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66 THE LETTER. by his own will, of the great revolutionary - movement, which has terrified the Austrian into something like civility. A few months more and she shall implore his aid, seek his council; make his father the happiest man on earth, and give this irresolute, good-hearted king the quiet he so much craves.”.

‘But the people—the clubs—the women of Paris? Remember how they worshiped Necker, yet he failed to satisfy them.”

“Necker!” exclaimed Mirabeau, with infinite scorn in his voice. “A man of money, a financier, whom the insane populace expected to bring corn out of the parched earth by magic; failing in this, he had no resources within him- self by which to win the discoutented back again; but it is different with Mirabeau. His voice is persuasive, his will potent, his power over multitudes supreme; with his foot upon the throne, he will reach forth his hand to the people, and sustain their rights. You, my friend and foster-brother, shall be a connect- ing-link between Mirabeau and his old fol- lowers. Thus he will control the court, the assembly, and the populace.”

“That would be a glorious combination, if it could be carried out,” said Jaque.

“If,” repeated the count; can you doubt it? Think what the pen and the eloquence of one man has accomplished already. Ah, Jaque! this idea of reaching the people through news- papers and pamphlets, was an inspiration of liberty. This is a power which we have learned how to wield with force, and which can be used in behalf of the throne as well as for the people.”

“But not against the people, at least with my poor help,” said Jaque.

Mirabeau turned upon him angrily.

‘*Will you never understand that it is by the power of the people alone the monarchy can be sustained?” he said, in his rough, dogmatical way. “There is but one man living who can bring these great elements in harmony; because it requires the union of two extremes in  the same person; a nobleman who carries in his  - own person the traditions of the past, but whose life and sympathies have been with the people. A man God-gifted with eloquence both of speech and with the pen; in short, a being who con- centretes in one existence two distinct and op- posing characters. Does France contain more than one man of whom you could say this, my friend?”

No; France has but one Mirabeau.”’

“Then have no fear, my friend, for on all sides our prospects are brightening. This coali- tion once made, and our good father opens his money-bags, then all this harassing anxiety about finance will be at an end. You did me good service with the old gentleman, my brother, though he did wince now and then, as the con- viction was forced upon him that we were in fact, as well as in sentiment, equals before the the people, in defiance of the blue blood of his ancestors. It was amusing to see how the old man’s prejudices rose against this simple fact. He did not comprehend that the people glory in having persons of the old pure descent advocat- ing their cause; while that old buffoon, the Due de Orleans, has seized upon the idea, and even now is using it against the king. If this old renegade only had brains, he might prove a dangerous man. As it is, he is sure to make some stupid blunder, from which even that clever woman, De Genlis, cannot save him; so the best wisdom is to leave him to work out his own ruin. This prince has ambition, and nothing else. Now tell me all that passed at Versailles.”

Mirabeau had by this time exhausted his ex- citement, and sat down to listen. Monsieur Jaque informed him, in a few brief words, of all that had passed during the hours of his absence. When he had finished, the count arose and took his hat from the table.

«Let us go and pay our respects to Madame Gosner,” he said. ‘It will be pleasant to con- gratulate her.”

Monsieur Jaque arose reluctantly, and the two men went out together.

(TO BE CONTINUED. )

THE LETTER.

BY CLARA B. HEATH.

It came to her heart, when its hopes, all crushed, Had faded away like the morn’s first blush; It came when the bright tears had gathered slow— Those bitter tears which the lonely must know; When the shad had gathered around her path, And clouds hung over the cherished home-hearth; When pleasure had fled, in that trying hour, It was then it came with its magic power.

It bronght to her heart the dear memories old, And wakened that heart that had grown so cold; It came as light to the erring one, Who in doubt and darkness had struggled on ; As a sunny ray in some darkened cell, Where none but the wretched and hopeless dwell. Oh! those precious vwaords had a magic power, They were full of strength in that lonely hour.