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!
Robespierre had delivered the opening sentences of his speech.
Carried away by the enthusiastic ovation of the crowd, now entirely
master of himself and of his discourse, his words flowed freely and
abundantly, and he declaimed without once referring to his notes, in
a clear, penetrating voice. Every point was greeted with a thunder
of applause as he spoke on, stimulated by a glow of satisfaction
which touched the most secret fibres of his being. He felt himself
to be for ever and in very deed master of France, acclaimed Dictator,
solely by the people's will. Through the fumes of this mad delirium
he saw the Convention vanquished, paralysed with fear and amazement.
He was thanking the French nation, who had laid aside their work to
lift their thoughts and aspirations towards the Great, the Supreme
Being.
"Never," exclaimed the Incorruptible, "never has this world which He
created offered Him a sight more worthy of His regard. He has seen
the reign of tyranny, crime, and imposture on the earth----"
But a stir was noticeable in the crowd, not far from Robespierre. A
man had just made an observation in an audible whisper, attracting
the attention of the bystanders. They looked at him in surprise,
trying to divine his meaning, but Robespierre, who was too far off to
have heard, continued--
"Frenchmen! if you would triumph over your enemies, be just, give to
the Divine Being the only offerings worthy of Him--virtue,
compassion, forbearance----"
"With the guillotine!" called the voice in the crowd, with a bitter
laugh.
A murmur rose round the man, every one whispering out of respect for
Robespierre, who continued his harangue. They questioned the man,
threatened him. Voices grew louder. "Silence!" called the
officials, but the disturbance went on. "He ought to be arrested!"
and the words drunkard, aristocrat, _chouan_, were thrown at him.
"What did he want? What did he say?"
"Yes, what did you say?" asked a patriot coming close to him.
"I say only what you ought all to cry out to that charlatan--'Instead
of burning incense to your idol, Tyrant, burn the guillotine!'"
This daring critic, as the reader will guess at once, was Olivier.
His voice was drowned in a burst of applause which greeted the words
of Robespierre encouraging him to go on with his speech.
In presence of such irony Olivier lost all self-control.
"And they can applaud him, the fools! They can applaud him!"
The fury of the multitude, now unchained, knew no bounds. Cries of
"To death with him! To death!" were heard amidst the awful tumult,
which completely drowned the voice of Robespierre, whose anxiety was
now also aroused. Olivier, down-trodden, his clothes torn to
tatters, fought and struggled in the grasp of twenty or more of the
infuriated populace. "He must be killed! He is an aristocrat! A
_chouan_! To death with him!" One of the patriots lifted a
be-ribboned spike in the air, threatening to pierce his eyes. But a
man armed to the teeth, dagger and pistols in his belt, pushed aside
the crowd and seized the offender by the throat. He then turned and
bade them make way for the officers of the peace who followed him.
"Stand back there!" he cried. "This man is to be dealt with by
justice only!"
It was Héron, chief police-agent of the Committee of Public Safety.
With the assistance of his men Héron dragged the offender to the feet
of Robespierre, who, being informed of the affair, had asked to see
the interrupter.
But a vociferating crowd obstructed the passage. Robespierre
impatiently descended the steps of the altar. The whole Convention
and the _cortège_ had moved also, wishing to see. The police forced
a way in the crowd for Robespierre. At the name of the Incorruptible
the multitude gave way, and Olivier appeared before him, struggling
in the powerful grasp of Héron.
"Against whom does this madman, who disturbs our _fête_, bear a
grudge?" asked Robespierre.
"Against you! hypocrite and scoundrel!" Olivier cried; "against you,
who dare speak of justice and humanity on this spot soaked with the
blood you have spilled!"
A horrified scream rose from the crowd, but was as soon hushed at a
sign from Robespierre. Olivier tried to throw himself on him, but
was held back by the police.
"Look at the soles of your shoes, you butcher!" he cried desperately.
"They are red with blood!"
He was not allowed to continue.
The Incorruptible motioned the agents to remove him out of reach of
the furious and exasperated crowd, who continued to cry out--
"To death with him! To death!"
Olivier turned in the grasp of his gaolers and cried--
"You can kill me, murder me, ruffians! but I have cried out, as
others will cry out after me, 'Down with the scaffold!'"
His words were lost in the tumult. Robespierre reascended the steps
of the statue, and tried to calm the people.
"Citizens!" he said, "let us give ourselves up to the joys of this
_fête_, which the insults and outrages of a rebel shall not disturb!
To-morrow the sword of Justice will strike with renewed ardour the
enemies of our country!"
Loud plaudits followed, and cries of "Long live the Republic! Long
live Robespierre! Long live the Incorruptible!"
"Down with the scaffold!" cried a faint voice in the distance.
It was Olivier, whom the police, aided by the National Guards, were
carrying away in chains.