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abundant locks almost down to her girdle, worn à la Romaine, knotted on one side, over what was then called a republican gown, whose white, graceful folds fitted the shape closely from head to foot, a dress "altogether ravishing in taste." Beside her sat the successful Dumouriez, gallant and insinuating in manner, and the slight, insignificant-looking Louvet—fit in turn, says Madame Roland, "to make Catiline tremble in the Senate or to dine with the Graces"—who kept up that flow of wit and sparkling repartee which rarely forsake the sociable Frenchman. There, too, in a blue coat with high turn-down collar, a red waistcoat with wide lapels, and shirt-frill of fine muslin, his hair carefully dressed and powdered (though powder had gone out as aristocratic), was the sad, high-souled Buzot, suffering his glances to linger too long on those dark, expressive eyes of his hostess—glances whose perilous sweetness came with the shock of a revelation. Beside him the austere Roland, with his careless dress and rasping voice, looked still older than he was. There, too, among others, were the humane Brissot, and Barbaroux, with his Antinous-like head. Oh, gifted, high-minded group, so full of hope and aspiration, make merry to-night! let your glasses clink; celebrate the Republic. But a short year hence, when the leaves are falling again, and where will you be? Scattered yourselves, like the leaves of autumn, in lonely places, battling with the midnight storm, hiding in wells and caverns, or shut up in prison till the hour of execution shall strike! She, too, this noble hostess, will be daily awaiting her death-warrant, and will then confess—what otherwise might have gone to grave with her—that she, too, came to know that "terrible passion," so long delayed