“But the rabble might in its turn teach you,” retorts Tom Paine, with a republican grin.
“Bah!” he exclaims, snapping contemptuous fingers. “They of the mob are but sheep masquerading as tigers. One whiff of grapeshot, and they would disappear.” Then he continues, thoughtfully: “Their saddest trait is their levity. They are ridiculous even in their patriotism. Their emblems, representative of the grand sentiments they profess, are as childish as the language in which they proclaim them is fantastic. There is the red cap! Borrowed from the gutters, they make it the symbol of sovereignty! As though a ship were better for being keel up.”
Mirabeau, with his lion’s face, comes in. He is in a fury, and declares that Lafayette is a practising hypocrite in his pretences of attachment to the king.
“Hypocrisy!” cries Mirabeau. “That, at least, is a lesson in the school of liberty he never learned from Washington.”
Others of the Moderates arrive, and join in the conversation.
“You must understand, gentlemen,” observes Admiral Paul Jones warmly, “that I, in my time, have fought eight years for liberty. But I did not fight with the decrees of blood-mad Assemblies, or the plots of secret clubs.”
Those present smile tolerantly; for the mighty Paul is a person of many privileges, the one man in France who may speak his mind.
“You do not deeply respect the Assembly?” remarks Mirabeau, with a sour smile.
“The Assembly? What is it? A few who talk all the time, and a great many who applaud or hiss! Everything about it is theatrical. It struggles for epigram not principle, and the members would sooner say a smart thing than save France.”
Paris is turmoil and uproar and tumult. To keep his mind from that strife which surrounds him, and into which he longs to plunge, Admiral Paul Jones puts in hours with his secretary, Benoît-André, dictating his journals. Also, business calls him to London, where he is much celebrated by the Whigs. He hobnobs with Fox and Sheridan, while Walpole carries him away to Strawberry Hill. He is with Walpole, when word arrives that Mirabeau is dead.