[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: MISS ELLEN TERRY AS CLARISSE DE MAULUÇON IN
"ROBESPIERRE."]
Robespierre
_The Story of Victorien Sardou's Play
Adapted and Novelized under
his authority_
BY
ANGE GALDEMAR
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1899
Copyright, 1899,
BY ANGE GALDEMAR.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
[Transcriber's note: The chapter titles below do not all match the
titles at the chapters.]
Contents
CHAPTER
I The Discovery
II The Voice of the Past
III The Englishman
IV The Arrest
V The Scaffold amid Flowers
VI The Prison of La Bourse
VII The Fête of the Supreme Being
VIII Beset by Memories and Forebodings
IX Hours of Anguish
X The Tumbrils
XI "All These Gliding Ghosts"
XII The Eve of the Battle
XIII A Broken Idol
XIV The Knell of the Tocsin
XV Death's Kindly Veil
MON CHER GALDEMAR,--
J'achève la lecture du roman qu'avec mon autorisation vous avez tiré
de mon drame "Robespierre." Je ne saurais trop me féliciter de vous
avoir encouragé à entreprendre ce travail, où vous avez, de la façon
la plus heureuse, reproduit les incidents dra-matiques de ma pièce et
préparé votre lecteur à apprécier l'admirable évocation du passé que
Sir Henry Irving lui présente sur la scène du Lyceum. Je ne doute
pas que le succèes de votre livre ne soil tel que vous le souhaite ma
vieille et constante amitié.
[Signature: Victor Sardoz]
MARLY-LE-ROI.
Robespierre
CHAPTER I
THE DISCOVERY
The Hôtel de Pontivy was situated in the Rue des Lions-Saint-Paul, in
the very heart of the Marais Quarter, which as early as the opening
of this story, the June of 1775, seemed to form by itself a little
province in Paris.
It was a magnificent spring night. The sky, luminous with a galaxy
of stars, was reflected on the dark waters of the Seine lazily
flowing by. A hush rested on the Rue des Lions-Saint-Paul, which lay
enshrouded in gloom and silence, indifferent to the fairy charms of
the hour.
Enclosed in high walls thickly clad with ivy, dark and mysterious as
a prison, the Hôtel de Pontivy had all the aspect of some chill
cloister apart from men and movement. And yet behind those shutters,
where life seemed to pause, wrapped in slumber, some one is keeping
watch--the master of the house, Monsieur Jacques Bernard Olivier de
Pontivy, Councillor to the King's Parliament, sits late at his work,
taking no count of time.
But Monsieur de Pontivy has at last decided; he raises his eyes to
the clock.
"Twenty past two!" he exclaims. "I really cannot wake that poor
fellow!"
Through the deep stillness of the vast room, with blinds and curtains
drawn, a stillness enhanced by the glare of candelabra lighted up, as
if in broad day, the heavy, green-repp armchairs, and bookshelves of
massive oak ornamented with brass rose-work, passing a litter of
cardboard boxes and waste-paper basket, and in the centre the
ministerial desk overladen with books and bundles, the councillor
makes his way towards a bureau that he has not yet opened.
"Perhaps it may be here," he says, as he turns over a whole file of
letters, old and new, receipts, accounts, plans and invoices--one of
those mixed files put aside for future classification. Perhaps the
paper had been slipped in there by mistake? Monsieur de Pontivy set
to work methodically, turning the papers over one by one, stopping
here and there to read a word that caught his attention, or threw a
sudden light on things long forgotten, and awakened projects long
dormant.
"Oh! I must think over that," he exclaimed, as he put one or another
aside.
Now and again a ray of joy lit up his countenance, as he thought he
had found the missing paper, and as disappointment followed he
renewed the search with unabated ardour.
For more than half an hour he went on thus, seeking the lost
document, a lawyer's opinion recently received, which would assist
him in elucidating a difficult point which was to be secretly debated
the next day in Parliament, before judgment was delivered. He had
thoughtlessly let his young secretary retire without asking him the
whereabouts of this document, which he alone could find.
Monsieur de Pontivy had hastened to his study this evening directly
dinner was over, to mature in solitude the arguments which were to
triumph on the morrow, and of which he wished to make a short,
concise summary before retiring to rest.
Having returned home sooner than usual that afternoon, the fancy had
seized him to advance the dinner-hour, but learning that his daughter
had not returned, he was obliged to forego his whim. This hour was
rarely changed, the regulations of the house being rigorous to a
degree, but Monsieur de Pontivy in the excess of his despotic
authority was none the less displeased, being early himself, to find
no one awaiting him. So when he heard the rumbling of the heavy
coach which brought back Clarisse and her governess, Mademoiselle
Jusseaume, he sought for a pretext to vent his ill-humour on them.
He had commenced to walk impatiently backwards and forwards the whole
length of the room, casting hasty glances out of the window,
wondering at the child's delay in coming to him, when the door opened
and a head appeared in the doorway, fair, with pale, delicate
features, large blue eyes, wide open to the day, in whose clear
depths, half-hidden by the fresh candour of first youth, lay a tinge
of melancholy.
It was Clarisse.
What an apparition, in such an austere and dreary place, that frail,
white-robed form standing on the threshold, a tender smile of dawn in
the dark room! She entered on tip-toe, approaching her father with
greeting in her eyes and on her lips; he, continuing his walk, had
his back towards her.
"Already here?" she asked, and her voice fell on the silence like an
angelus.
Monsieur de Pontivy turned abruptly.
"How is it that you enter without knocking?"
The smile died on the child's lips. She murmured, disconcerted and
abashed--
"I never used to knock, father, on entering your room."
"Then make it a point to do so in future. You are no longer a child;
so learn to be discreet and to respect closed doors. A closed room,
mademoiselle, is a sanctuary."
The young girl was accustomed to sermons, but had not expected one of
that kind just then. She stood irresolute, hesitating whether to
advance or retire.
"Must I go?" she hazarded, trembling.
Monsieur de Pontivy, satisfied at having vented his ill-humour,
stooped to kiss his daughter's forehead, and then added, as if to
soften the effects of his reception--
"Where have you been to-day?"
"On the boulevards."
"Were there many people?"
The young girl, reassured by this encouragement, began brightly--
"Oh yes, and only imagine...!"
"That will do! You can tell me that at table."
But at table she was supposed only to reply to her father, and he,
lost in meditation, did not question her that day. And so passed all
the meals she partook of with her father and young de Robespierre,
Monsieur de Pontivy's secretary, whom the councillor made welcome
every day at his table, glad to have so near at hand one whose memory
and aid were easily available.
Timid at first, confining himself to the points put to him, the young
secretary had gradually become bolder, and sometimes, to Clarisse's
great delight, would lead the conversation on to subjects of
literature and art, opening out a new world before her, and shedding
rays of thought in her dawning mind. She found a similar source of
pleasure on Sundays in the reception-room, while Monsieur de
Pontivy's attention was absorbed by his dull and solemn friends in
interminable games of whist, and Robespierre entertained her apart,
quickening her young dreams by the charm of an imagination at once
brilliant and graceful. It was as dew falling from heaven on her
solitude.
Alas, how swiftly those hours flew! Clarisse was just sixteen. She
could not remember one day of real joy. Her mother she had lost long
ago; her brother Jacques, two years younger than herself, was always
at school at the College de Navarre, and she saw him only once a
fortnight, at lunch, after mass, on Sunday. At four o'clock an usher
fetched him, when he had submitted his fortnight's school-work for
the inspection of his father, who more often than not found fault
with his efforts, so that the lad frankly confessed to his sister
that, upon the whole, he preferred those Sundays on which he remained
at school.
From her cradle Clarisse had been given over to nurses and
chamber-maids, and at the age of eight she was confided to the care
of nuns, just when she was emerging from the long torpor of
childhood. Here she remained until the day when Monsieur de Pontivy,
whose paternal solicitude had, up to then, been limited to taking her
to the country for the holidays, claimed her, and installed her in
his town residence under the charge of a governess. But Clarisse had
only changed convents. For going out but seldom, except to mass and
vespers on Sundays, at St. Paul's Church, or on fine days for a drive
in the great coach with her governess, she continued to grow like a
hot-house plant, closed in by the high walls of the house where
nothing smiled, not even the garden uncultivated and almost
abandoned, nor the courtyard where a few scattered weeds pushed their
way between the stones.
It is true the young girl fully made up for this in the country,
during the summer months at the Château de Pontivy, two miles from
Compiègne, where her father spent his holidays. But they were so
short, those precious holidays! The autumn roses had scarcely
unfolded when she was compelled to return with her father to Paris;
and all the charm and sweetness of September, with the tender tints
of its dying leaves, were unknown to her, though a semblance of its
grace crept into her room sometimes in the Rue des Lions-Saint-Paul,
and stole like melancholy into her young soul, but new-awakened to
the ideal, arousing a regret for joys denied.
These holidays were shorter since Monsieur de Pontivy recommenced his
duties as councillor to the Parliament which the King had just
re-established, and Clarisse began again to feel lonely, so lonely
that she looked forward impatiently to the dinner-hour, when the
young secretary brought with him some gay reports and rumours of
Paris, planted germs of poetry in her soul, and initiated her into
those charming trifles which constitute fashionable life.
All her suppressed tenderness and affection, which asked nothing
better than to overflow, were concentrated on her governess,
Mademoiselle Jusseaume, an excellent creature, upright and generous,
but impulsive, inconsequent, and without authority. She was a good
Catholic, and saw that her charge scrupulously observed her religious
duties. She kept her place, was submissive, discreet, and always
contented; and this was more than enough to satisfy Monsieur de
Pontivy, who classed all womankind in one rank, and that the lowest.
Of his two children the one in whom Monsieur de Pontivy took the
greater interest was his son, the heir to his name, and to whom would
descend later on the office of councillor. But as this was as yet a
distant prospect, he contented himself with superintending his
education as much as possible, absorbed as he was in high functions
which he fulfilled with that perseverance and assiduity, that desire
to give incessant proofs of staunch fidelity, which arise from an
immeasurable pride.
Such a character can well be imagined. Heartless, hard, and
implacable, strictly accomplishing his duty, honest to a fault,
making ever an ostentatious display of his principles, doing no man
harm, but also suffering no man to harm him, under an apparent
coldness he masked an excess of violence that the least suspicion or
provocation would arouse.
Clarisse had her black-letter days--days of scolding, when with eyes
brimful of tears she retired to her room, forbidden even to seek
refuge with her governess; and looking back through the mists of
childhood, she endured again those terrible scenes of anger, the
horror of which haunted her still.
The two women understood each other instinctively, almost without the
aid of words, living as they did that sequestered existence, in
constant communion, both losing themselves in the same vague dreams,
trembling on the borders of the unknown; each leaning on the other,
with this only difference that Clarisse with an indefinable feeling
of dawning force took the lead.
The same dim future smiled on both, the same far-off paradise of
delusive hopes in which they would gladly lose themselves, until
Mademoiselle Jusseaume, suddenly conscious of responsibility, would
rouse herself, blushing and trembling, as if at some guilty thought.
For in their day-dreams Monsieur de Pontivy had no part, did not
exist. Was he to disappear? Was he to die? In any case he was
always absent from these speculations, and Mademoiselle Jusseaume,
the soul of righteousness, felt that this was altogether wrong.
"You must love your father," she would say, as if stirred by some
secret impulse, and the remark fell suddenly and unexpectedly on the
silence of the little room where the two were apparently deeply
absorbed in the mazy dancing of the flies.
"But I do love him!" Clarisse would answer without surprise, as if
replying to some inner thought.
She was, indeed, convinced of it, poor child! Filial love beamed in
her eyes, love for her father: a mixture of respect for his age and
position, and of gratitude for his rare kindnesses, while he did not
realise the gulf that separated him from his daughter, a gulf which a
little tenderness, an occasional response, a smile however slight,
might have sufficed to bridge. He did not realise the riches of this
mine, or seek its treasures of youth, of grace, and of love abounding
in every vein. He had but to bend down, look into her large blue
eyes, those eyes where the dreams floated, to find a world of love.
However, he had other things to think about; Monsieur de Pontivy,
King's Councillor to the ancient Parliament, and unanimously returned
to the new; a man of position, rich, influential, highly connected,
of the old provincial noblesse, admitted to the council of the King,
honoured at Court, respected in the town, feared at home by a whole
crowd of cringing lackeys trembling before this potentate of fortune
and intellect, who seemed to them the very embodiment of justice.
His daughter, indeed! He had three years before him to think of her,
which meant in his acceptance of the term but a speedy riddance of
her, to his own and her best advantage, a chance to establish her
well in the world in which he moved, in which his position would
enable him to procure for her without much difficulty an alliance
worthy of her name and rank. Meanwhile he was happy, or rather
contented with his lot. Had not the young King but lately said to
him, when he was admitted to a private audience to render homage and
tender his assurances of fidelity and respect to the successor of
Louis XV.:--
"Monsieur de Pontivy, I know the services you have rendered to
France, and I can only ask you to continue them."
These words had spread through Versailles. The Councillor was
overwhelmed with compliments of the kind more acceptable to certain
natures for the spice of envy they contain, for is not the envy of
our fellows the very sign and seal of our success?
Thus the influential Abbé de Saint-Vaast, the future Cardinal de
Rohan, remarked to him some days after, whilst walking in the suite
of the Queen at Versailles, "Such words, Monsieur de Pontivy, stand
you in better stead than sealed parchment."
A smile of superiority, which he quickly changed to one of
patronising condescension, played round the Councillor's lips at the
thought that for a Rohan to compliment him meant that he sought
something in return. Monsieur de Pontivy was not mistaken. The Abbé
de Saint-Vaast wished to place with some lawyer in search of a
secretary a young man who, having finished his college studies,
intended to prepare for the Bar.
"I can recommend him," said the Abbé, "as intelligent, industrious,
and of an excellent character; one of the best pupils of
Louis-le-Grand, and recently chosen as most worthy the honour of
welcoming the King and Queen, who visited the college on their way to
the Pantheon."
"And his name?" asked Monsieur de Pontivy.
"Maximilien de Robespierre."
"And may I ask your lordship's reason for the particular interest
taken in this young man?"
"Why, yes, of course! He comes from Arras, and was commended to me
by the bishop of that town, with excellent testimonials from a priest
of my diocese. I gave him a grant for the college, and as he has
succeeded so far, I shall be glad to see him make his way. And,
after all, are we not generally interested in the welfare of those we
have helped--a feeling which you doubtless understand, Monsieur de
Pontivy, since it is but human?"
"I understand it so well that I will take your nominee."
"Into your own service?"
"Yes, into my service. Pray do not thank me. I was in urgent need
of one, and am too glad to accept him on your recommendation."
It was true, for Monsieur de Pontivy with his manifold occupations
was at the moment without a secretary, and anxious to fill up the
post so soon as he could find a worthy candidate. The offer of the
Abbé was doubly acceptable to him as an opportunity to oblige a
Rohan, and to enlist in his service a young man who had been chosen
before all his fellow-students as most worthy to welcome the King and
Queen.
The next day Robespierre was installed at the Hôtel de Pontivy.
After some preliminary questions as to his parentage, his studies,
his college life, Monsieur de Pontivy had adroitly brought the
conversation to bear on the visit of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette.
The young man gave a detailed account, standing in a respectful
attitude, his eyes lowered, and with an appearance of modesty, which
to a mind less vain than that of Monsieur de Pontivy's would have
suggested more self-sufficiency than was desirable.
"And the King, what did he say? And the Queen?"
"Their majesties did not speak to me," said the young man, rather
confused.
"Ah!" exclaimed Monsieur de Pontivy, visibly satisfied.
"But the King smiled," continued Robespierre, "and received me
graciously."
"And the Queen?"
The young man hesitated, but drawing himself up resolutely under the
searching glance of the Councillor, he answered--
"Her Majesty was equally gracious."
But he was not telling the truth, for the Queen's thoughts had been
bent all the time on hastening her departure. Monsieur de Pontivy
examined the young man critically. He was dressed with the utmost
simplicity, but a certain air of distinction was apparent in his
whole person and manners. Spruce and neat in appearance, sprightly
and brisk in manner, and at the same time respectful, decision of
character and firm will were written on his brow; his eyes of a pale
green were restless and piercing, though their gleam under the gaze
of others was veiled, and so subdued as to lend to the whole
countenance an unexpected tenderness.
"The young man is not so bad after all," mused Monsieur de Pontivy,
and he thought he was justified in admitting him to his table now and
again. Had he not been honoured with a royal glance? He could by no
means be looked upon as a chance comer.
A chance comer he certainly was not, as Monsieur de Pontivy soon
discovered by his work, quick, neat, perfectly accurate and orderly,
and his method in arrangement and classification, rare in a young man
of his years. Pursuing his law studies, he was naturally interested
in the difficult and delicate questions which Monsieur de Pontivy had
so often to treat, elucidating them under his direction, and
astonishing him sometimes by his sagacious remarks, in which were
revealed a rare instinct for solving legal subtleties.
There is a certain kinship of the mind, a certain intellectual
affinity, which creates sympathy between those who may be separated
by a wide social gulf. They certainly were so separated, this master
and his secretary: the one jealously asserting his prerogative, proud
of his name, of that _noblesse de robe_ of which he was one of the
ornaments, and which, seeing its growing influence on the destinies
of France, he had exalted to the highest rank; the other of doubtful
origin, hesitating even to make use of the titular prefix of
nobility, but shrewd and ambitious, and seeking to supply his
deficiencies of birth in the reflected light of the patrician world.
For, after all, who were the _de_ Robespierres? The tangled
narrative of the young man had but half satisfied Monsieur de
Pontivy. There was, first and foremost, his father, who left his
four children, when mad with grief at the loss of his wife, and
disappeared in Germany in most mysterious fashion. But was young
Robespierre responsible for all this misty past?
That which pleased Monsieur de Pontivy most in his young secretary
were his orderly habits and his method of classifying and arranging
everything to hand. So continuing that evening to look for the
report he wanted, he had hesitated to wake him. He had seemed so
sleepy before going to bed, and it was the first time a document had
not been forthcoming. The Councillor had looked everywhere--on the
files, under the blotters, and even in the waste-paper basket. Had
the young fellow thrown it in the fire by mistake? Naturally
distrustful, suspicions began gradually to form in his mind. Had
Robespierre made use of it? Had he given it to an attorney? Once
doubting Monsieur de Pontivy did not rest. Had he sold it? Yes,
perhaps sold it to the counsel for the adverse party! Everything is
possible! One is never sure.... At any rate he would ease his mind
and ascertain at once. Monsieur de Pontivy looked at his watch.
"Three o'clock! So you have kept me up till this hour, my fine
fellow! Now it is your turn!"
He took down a candlestick, lighted it at one of the chandeliers, and
went towards the door. The whole house was wrapped in sleep. Oh!
the awful stillness of that vast house, where not a soul seemed to
breathe, that house with its interminable corridors, so high and so
cold, like long, deserted lanes. Thus alone, in the silence of the
night, he experienced a new sense of satisfaction, for was not the
house absolutely his? Every living occupant, man or beast, was at
his bidding, under his sway; and at this hour, when all slept under
his protection, his proprietorship was accentuated, and he realised
to the full that he was absolute master. In his long flowered
dressing-gown, holding the candlestick aloft in his right hand, with
his iron-grey head, clean-shaven visage, and true judge's nose, large
and massive as if hewn in one piece, and in keeping with the cold,
hard expression of his countenance, he could have been taken for the
spirit of avenging justice, or for some statue, descended from its
pedestal to carry light into the surrounding darkness.
Monsieur de Pontivy crossed a long passage, turned to the left, then
went up three steps, and turning again, found himself on a narrow
staircase leading to the second floor. It was there that the young
secretary slept, in a little room looking on the courtyard. He
lifted the candle to assure himself he was not mistaken, then knocked
softly, twice. Receiving no answer he knocked again, somewhat louder.
"He sleeps soundly enough," he muttered; "at that age it comes easy."
The Councillor was on the point of returning. After all, it would be
time enough to speak of the paper at breakfast, and already day was
beginning to break. But again those subtle, insinuating suspicions
crept into his mind. Yes! he must assure himself at once! And he
knocked again, this time almost pushing the door. It was not
fastened, and gave way, disclosing an empty room and a bed untouched.
With a rapid glance he searched the room. All was in order.
"What!" he exclaimed, "at his age! This is promising, certainly."
And he began to wonder which servant was accessory to these midnight
rambles, for this was surely not the first. The hall door was barred
and double-barred when young Robespierre took leave of Monsieur de
Pontivy. The porter was certainly culpable. Yes, the whole domestic
staff was privy to the misconduct of his secretary! The very next
day the Councillor would have a reckoning with them all, and it would
be a terrible reckoning! But just at that moment, when Monsieur de
Pontivy was about to leave the room, he noticed the young man's hat
and stick lying near. He stopped in surprise.
Was Robespierre in the house, then?
Monsieur de Pontivy again looked at the bed. No, it had not been
slept in. Other details struck him: the coat and vest hanging up,
and the frilled waistcoat carefully folded on a chair. It was
enough,--the young man had not gone out.
Where was he? In Louison's room, undoubtedly, on the third floor!
Louison, his daughter's maid! She was from Perigord, sprightly and
complaisant, cunning enough, a veritable _soubrette_, with her sly
ways and her round cheeks. Ah! how stupid he had been to have taken
her into the house, considering her age and bearing, scarcely
twenty-two, and dark and passionate as a Catalonian.
"I ought to have known as much," he said.
His daughter's waiting-woman! The thought was distracting. That she
should enter Clarisse's room every morning, carry her breakfast, see
her in bed, assist at each detail of her toilet, fresh from the young
man's embraces, his caresses still warm on her lips! And these
things were taking place under his roof!
He left the room agitated but resolved. It was very simple.
To-morrow she would be discharged the first thing, and he also should
be turned out, the hypocrite who, with all his smiling, respectful
airs, defiled his roof. He did well to get himself protected by
priests, and Monsieur de Rohan, a nice present he had made!
All the young man's qualities, all the satisfaction he had given him,
disappeared before this one brutal fact. He would not be sorry,
either, to be able to say to the Abbé de Saint-Vaast--
"You know the young man you recommended me. Well, I surprised him in
the garret with a servant-maid, and I turned him out like a lackey.
But even lackeys respect my house."
He had now crossed the corridor and was descending the stairs, still
rehearsing the scene in his mind. Smarting under his wounded
self-love, he exaggerated everything. Had they not forgotten the
respect due to him, Monsieur de Pontivy, to his house, and worse
still, had they not mockingly set him at defiance? He smiled grimly
at the thought. He had now reached the last step of the second
staircase, and was turning into the corridor of the ground floor.
"Decidedly," he muttered, "I was mistaken in my estimate of that
young man. He is a fool!"
All at once he stopped. He caught the sound of whispering, and the
noise of a door being softly and cautiously closed. Some one here,
at this hour! Who can it be? He blew out the candle, and gliding
along the wall, he approached, but suddenly recoiled, for in the grey
light of the dawn he had recognised Robespierre. The young man was
advancing quietly in the direction of the stairs.
The truth, all the awful, maddening truth, the endless shame and
dishonour, rushed on Monsieur de Pontivy in a moment, and stunned him
like a blow.
Robespierre had come from Clarisse's room!
Everything swam before him. He held in his hand the extinguished
candle, with such force that the bronze candlestick entered his
flesh. He made a movement as if to use it as a weapon, and kill the
wretch there and then. At that instant the young man saw him. He
turned deadly pale and tried to escape, but Monsieur de Pontivy threw
himself on him, and seized him by the throat.
"Where do you come from?" he almost hissed.
The young man swayed with the shock, his knees, bent under him.
Monsieur de Pontivy, mad with rage, repeated--"Where do you come
from?"
He was strangling him.
Robespierre gave a hoarse scream.
"You are hurting me!" he gasped.
"Hurting you! Hurting you! did you say? What if I kill you, knock
out your cursed brains with this"--brandishing the bronze
candlestick--"yes, kill you, wretch, for bringing dishonour on my
house...."
But just then Monsieur de Pontivy felt a hand laid on his arm
arresting the blow.
It was Clarisse, drawn by the noise, half-dressed, her hair hanging
in disorder down her back.
"Oh, father!" she sobbed, falling on her knees, as if for pardon.
It was dishonour, yes, dishonour complete, palpable, avowed,
dishonour that flowed with his. daughter's tears, and covered her
face with shame. The agony of the father was augmented by that of
the head of the family, whose record of austerity and uprightness was
thus dragged in the mud.
The young man, having regained his self-possession, was about to
speak, but Monsieur de Pontivy gave him no time.
"Silence!" he thundered. "Not a word! Do you hear, sir? Not a
word! To your room, and await my orders!"
The command was accompanied with such a gesture that Robespierre
could only obey, and silently moved towards the staircase.
Then, turning towards Clarisse, he continued, "As to you ..."
But she lay lifeless on the floor. He bent down, lifted her in his
arms, and carried her to her room; exhausted by her weight, he laid
her on the first armchair.
The young girl regained consciousness. She opened her eyes and
recognised her father, and a sob rose in her throat, suffocating her.
She could not speak, but a word she had not pronounced for ten years,
a word from her far-off childhood, came to her lips, and she murmured
softly through her tears, "Papa! papa!"