnetic influence, she left off reading and looked up to the window.
She perceived Mirabeau, uttered a slight cry of surprise, called her child, and taking him by the hand, walked off, but not without turning her head two or three times, and disappeared amongst the trees, between the openings of which Mirabeau watched her appear from time to time, for her white dress was easily distinguished in the twilight, which had already commenced.
To the beautiful unknown's cry of surprise Mirabeau answered by one of astonishment.
This woman had not only the royal step, but as her lace veil flew aside, her features seemed those of Marie Antoinette.
The child increased the resemblance; he was just the age of the second son of the queen. The gait, the countenance, the least movement of the queen, had remained so firmly fixed in the mind of Mirabeau, ever since his first and last interview, that he believed he should have been able to have recognised her if she had come surrounded by a cloud similar to that which encircled Venus when she visited her son AEneas, near Carthage.
How strange that in the park of the house Mini beau was about to rent, there should be a woman who, if she were not the queen, was so nearly her living portrait!
