Robespierre

CHAPTER VI

THE PRISON OF LA BOURSE

Olivier found himself on the threshold of a vast courtyard enclosed by high walls, and by two enormous stone and brick buildings with cross-barred windows. The roof of these buildings was bordered by a spiked fence, in order, as it seemed, to make escape impossible. These were the very structures he had seen from the street. They were connected by a stone corridor with a terrace at the end, running parallel with it, where a sentinel patrolled with shouldered arms. The entrance to this corridor was secured by an enormous grating, which when opened put the courtyard in which Olivier now stood in communication with another open space planted with trees.

The young man advanced with some hesitation, for he saw some of the prisoners walking in the shade of an acacia, whose blossoms were bathed in the rosy light of the setting sun. A mound of grass surrounding the tree lent rustic freshness to the scene.

Olivier scanned these moving groups with beating heart, anxiously examining every one that passed him. There were men, women, and even children. But he had recognised no one. His mother and Thérèse apparently were not there.

He would have questioned some one but dared not, vaguely fearing to compromise his dear ones, forgetting that the people before him were also prisoners, and their companions in suffering and misfortune. Just then a young woman, pretty and graceful in her simple toilet, wearing a white cambric cap finely goffered, came briskly towards him.

"You are perhaps looking for some one?" she said in a sweet voice.

"My mother and my fiancée, the citoyennes Durand."

"Oh! they are still at table! Look, the young girl will not eat, and the elder lady is trying to persuade her."

In his hesitation to advance further Olivier had not perceived, on the other side of the acacia, a table laid with coarse earthenware, which was being cleared by several turnkeys and waiters, and at which a few prisoners still lingered.

Yes, it was they, his beloved ones, at last! Olivier remained dumb, divided between his longing to hold them in his arms and the fear of taking them too brusquely by surprise. His unknown ally seemed to divine his feelings, for she said—

"If you like, I will go first to them." Then, as if to reassure him, she introduced herself: "I am the Countess de Narbonne."

Olivier, deeply moved, thanked her in broken phrases, and followed his friendly guide at a distance. Soon she was whispering in Clarisse's ear, as if preparing her for the unexpected visit. Clarisse turned round, and seeing her son, grew deadly pale. She rose and fell into his arms.

"Arrested? You also, my son?"

He pressed her to him, reassuring her.

"Oh, no! ... I am free! ... Be at peace, mother ... I have had permission to see you."

He then kissed Thérèse, who, still trembling, asked—

"Is it really true, you are free?"

Olivier again reassured them. Clarisse wished to find a secluded spot where they could talk undisturbed, and Thérèse having espied an empty bench under another acacia, they took possession of it.

Olivier now anxiously questioned his mother, wanting to know every detail of her arrest, but Clarisse interrupted him. He must first tell them about himself. Was he really safe? How did he get to Paris? Where was he staying? Olivier was obliged to answer, telling them his adventures as quickly as possible, that he might return to their arrest. When he had satisfied them, he asked breathlessly—

"And you? Tell me everything. I must know all."

Clarisse then told him of their arrest, departure, and halt at Montmorency; of the long drive to Paris, their arrival in the prison more dead than alive, and how they gained heart on learning it was one of the least cruel in Paris. She had been able to judge for herself when she awoke in the morning, and was so cordially received by her fellow-prisoners, men and women who, as she discovered on their introducing themselves, belonged to her world.

She then pointed out to Olivier among those taking their after-dinner promenade Madame de Narbonne, so gentle, so compassionate, and her little girl, such a darling child! then the Count and Countess de Lavergne; the Marquise de Choiseul, who had taken such kind and delicate interest in Thérèse at breakfast; the whole family de Malussie; the Count de Broglie; the Chevalier de Bar; the Maréchal de Mouchy and his lady, whom Clarisse had met in her youth at Versailles; Mademoiselle de Béthisy, and the Marquis d'Avaux.

"Yes," she said, with a sad smile. "I have not found myself in such elegant company since we left Pontivy."

"That is easily explained," replied Olivier; "the prisons of the Republic are used only for the nobility."

"You are mistaken," Clarisse answered gently. "Among the prisoners there are, I can assure you, men and women of the lower middle-class, who have given proofs of the highest nobility of soul."

"That is exactly what I mean—they are eminent in virtue, as the others are in birth. And they are consequently not wanted. All that is wanted is equality.... Equality in infamy!"

"Hush! Be quiet, you may be heard!"

"Be quiet? I shall be quiet when they tell me of what you are accused; for, after all, why have you been arrested? What have you done?"

"That is just what we ask ourselves," answered Clarisse. And then she continued as if she were thinking aloud—

"At first I fancied that some one had denounced us, but I put that thought aside at once, for who could have done so?"

"Who?" exclaimed Olivier, astonished that his mother as yet knew nothing. Looking at her fixedly, he continued—

"What! Is it possible they have not told you?"

"Told me? Who could tell me? ... Then it was...?" she asked breathlessly.

"It was Robespierre!"

She bounded from her seat as if under an electric shock. Incredulous and stupefied, she protested in spite of herself.

"It is not true!" she exclaimed.

"How can it not be true? Leonard heard it from the driver who took you to Paris. Robespierre was a few yards off our house at the Carrefour de la Chèvre. It was from that very spot he set his agents upon you."

These details brought back the scene to Clarisse's memory. And she thought of Vaughan, undoubtedly arrested also.

Olivier recalled her to the present, continuing to speak.

"Yes, it was Robespierre, the infamous wretch!"

She threw herself on him.

"Oh no! Hush! I implore you!"

He struggled to continue, but she prevented him, trying to drown his words.

"I am sure you are mistaken.... Leonard is mistaken.... It is certain.... I should have known.... If it were he ... I should have known!"

"No! You could not have known. You yourself said so just now. Why should they account to you for their actions? It is he ... he and no other!"

And Olivier then gave her minutely every detail as the gardener had told it to him. How one of the agents had conferred with Robespierre after the arrest, at the Carrefour de la Chèvre, where he was enjoying a picnic.

Ah! Clarisse needed no such explanations. It was he, she knew it too well. But how was she to persuade Olivier to the contrary? How prevent the son from cursing his father?

She tried to excuse Robespierre, attributing to him other motives.

"You see," she said, "he doesn't know who we are.... He is mistaken.... His agents have misled him.... There could be so many misunderstandings...."

Olivier shrugged his shoulders.

"How credulous you are! Bah! he knows very well what he is doing! It is his thirst for blood. Oh! you don't half know what he is, that Rob...."

Clarisse, horror-stricken, put her fingers to his lips, to arrest the words.

"No! No! Don't pronounce that name in such a way!"

And seeing him look at her in bewilderment, she tried to give him plausible reasons.

"You might be heard, and you would be compromised."

"But how? Here? Where everybody holds his name in execration?"

"Yes; but then there are turnkeys coming and going at every moment. And what if there are spies among the prisoners...?"

And, as if clutching at a straw, she followed up the idea.

"Yes, spies—traitors? You must not betray your feelings before them."

"True! there is no lack of infamy among the populace!"

He then told his mother of the incidents of his wanderings in Paris, of his utter astonishment at the apathy of the crowd round that accursed scaffold which was being transported to the Place de la Bastille, amidst the preparations for the Festival of the Supreme Being.

And yet he knew that much of their indifference must be assumed. How many thought as he did! How many had the long-awaited cry of deliverance on their lips: "Down with the scaffold!" Only they dared not speak out! If but one had the courage to give utterance to that cry, there would be enough brave men found in the crowd to take it up and re-echo it, carrying the more timid along with them. When once a move is made the multitude will quickly follow.

Clarisse looked at him. A new thought had dawned on her mind, a horrible thought!

What if Robespierre should have Olivier arrested without knowing who he was?

She interrupted him.

"Is the house where you lodge quite safe?"

As Olivier replied in the affirmative, and was continuing the narrative of his adventures, she took up the thread of his thoughts. Suddenly a gleam of hope shone in her eyes, as if her mental speculations had assured her.

"Ah! I did well to write to him!" she thought.

To him, to Robespierre! For she had written to the Incorruptible that very morning.

She now turned this letter over in her mind, in which she had informed him of her imprisonment, telling him her fears about her son, whose age she particularly mentioned as nineteen years. It was a hint for Robespierre, who would understand, and perhaps be touched to pity, and set her and Marie Thérèse at liberty, and spare the lad who was her son and his own.

Clarisse had confided this letter to a prisoner set at liberty, whom she earnestly entreated to see it safely delivered.

"It will be the easiest thing in the world," the man had replied; "you can be quite at rest."

Clarisse did not suspect the irony of this reply, or that the supposed prisoner was one of the spies to whom she had unwittingly alluded a little while before. Ah, yes; she could be at rest, truly! The letter would reach Robespierre. But under what conditions? He, who received so many! Alas! It is in the wounded heart that most illusions take root! Clarisse did not dream that anything could interfere with her scheme, and began to speculate on the future, counting the hours, and saying to herself that in all probability the letter could reach Robespierre the next day.

The best she could do till then, she thought, was to moderate Olivier's zeal, by showing him that their prison-life was not so unbearable; and she imagined it would distract him if she presented him to some of her companions in misfortune. They had just taken away the tables, so making the courtyard appear larger, and leaving more room for the promenade. Olivier was now noticing more clearly the people in this little prison-world taking air and exercise in the open space to which the green acacia-trees gave some semblance of a garden.

The women, dressed simply in summer toilets, retained an air of elegance in spite of the plain ribbon band fastening their hair, and their fresh, newly ironed caps. The men were gay and smiling, polite and distinguished; they talked and played cards or chess together on the benches, exchanging courtesies as if they were in a drawing-room. "After you! ... I should not think of it! ..." And in and out the groups the concierge Haly came and went, giving his orders, accompanied by two bulldogs, with enormous spiked collars.

Just then a fair-haired, bright-eyed boy of fifteen knocked up against Olivier.

"Oh! pardon, monsieur!" said the lad, who was playing a game of fives and running after the ball.

"What a nice lad!" said Olivier.

"It's young de Maillé," said Thérèse. "Nobody knows why he has been arrested. His doom is settled, however, for they say he threw a rotten herring at the head of the concierge."

Here Clarisse stopped her.

"So they say, but it is not true, for the concierge is a fairly honest fellow."

And addressing a lady who was just passing, she continued, "Is it not so, madame? Haly is not a bad fellow, is he?"

"No, but a blockhead; a lamb, however, compared to the jailers of other prisons."

Clarisse thus presented Olivier: "My son—Madame la Marquise de Choiseul."

Olivier bowed courteously, and as Madame de Choiseul, struck by the distinguished air of the young workman, held out her hand, Olivier took it in his and kissed it. In this high-born company all the grace of his early education came back to him.

The marquise smiled and turned to Clarisse.

"Behold a son who betrays his mother! Your name is not Durand. You belong to us. I had thought as much."

And as Clarisse was about to reply, she added: "Hush! I am not asking your secrets."

She then assured the young man that his mother was right: the concierge Haly, though rough, was rather kind than otherwise, letting visitors enter, and even bring in provisions, sweets, and linen.

"And above all," she added, "he does us the great favour of letting us walk about and disport ourselves here until night time."

She then pointed out to Olivier the various games in which the men and children took part.

"As you see," she added, "they take full advantage of the permission."

Clarisse, well pleased with the tone of the conversation, tried to retain the marquise.

"Tell him, madame, how you pass your evenings."

"What! Have you not yet told him?" asked the marquise, who had been a silent spectator of the meeting between the mother and her son.

"You must not forget that I only arrived yesterday," said Clarisse. "I know nothing myself but what I have heard."

"Ah, true!" said Madame de Choiseul, who with a mother's heart now understood Clarisse's kindly motive.

At once she pointed out to Olivier the windows of one of the buildings.

"That is what we call our drawing-room—a large apartment in which we gather in the evening. There we play at guessing riddles, charades, and bouts-rimés. Some read verses, or recite to us, and we even have music. Look! Do you see that gentleman seated over there under an arch, turning the pages of an album? That is the Baron de Wyrbach, who plays some charming airs every evening on his viola d'amoré. He exhausts his ingenuity to find something new for us."

Olivier listened in astonishment, beginning to be really reassured.

"You see," continued the marquise, "we might imagine ourselves still at Versailles."

Then she added with a sad smile—

"And so we are in one sense, for all that remains of Versailles is now in prison."

And she mentioned many names, singling out among the prisoners those who belonged to the old Court: the Prince and Princess de Saint-Maurice, the Chevalier de Pons, and the Count d'Armaille, whose nephew, young d'Hauteville, had been a page to Louis XVI.

A group had formed round a young woman seated on the grassy knoll, her back against the acacia, fanning herself daintily.

"Look now! Would you not think it a court of love in one of the groves of Trianon? It is Madame de Méré receiving the homage of her admirers."

Madame de Méré rose at that moment to meet another lady who was coming towards her, pretty, neat, and natty in her spotless toilet; and Madame de Choiseul explained to Olivier who the newcomer was.

"That is Madame de Verneuil, who remains, though in prison, as coquettish and as fashionably dressed as she used to be at Court. She even finds time to make her usual change of toilet regularly three times a day, without the assistance of maid or hairdresser. Not only does she dress herself, and do her own hair, but she washes, dries, and gets up her own linen! And all this in such good-humour that it brings tears to one's eyes."

Olivier was now quite reassured with regard to the severity of the prison rules to which his mother and Thérèse were subjected. He was, nevertheless, astonished at the careless indifference which he saw around him. If the populace had revolted him on the Place de la Révolution, this aristocratic company in the prison dumfounded him. He could not hide his feelings, or refrain from expressing his surprise; but he did so respectfully, with tact, and in perfectly good taste.

Clarisse essayed to interrupt him; but Madame de Choiseul had already replied—

"You have just come from the country, perhaps, and have not mixed in the Parisian world for some time. What you take for indifference is in reality mere habit. You cannot change the French people. The moment they find a struggle useless, they gaily make the best of it. Believe me, their seeming frivolity only masks the resignation of a Stoic. There are still rebellious and desperate spirits to be found, but they are in a minority. The majority are heart-sick and ready to go, that is, to die; and they do die with a smile on their lips, French to the last!"

Voices and sounds of applause interrupted the marquise, and cries of "Bravo! Bravo! That was very good!" were heard. A young girl, her arms tied behind her back, was bowing from the top of a ladder on which she was standing, and to which she had mounted by the aid of chairs and stools placed upon tables and benches. As she tried to descend all arms proffered assistance, and when she had reached the ground another lady came forward, the Marquise d'Avaux, whom Madame de Choiseul named to Olivier, and began to climb the improvised ascent with faltering steps.

Clarisse, Thérèse, and Olivier watched this performance, understanding nothing of it. Madame de Choiseul looked at them to note their expression, and with one accord the three turned to question her—

"That is a new game, is it not?"

"Yes, and a rather gloomy one," answered Madame de Choiseul. Then she added solemnly, "Those ladies are learning how to walk to the scaffold."

She explained to them that the wooden steps which the condemned had to climb to reach the guillotine were difficult to ascend. The women encountered serious obstacles in mounting, being without the assistance of their hands, which were tied behind them. They stumbled and slipped, their dresses sometimes catching in the woodwork, to the great amusement of the rabble crowd.

"It is to avoid these accidents," she said, "and to be able to meet their martyrdom respected by the mob, that they rehearse the role which they may be called upon to play on the morrow, perhaps, in public."

Olivier was dumb with admiration before this contempt of the scaffold, the general resignation to the thought of death.

Presently peals of laughter were heard. The Marquise d'Avaux, just before reaching the last stool, caught her dress on the back of a chair. She laughed with the rest, and said gaily, showing her torn skirt—

"Some more work for this evening!"

"You see," continued Madame de Choiseul, "what the indifference which revolted you so much just now hides in reality. Many of those young women keep up the failing courage of the men at the scaffold, and offer to die first."

But Clarisse, whose curiosity was now satisfied, tried to turn attention from these gloomy subjects, her mother's heart telling her they would reawaken Olivier's apprehensions. She soon found a pretext. Madame de Narbonne passed them with her little girl, holding a basket of fruit, of which the child partook without restraint.

"What lovely cherries!" exclaimed Clarisse.

Madame de Narbonne stopped to offer her some, but Clarisse declined, and when pressed, said—

"Not for me, thanks; but my niece will perhaps taste them."

When Thérèse also asked to be excused, Olivier intervened.

"Only taste," he said, and as she still declined, "Will you allow me, mademoiselle?" he asked, taking a bunch from the basket which the child now carried. And he held one of the cherries up to his fiancée's lips. "Won't you take one to please me?"

Clarisse could not help smiling. Olivier saw the smile. "And you, also, mamma!" he said.

Clarisse allowed herself to be persuaded, looking gratefully at the kind prisoner to whose good nature that little family scene was due, and Olivier was beginning to renew his playful persuasions to Thérèse, when a bell sounded from behind the big grating, tolling slowly.

Madame de Narbonne turned pale.

"The call!" she gasped.

All conversation now ceased; men and women fell into groups, or left each other abruptly, looking anxiously towards the iron gate, as if expecting some one to appear. Olivier felt the universal shudder of dread, and his fears were again awakened.

"The call! What call!" he asked.

But the Marquise de Choiseul had gone away with Madame de Narbonne, carrying the little child along with them, in great haste. Olivier, turning round, met only the supplicating look of his mother, who had perhaps understood.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said, with an effort.

Thérèse clung tremblingly to Clarisse, feeling that something terrible was to happen, and Olivier going towards one of the prisoners to question him was soon joined by Clarisse and Thérèse.

"The call? Why, it is the summons to such of the prisoners as are destined to appear before the Revolutionary Tribunal. The bell had been rung to assemble all the prisoners to meet the Recorder, who, with list in hand, will read the names of those selected by the Revolutionary Tribunal for trial."

"You mean for condemnation!" interrupted Olivier, with indignation.

The prisoner nodded assent.

"So all those who are named..."

"Will be taken in a cart to the Conciergerie, and..."

"And?"

"Ascend the scaffold two days after," said the prisoner in conclusion, apparently resigned to his fate.

"Then it may be one of us, mamma?" asked Thérèse, bursting into tears.

Clarisse tried to master her emotion.

"No..." she said. "It's too soon ... isn't it? ... tell her..."

And she implored Olivier with a look.

"How can one know?" he said, driven to distraction.

"Oh no! ... I assure you! ... You will see.... It is impossible! ..."

And still she murmured brokenly: "You will see.... It is impossible! ..."

The Recorder of the Revolutionary Tribunal now passed the grating, accompanied by Haly, the concierge, and followed by turnkeys and gendarmes, who, on entering the courtyard, formed themselves in line. The Recorder was a little man, fat and full-blooded, his face twisted into a sly, ugly smile. He seemed highly amused at the spectacle, and seated himself under the acacia, talking to the concierge, who seemed surprised to see him, and said—

"I thought the Tribunal would not sit to-morrow on account of the Festival of the Supreme Being?"

"You are right! But they will sit the day after to-morrow. You understand, I want to be free to-morrow and to take part in the festival...."

And with a cynical laugh he called for a glass of wine, which he emptied at a draught.

"Attention! We must begin business!" he said; and with this he unfolded the paper, the terrible paper, wherein the fate of the victims had been decided in advance. But the day was near its close, the Recorder could not see, and had to ask for a lantern.

The courtyard was full now.

Prisoners from the neighbouring yards had assembled in answer to the call. All this little world was affected by various feelings; some were resigned, some hopeful, some indifferent or frightened as they looked at the messenger of death, who seemed quite unconscious of his ignominy.

What names would fall from his lips? There were some, worn out and weary, looking forward to death as a release, who would have willingly put theirs into his mouth. Others, more feeble, who were undergoing the full horrors of suspense, stood in breathless fear, almost choked with anguish. Oh! that horrible hope of hearing another's name called, rather than one's own! And yet...

The Recorder was becoming impatient.

"Where is that lantern!" he shouted. "Is every one asleep here?"

A few of the prisoners had refrained from joining the anxious crowd; either from habit or indifference, without disturbing themselves, they continued playing or conversing as before. Clarisse and Thérèse were seated at a little distance, their eyes fixed on the dread official, while Olivier, standing near, ready to defend them, watched the affecting scene with strained anxiety.

The Recorder was swearing now.

"Is that cursed lantern never coming? So much the worse! I shall commence without it."

And he rose and tried to decipher the names in the dark.

"The first name is Bour ... no, Lour..."

Here a voice interrupted him in indignant protest.

"Oh! don't read like that! You double their sufferings. It is horrible! too horrible!"

It was Olivier.

"Who dares to speak here?" thundered the Recorder.

Clarisse desperately pulled her son by the arm.

"I implore you! ... my child! ... I do implore you!"

At that moment some one appeared with a light.

"Ah! there's the lantern!" cried the concierge.

When the man had explained that he had not been able to find any matches, the Recorder began to read the paper—

"Sourdeval!" he cried out.

Other lanterns were now lighting up the courtyard and the distracted crowd, and every eye was turned in the direction of the prisoner who had been named.

"Here I am!" cried a voice.

And a man advanced, his head erect, calm and impassive, without casting a single glance on the spectators, knowing no one perhaps. He crossed the line of gendarmes, and disappeared behind the grating to fetch his belongings.

The Recorder proceeded with his grim and gloomy task, drawing tears from some, heart-rending cries from others, and interrupted by murmurs of pity or defiance.

The young de Maillé, who was called among the first, stopped playing with the children to go to his death. An old man, Monsieur de Mauclère, at the sound of his name fainted away, and was carried out. Madame de Narbonne, called also, confided her little daughter to Madame de Choiseul.

"Where are you going, mamma?" asked the child.

And Madame de Narbonne had the courage to reply—

"I shall be back in a moment, my darling."

"Don't go, mamma! ... don't go! ... I don't want you to go!"

Madame de Narbonne hurried away to hide her tears, then, breaking down entirely, leant on the grating and sobbed aloud.

The Maleyssie family, father, mother, and two young girls, threw themselves into each other's arms, thanking heaven they were not to be separated in this supreme hour, and would walk hand in hand to the scaffold. An old couple with white hair, the Maréchal and Maréchale de Mouchy, worn with age, each walking with the aid of a stick, were called together. At once she took his arm, and so they made their way with calm courage through the prisoners, who bared their heads in reverence before such sublime resignation. Another couple drew forth cries of admiration: the Comte and Comtesse de Lavergne. The Comte, alone named, was taking leave of his wife, who, after assuring herself she was not on the list, implored the Recorder to include her. On his replying that he had no orders to do so, she uttered the cry of sedition punishable by death: "Vive le Roi!" and was inscribed forthwith on the fatal list.

Olivier now held his mother pressed against him, while Marie Thérèse and Clarisse, nestling together, followed the terrible spectacle with joined hands. All hearts were moved to admiration or to pity, according to the acts of courage or faint-heartedness which were displayed. But brave deeds predominated. A Monsieur de Gournay, called out whilst engaged in filling his pipe on a bench, rose quietly and lit it at a turnkey's lantern, and went towards the gate without a word. The Comte de Broglie, interrupted in a game of chess with the Chevalier de Bar, as he rose pointed to the chess-board, and said—

"You see, you would have lost, chevalier. But cheer up! I shall let you have your revenge in the other world."

Then, calm and composed, taking leave of the chevalier, bowing to his acquaintances, kissing the hands of the Marquise d'Avaux and of Madame de Méré, he followed the gendarmes to his fate.

A discussion was taking place near to where Olivier was standing over a name which had just been called.

"Leguay!"

Two men were speaking to each other; one was of middle age, turning grey; the other quite young.

"Are you also Leguay?" asked the young man, who when his name was called was surprised to see his fellow-prisoner advancing with him.

"Yes," was the reply.

"Are you married, or a bachelor?"

"Married, and father of two children."

"I am a soldier, and have neither wife nor child.... Go no further."

The Recorder, who was growing impatient at the conversation of the two men, whom he took for relations taking leave of each other, shouted—

"Well! Leguay?"

"It is I," answered the young man.

Only Olivier, Clarisse, and Thérèse had witnessed this sublime self-devotion. Olivier made a movement as if to offer his hand to the young hero, but he had already crossed over to the gendarmes.

The Recorder now scribbled something on the list, and the people expected him to commence a new series. But he folded the paper, and after asking for another glass of wine, said—

"That is all for to-day."

At these words an immediate feeling of relief ran through the crowd, awakening them from that terrible nightmare.

"Thank God!" said Clarisse, with a sigh.

"And you told me you were quite safe!" exclaimed Olivier.

Again she had the courage to conceal the truth.

"Oh! my anxiety was for others, not for ourselves."

Olivier shook his head incredulously, and was about to reply, when the voice of Haly announcing the hour for the visitors to leave interrupted him.

"All visitors out! It is time to close!"

The Recorder by this time disappeared, preceded by gendarmes. The prancing of horses was heard in the neighbouring courtyard, amidst a confusion of orders and counter-orders. It was the men on duty who were putting the prisoners in the cart, now ready to start. Haly, posted at the grating of the gate by which Olivier had entered, received the cards of the visitors, examining them by the light of his lantern, which he suspiciously lifted to a level with their faces.

Olivier did not hurry his departure, in spite of the insistence of his mother, who was terrified at the thought that the gate might shut on him. But the concierge saw him.

"Hallo! You there! If you want to stay, you know, you have only to say so."

"He is coming!" cried the two women.

And kissing him quickly, they pushed him towards the gate.

Olivier, before leaving, had promised his mother not to try and see them for some days, but to rest satisfied with writing, without giving his address.

The two women glanced in spite of themselves at the neighbouring courtyard, whence came a noise of wheels and the tramp of horses. They stooped, and saw through the large grating the cart with its load of the condemned roll away by the light of torches held by the turnkeys, and driven by a coachman in a carmagnole and red bonnet. As the vehicle was disappearing the two women recognised Madame de Narbonne in tears, sending kisses to the prison, in which her little girl had now wept herself to sleep.

"Oh! it is horrible!" said Thérèse.

And she fell on Clarisse's shoulder, thoroughly broken by the terrible emotions of the day.

At this moment the cart reached the street, and passed close to Olivier, who commenced mechanically to follow it, while the people of the quarter, seated at their doors, and accustomed to this daily spectacle, looked on with indifference. But at a bend in the road Olivier let the cart go out of sight, lost in reflection. He walked straight on as a man in a dream, stopping on the quay to look down at the Seine. The cooling freshness of the water seemed to revive him. He breathed the air gratefully, and continued his walk along the river, feeling less depressed.

Suddenly from the heights of Port-Royal his eyes were dazzled by a rush of unusual light. Showers of golden fire trailed in the air over the Tuileries gardens. It was a trial of the fireworks to be let off the next day. Olivier crossed the bridge, and hastening his steps reached the Place de la Révolution, which at that hour was filled with loungers from the boulevards, curious to see the preparations for the fête. Under a sky studded with stars, the immense space lay extended before him, with its stands already decked with flowers; its masts connected by garlands of foliage and coloured glass; its flags, and plumes, and banners floating in the wind.

Here and there fiddlers, standing on chairs, taught to choirs of young girls and young men the new anthem by Gossec, to be sung at the fête, a hymn to the Supreme Being, composed specially for the occasion. Some, carried away by their enthusiasm, followed up the hymn with a waltz or a gavotte.

Olivier opened his eyes in astonishment, asking himself if all this was real, or if he was in an extravagant dream. On one side he saw but sorrow, on the other only joy! On one side, tears, despair, and the scaffold; on the other, laughter, revelry, and flowers! And the laughter and flowers were to honour and glorify the very one who was the cause of all this misery, who tore children relentlessly from the arms of their mothers as he sent them to death!

At this very moment the abhorred name fell on his ears: "Robespierre! ... There's Robespierre!" he heard the crowd whispering.

He turned round and saw some of them looking curiously at a man who was crossing the square, seemingly in great haste, with a woman leaning on his arm. Olivier understood that it was the Incorruptible who was passing within barely an arm's length of him! He watched him disappear in the crowd.

They were right; it was Robespierre, who had been enjoying a walk in the Champs-Elysées with Cornélie Duplay. Returning home to supper, at Duplay's house in the Rue Saint-Honoré, he could not resist crossing the square to have a foretaste of the rejoicings in honour of his fête, to contemplate behind the curtain the scene of his approaching triumph. Cornélie had just said to him in delight, indicating the dancing groups,—

"The people seem to be devoted to it, heart and soul."

This flattered Robespierre's pride, who rewarded her with a gentle pressure of the arm.

They continued their walk, deep in their own thoughts. Cornélie was wondering if her dress would be at home when she arrived, that beautiful dress for the fête, confided on this special occasion to a private dressmaker. Robespierre, always suspicious and alert, was asking himself if he had done well to listen to her, and thus cross the Place de la Révolution at the risk of suggesting to the Committee of Public Safety the idea, absurd in itself, that he had wished to attract the notice of the populace.

The couple now reached the door of the Duplays, in the Rue Saint-Honoré, and Robespierre stepped aside gallantly for Cornélie to pass in.

At the same moment Olivier, who had stopped in deep thought at the Place de la Révolution, retraced his steps homeward, fired with a sudden resolution for the morrow.

"I will be at that fête," he said.

And the dark night swallowed him.

CHAPTER VII

THE FÊTE OF THE SUPREME BEING

The Duplays' house, in which Robespierre lodged, was situated in the Rue Saint-Honoré, opposite the Church of the Assumption. The front door opened on to a large vaulted passage littered with planks propped up against the wall. At the end of this a small courtyard was formed by the quadrangular shape of the two-storied house. The first floor was occupied by the Duplay couple and their two daughters, Cornélie and Victoire. The ground floor was divided into three rooms, including the dining-room and the drawing-room. Robespierre lived in a room on the first floor of the left wing, which formed one side of the quadrangle. The ground floor of this wing, along which ran a shed, was used by the old Duplay as a carpenter's workshop. Robespierre's window was above the carpenter's shed, one room, and his quarters were connected with the main building by means of a wooden staircase, which led from his room to the dining-room. He was thus well guarded on one side by the Duplay family, as he was on the other by young Maurice Duplay and Simon, the wooden-legged, who occupied two rooms on a line with Robespierre's, which also looked on to the shed.

It would have been certainly difficult for Robespierre to find a house more suited to his craving for an ostentatious display of Republican simplicity. The joiner's bench, the planks and tools littering the courtyard, the shed full of workmen during the day, sawing, piecing, and planing; the personal appearance of old Duplay, who only put aside his apron to come to table, or to go to the Jacobin Club, at which he was a constant attendant, or to the Revolutionary Tribunal, where he acted as deputy jury-man—all this marked the simple and industrious surroundings in which he lived.

Two of his colleagues at the Convention had been lately received in the courtyard by Cornélie Duplay, who was hanging out some stockings to dry; and Robespierre had enjoyed their surprise from the window of his room, where he was shaving himself. He was suspected of aiming at the Dictatorship! Was he? And this was the spectacle which met the astonished eyes of visitors who surprised him in his private life!

Robespierre and Cornélie had been received at the door by Blount, who barked and gambolled with joy at his master's return. The Duplay family, cooling themselves in the courtyard, were awaiting their return.

"Here they are at last!" some one cried.

It was mother Duplay, seated in the background under the dining-room window, washing a salad under the pump, her sleeves tucked up to the elbow, all ears for the slightest sound.

"But we are not late, mamma!" said Cornélie, who had prudently stopped to avoid being splashed.

"Not so very," answered the good woman, "but one never knows what may happen in such a crowd!" And looking towards Robespierre, from whom Victoire was taking his hat and stick, she added: "You can't help being anxious about people you love. Can you?"

But Robespierre was for the moment entirely occupied with his dog, who barked and jumped on his master in frantic delight.

"Yes, you good old dog, here I am! ... Yes! ... Yes! ... I couldn't take you with me, because of the crowd. It isn't fit for a good dog like you."

"Then there were many people?" asked Duplay, who smoked his pipe, seated on a joiner's bench near little Maurice, his son, who was amusing himself by planing a small plank.

"Yes, a great many."

"An enormous crowd," added Cornélie, "particularly on the Place de la Révolution."

"What! You crossed the Place de la Révolution?"

Robespierre hastened to explain that Cornélie had had a fancy to come that way, which was, after all, excusable, as the people were dancing.

"What! Already?" asked Victoire, her eyes sparkling.

"Yes, already!" said Robespierre.

And he told them all about their walk through the strange crowd, so lively and so full of enthusiasm, turning now and then to Cornélie for corroboration. But Cornélie wore an absent air, replying only in monosyllables, for she had just learnt that her dress had not yet arrived; though she took some comfort on hearing that her sisters were in no better plight.

Mother Duplay, with arms akimbo, lingered to listen with enraptured interest to Robespierre's narrative.

"I said as much to Duplay! It will be a triumph."

Duplay here interrupted her.

"Well, are we to have supper to-night?"

"You may well ask, but when Maximilien talks I forget everything."

Then taking up her basket of salad, she called Victoire to help her. They used to dine out of doors when the weather was fine; the table was already there, and had only to be laid. Ah! that fête—how it turned everybody's head! Mother Duplay was certainly late, to her great discomfiture. Yes, she was late—she, the pink of punctuality.

"And the chicken will be burnt to a cinder!"

She ran to the kitchen, on the ground floor, next to the dining room, and found her youngest daughter, Madame Lebas, already there.

"I thought of it, mamma!" she said.

The chicken, nicely cooked to a golden brown, swimming in gravy, was ready to be served.

"Now then! Let us make haste!" said Madame Duplay, highly amused at being caught by her daughter. "Strain the soup while I prepare the salad. Oh, Victoire, we haven't laid the cloth yet!"

With the Duplays, it was a long-established custom that everything connected with the kitchen or the table should be entrusted only to the family; the maid washed up when the meal was over. Perhaps this was an excess of prudence, or a fear of poison. Whatever the motive was, Robespierre highly approved the practice.

"It is well to know what one is eating," he would often say.

The two girls and Madame Lebas took it in turns to wait at table, and so they could all speak freely, without being restrained by the presence of the servant.

The soup was now served up, steaming hot, and Madame Lebas was ladling it out in equal portions, reserving the last, as the hottest, for Robespierre.

"To table! To table!" she cried, placing chairs for every one.

But Robespierre and Duplay did not move. They were deeply interested in something Lebas was telling them. Duplay's son-in-law had just returned from the Tuileries, where he had gone "to feel the pulse of the Convention," as he expressed it. The National Assembly, although undermined by some evil-minded members, would be excellently represented at the fête on the morrow. The abominable rogues who had charged Robespierre with intending to turn this popular manifestation to his own profit had been disappointed—an appropriate reward for their drivelling calumny! No one attached the slightest importance to their scandalous reports. The Convention, as well as the people, were with Robespierre. Only the Committee of Public Safety...

"But, I say, children, the soup will be cold," Madame Duplay called out in desperation.

Simon the wooden-legged came down from his room, declaring that he was famished.

"Here we are! Here we are!" the three men exclaimed, taking their seats.

Robespierre had made a sign to Lebas to change the conversation on account of the women. Then significantly shrugging his shoulders, he whispered to him—

"The Committee of Public Safety? Well, I shall be ready for them!"

At table Robespierre, who was seated between Monsieur and Madame Duplay, hardly tasted his soup.

"The soup doesn't please you, friend?"

"Oh yes! Very good! Excellent!"

Victoire cleared away the soup plates as slowly as possible, waiting for Robespierre. When he had finished, she said—

"That is right, bon ami. You know you have to keep up your strength for to-morrow."

Madame Lebas now returned from the kitchen with the capon, and was greeted by a general murmur of admiration.

"Splendid!" cried Simon Duplay, who was a bit of a gourmand.

"To-morrow, children, you shall have duck, duck and turnips!" said Madame Duplay, much gratified, as she set to work to carve the fowl, giving Robespierre the white meat, which he took mechanically, deep in thought. Lebas told them that he had seen Fouquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor, who was returning from the Bastille, where he had been to inspect the new installation.

"Ah, yes! the guillotine!" interposed mother Duplay, continuing to carve. "But it didn't work to-day, did it?"

"It will not work to-morrow either," said Robespierre, "but the day after to-morrow ..."

"Will you allude to it in your discourse, bon ami?"

"Yes, towards the end; for it is well that the aristocrats should know that we are not disarming."

"Decidedly," chimed in Duplay, "that would be too stupid."

Robespierre, warmed by the tone of the conversation, recovered his appetite.

"At all events," he said, "the fête to-morrow will be a warning for every one; for the aristocrats, as well as for many a Judas of the party."

He stopped to express his appreciation of the fowl, sending up his plate for more.

"A leg, or a wing?" asked mother Duplay, delighted.

Robespierre suddenly turned round. He had heard a noise.

"I am sure the front door has just been opened," he said.

Simon Duplay took out a match to light a lamp, and young Maurice rose, looking out into the dark.

"It's true," he said; "it's a woman with a large parcel."

"Our dresses, surely!" exclaimed Cornélie, who had been somewhat morose and silent until then.

"Yes, our dresses," cried Madame Lebas and Victoire expectantly.

It was, after all, only the dresses, which the dressmaker had at last brought. The enormous box was handled by them eagerly; they wished to open it there and then. However, Victoire, prudently fearing to soil the contents, carried it into the dining-room, followed by her sisters.

The conversation was resumed with lively interest by the light of the lamp just lit, and opinions were freely expressed that as Royalty had her fêtes, the world would now see what a Republican fête could be like. It would be truly national, imposing, and symbolical.

The young women had not yet returned.

"Hullo! you children! what are you doing there?" called out old Duplay.

"Here we are! Here we are!" answered Victoire, appearing that moment on the threshold of the dining-room in a pretty white dress, coquettishly pushing back her hair, disordered by her hasty toilet.

"Doesn't it suit me?" she said. "Oh! don't look at my hair; it isn't arranged," and she ran down the steps followed by Madame Lebas and Cornélie, also arrayed in their new finery.

Mother Duplay scolded her daughters.

"What! You dressed yourselves in the dining-room? Why, it is positively improper! Isn't it, Maximilien?"

Robespierre smiled.

"Let them alone, bonne mère. It's not fête every day!"

And he looked at the dresses, pronouncing them charming, and in perfect taste.

Madame Lebas was in blue, Victoire in white, and Cornélie in red.

"The three colours!" observed the boy Maurice.

"We wanted to give you a surprise," said Cornélie, advancing towards Robespierre.

"Nothing could have given me more pleasure," he replied. "That is what I call true patriotism."

The noise of hurrying feet, the sound of voices and music, the hum of Paris in the distance preparing for the coming fête centered through the open window. Fireworks burst in mid-air, then suddenly seemed to radiate in a blaze of glory.

"Oh, look!" exclaimed the boy Maurice, as showers of golden fire fell in a cascade of light. Robespierre musingly watched their slow descent, which to his overstrained imagination took the form of one huge halo of glory.

Robespierre was early up and dressed next morning, and he was received by the Duplays in the courtyard with cries of surprise, for it was scarcely nine o'clock. "What! dressed already! And we haven't commenced!"

Robespierre told them he had hastened in order to be at the Tuileries in time to superintend things a bit, and to arrange matters with his friends, that there might be no hitch. People would talk so! The slightest thing might mar the splendour of the manifestation, which would be a pity on such a splendid day!

"The sky is naturally propitious for the fête of the Supreme Being," said Victoire; "but you will have some breakfast, I suppose?"

"No, I shall breakfast over there."

They now surrounded him, retaining him to arrange the folds of his cravat, or brush grains of powder from the revers of his coat, which they all declared suited him to perfection. He received the compliment with visible pleasure, as he had given himself no little trouble over his toilet for the great occasion.

He wore a light blue coat, nankeen breeches buttoned above the knees, where a stream of tri-colour ribbons was attached. White silk stockings and buckled shoes completed the array of this real Republican dandy. He was powdered of course, as usual, and had even indulged in an extra puff or so, but his most extravagant conceit was displayed in the lace waistcoat which spread like a filmy foam across his breast. The women went into ecstasies over this, and declared his taste exquisite. As he was taking leave, Cornélie appeared with an enormous bouquet of wild flowers and ears of corn in her hand.

"And the bouquet?" she asked, giving it to him at the same time.

"Ah! yes! I had forgotten it. How kind you are! Au revoir. I shall see you by and by, looking your best, I am sure!"

And Robespierre, spick and span in his new clothes, all curled and perfumed, picked his way daintily across the courtyard.

At the door he found Lebas, Simon the wooden-legged, and the boy Maurice Duplay awaiting him. They wished to escort him to the Tuileries. Didier, the agent, now came up, accompanied by two of his men, and they all started in the direction of the Rue Saint-Honoré, keeping to the right. The Incorruptible conversed with Lebas.

A breeze stirred the flowers that decorated the front of the houses, wafting abroad their perfume. People were filling the streets from all directions, all in festive attire, with palms and ears of corn in their hands. On recognising the Incorruptible, they bowed to him; delighted, he discreetly returned their salutations.

Robespierre had turned into the Passage des Feuillantes, and found himself on the terrace. Here a surprise awaited him. The garden was already, at that early hour, three-quarters full, looking like an immense sea with wave upon wave of tricolour ribbons, plumes, and cockades. He continued his way along the Terrace des Feuillantes, a smile on his lips, returning the greetings as he went, and then joined the stream of people moving towards the Tuileries, happy to lose himself in that crowd flocking to his own apotheosis.

Flowers festooned the front of the Palace from end to end, lending to it the freshness of spring-tide.

When Robespierre arrived he cast a hasty glance at the vast amphitheatre which awaited the National Convention. It was still empty. The amphitheatre extended from the gardens to the balcony of the Horloge, from which projected a tribune, erected above the seats of the deputies—the tribune of the President, his tribune. It was from there that he would speak to the people, assembled to hear and to applaud him.

Robespierre entered the Palace alone, Lebas and the two Duplays having gone back to the Rue Saint-Honoré to fetch the family. Beaming with expectation, the Incorruptible looked about in search of some familiar faces, but he found none. He crossed the Convention Chamber to the offices of the Committee of Public Safety, and questioned the men in charge, who told him that only the members Barère, Collot d'Herbois, Prieur, and Carnot had put in an appearance for a moment, and then had gone to breakfast at a restaurant. As he crossed the Hall of Liberty he met Vilate, a fellow-juryman of Duplay's on the Revolutionary Tribunal. Vilate was under an obligation to Robespierre, who, in conjunction with Barère, had procured for him a residence in the Palace at the Flora Pavilion. It was the surest way of having a spy ready at hand, a reliable and silent witness of every act and move of the Committee of Public Safety. Vilate, at once insinuating and deferential, invited him to breakfast.

"It would be so convenient," he suggested, for he could breakfast, and yet not lose the splendid spectacle of the crowd as seen from the first story. Robespierre accepted the invitation, and remained for two hours there. Even after Vilate had left him he stayed on, looking down on all the preparations, lost in a day-dream of anticipated joy. He was nearing the supreme moment, the popular moment, which would raise him so high above his colleagues that henceforth any steps taken against him would be considered as directed against the nation itself. He smiled. His dictatorship? Was it not imposed on him by the French people? Was it not the outcome of the public will? It would be presently called for by a hundred thousand voices in these very gardens, in presence of all France, represented by the three hundred deputies of the Convention. He remained in meditation, smiling still, his forehead pressed against a pane of the window, his looks plunged in that living sea swaying at his feet. If ever Robespierre was happy, it was at this supreme moment.

Some one knocked.

"Come in!" he said, as if awakened from a dream.

It was Lebas, who, all out of breath, came to tell him that the Convention was assembled, and only awaited his arrival.

"Vilate sent me here. I was wondering where to find you."

Robespierre looked up in astonishment.

"It can't be very late," he said.

"Why, it is half-past twelve!"

"Half-past twelve?"

The fête had been fixed for noon. He was then half an hour behind time! And the ironical smiles of some of his colleagues when he appeared in the tribune were not the least bitter consequences of his unpunctuality.

A voice was heard saying—

"He has at last decided to put in an appearance!"

And then another—

"He hasn't even the courtesy of kings, yet he has enough of their insolence!"

Robespierre recognised the voice.

It was Barère's. Drops of gall were already falling into his cup of joy. But as the people began to applaud at the lower end of the gardens, Robespierre advanced to the edge of the tribune, and bowed. The expectant crowd swayed as one man towards him, unwilling to lose a single gesture or a single word. So stood the Incorruptible, enwrapped and penetrated by the inebriating vapours of adulation and the perfume of all the palms and bouquets that rose as incense at his feet.

But again a discordant note was touched, and another voice was heard—

"See how like a throne the tribune stands!"

And in fact, set high above the steps, it did seem raised on a pedestal. Robespierre felt this as in some embarrassment he unfolded his manuscript, and commenced. His voice was almost inaudible, except to the members of the Convention seated near him. Passages on which he counted most passed unheeded, and he felt the encouragement of his friends to be indiscriminate and misplaced, like that of some theatre claque.

When he had finished he was greeted with considerable applause, that was more formal than genuine; it mounted from the gardens and reached him, mingled with the strains of Gossec's hymn, just started by the Opera choir. Robespierre left the tribune dissatisfied with himself, but convinced that his address to the people on the Place de la Révolution, from the altar of flowers erected at the foot of the statue of Liberty, would retrieve this first failure. There he would be in direct contact with people, and then they would see! For he felt the people were with him; their acclamation coming up to him from the gardens was proof enough.

He descended the steps, followed by the Convention, and went towards the first fountain on the lawn, from which rose an allegorical group, representing Atheism surrounded by the Vices, led by Folly, while Wisdom, standing apart, pointed a warning finger at the group. He was to set a match to this ingenious specimen of artistic pyrotechny, when Atheism was supposed to disappear, dragged down by Folly and the Vices, leaving Wisdom alone, radiantly triumphant. But it was the very opposite that happened. Wisdom caught fire and upset the whole arrangement, provoking disrespectful laughter among the deputies.

Robespierre turned pale. The fête had certainly not opened auspiciously. Then, in spite of himself, an instinctive and uncontrollable desire to lean on some one, which always took possession of him in hours of suffering, mastered him. As he looked round in search of a sympathising glance, his eyes fell on a fair, rosy child, in its young mother's arms, trying to play with bouquets of corn and wild flowers which its mother kept from him. Robespierre recognised the bouquet which in his excitement he had left on the tribune, and which the young woman now held out to him. This delicate attention fell on his parched soul like refreshing dew, and he gratefully accepted the simple homage offered with such charming frankness.

Robespierre now headed the procession, preceded by trumpets and drums, followed by the Convention through the line of National Guards, who kept back the curious crowd on either side of the garden, as the line wound its way towards the swing-bridge which opened on to the Place de la Révolution.

The deputies were all there, dressed in official garb: dark blue coat, red collar and cuffs, tight-fitting knee breeches of doeskin, high boots, broad tricolour sashes across the breast, fastened on the left shoulder, and tricolour plumes in their hats. Each member carried in his hand a bouquet of flowers and ears of corn.

Robespierre was conspicuous by the difference in his attire, which was of a lighter blue. He walked well ahead of his colleagues, as if to accentuate the distance between himself and them in the eyes of the crowd, who, with keen curiosity, were climbing on stools, on ladders, on the bases of statues, on gates, and even on the trees, to get a better view of him. Thus Robespierre, whose serenity had now returned, advanced towards the Place de la Révolution, where he knew that the greater mass of the people were assembled to receive him with thunders of applause.

The sound of "Vivat! Vivat!" was heard in the distance, accompanied by the roll of the Champ-de-Mars cannon, which fired a resounding salute at regular intervals. Those vivas were welcoming on the Place de la Révolution the cortège which had preceded Robespierre and the members of the Convention; the delegates from the different sections of Paris, who entered amidst the beat of drums and blare of brass instruments, headed by a standard-bearer. The procession had no sooner reached the square than they parted into two lines; on one side women and young girls, dressed in white and crowned with roses; on the other, old men and youths, carrying branches of oak and laurel. The crowd, kept back by a rope of tricolour ribbons, received the procession with enthusiastic shouts, chanting with the choirs the choruses of the Chant du Départ. To the passionate strains of Mehul's national anthem succeeded soon after a hymn appropriate to the occasion, Gossec's composition calling down the benediction of the Supreme Being on France and on humanity.

The people applauded, but stopped directly to welcome another group of the Paris section, a company of young Republican warriors dressed in blue and rose-colour, holding aloft lances decked with tricolour ribbons. The greatest triumph of all, however, was the group symbolising the Four Ages—Childhood, Youth, Manhood, and Old Age—represented by a multitude of children, youths, maidens, men and women, both middle-aged and old, some crowned with violets, others with myrtle, oak-leaves, olive-branches, and vine-leaves. One unanimous cry of admiration rose from the crowd and resounded through the immense square, where the sun fell in burning rays on the silks, velvets, and brocades, playing in the gold fringe of flags and banners, and on the many tricolour ribbons and streamers, in a flood of dazzling light.

The excitement of the populace was now at its height, and, as the members of the Convention appeared in sight, a cry rose suddenly—

"He is here!"

"Who?"

"Robespierre."

A tremor of curiosity ran through the crowd who, mad with excitement, poured forth their welcome in a storm of enthusiastic cheers and plaudits, even before their hero came in sight. A sheriff, then a delegate, then a master of ceremonies, were by turns loudly cheered by the eager multitude, who in their impatience had taken them for the Incorruptible. At last he passed, smiling affably, hat in his hand, and the cry ran from mouth to mouth—

"It is he! It is he!"

This time it was really Robespierre; there was no mistake. Hats, caps, handkerchiefs, waved on all sides; women raised sprays of loses in the air and men branches of palm.

This outburst threatened to break up the cortège of the Four Ages, which, like the preceding one, had ranged itself round the statute of Liberty, where Robespierre was to deliver his discourse. Children begged their mothers to lift them up, that they might see also. At the same moment the solemn chords of a harp floated on the air.

Robespierre advanced slowly, slackening his pace, for he had become suddenly aware of the great distance which separated him from the deputies, who filed into the square six abreast, grave and slow, like judges. The different groups of the procession, who had arranged themselves in regular lines, now unveiled the statute of Liberty, where an altar of flowers and foliage had been erected. It was at this altar that Robespierre was to officiate, and consecrate amidst the burning of incense the worship of the Supreme Being.

The Incorruptible was now passing the very spot where on the previous day the scaffold still stood. A woman in the crowd called attention to this in all simplicity. But her voice was quickly drowned by a hundred harps, whose dulcet music filled the air. All members of the Convention had reached the Place de la Révolution, when a new cortège came in sight, the chariot of Agriculture, draped in blue, covered with garlands of roses, and drawn by a yoke of oxen with gilded horns. The goddess of Agriculture was impersonated by a beautiful girl from the Opera, who smiled on the crowd with her light blue eyes, looking the very incarnation of luxuriant youth, her blonde beauty framed in ripe golden corn and fruits of the rich harvest.

Robespierre, now standing before the altar, was burning incense in a golden tripod, amidst the mute reverence of the crowd, who behaved as if assisting at some religious ceremony. Presently, descending the steps of the altar, he turned to address the multitude.

All music had ceased, each voice was silenced, every whisper hushed; even the cries of pedlars and street-hawkers were unheard. A hundred thousand eyes were fixed on Robespierre, who, set up on high and wrapped in clouds of incense, appeared to tower in stature, to dominate that mass of human beings with all the force of a prevailing pride.

A sudden inspiration seized him: he would repeat the more notable phrases of his former discourse, here, to that crowd whose mighty heart he felt beating with his own; he would have his revenge, and hear his burning words applauded by the nation itself! Ah! had the deputies been indifferent, cold, hesitating in their applause? Well, they should receive a lesson that would be at once a warning and a mandate! The delegates of the nation should be censured publicly by the very nation they represented!