He knew that the crowd never drew near him, incorruptible; but it rushed after Mirabeau, the corrupted; and, at the same time, he both envied and blamed him.
The debate of the National Assembly had been stormy. There were a few nobles there, who witnessed, with profound grief, that union of all the parties of France.
Mirabeau had been insulted in the rostrum. A gentleman, M. Dambly, had threatened him with his walking-stick. Mirabeau stopped his speech, drew his tablets from his pocket, and demanded M. Dambly’s address.
He cried it out from one end of the hall to the other.
“Very good!” said Mirabeau; “you are the one hundred and fiftieth person who has insulted me, and with whom I will fight when I have the time. Until your turn has come, hold your peace. I ask the President to make you pass your word to that effect.”
Mirabeau related the story with incredible irony. All laughed—all said he was in the right.
“And Lameth?” asked several members.
“Which?—Alexander or Charles?”
“Charles.”