"ALL THESE GLIDING GHOSTS"
On the stairs Robespierre met Urbain who was just coming up.
"Quick! fetch me a hackney-coach!" he called.
The man turned and hurried down the stairs two steps at a time. A
fiacre was crossing the street, crawling as if waiting for a fare,
and the driver cynically inquired if he should take him to the
scaffold.
"Place du Trône Renversé, _citoyen_? The fun hasn't commenced yet!"
Urbain opened the door while Robespierre gave the address: "To the
Committee of Public Safety! and make haste!"
He then threw himself back in the carriage, which turned round, and
rolled rapidly in the direction of the Tuileries. The Incorruptible
would soon have the key to the mystery! The police-agent of the
Committee, Coulongeau, could tell him at once where to find Olivier.
He would wring the secret from him by force if necessary!
When he arrived at the Tuileries, Robespierre looked vainly for the
police-agent; he wandered from room to room, questioning every one he
met, putting the whole official staff at their wits' end, but no
Coulongeau was to be found.
The absence of the police-agent confirmed Robespierre's suspicions.
Olivier must then be at the Conciergerie under guard.
"Oh! I can be there in time!" he thought, and leaving the Tuileries,
he went home to supper at the Duplays.
It was now seven. The family, who had waited supper for Robespierre
and Lebas, were growing anxious, as they knew that the sitting of the
Convention had been long finished. Duplay, who had just returned
from the Revolutionary Tribunal, took an optimistic view of things.
The sitting had been certainly a failure for Robespierre, but he was
not a man to be trifled with! He would promptly retaliate, and
assuredly the meeting at the Jacobin Club that evening would turn the
tables upon his foes. The women with one consent decided to attend,
feeling it was but right to show their sympathy, though Duplay raised
a few feeble objections, mainly as a matter of form.
"But since you are so sure we shall be victorious," urged little
Maurice ingenuously, "what do we risk?"
Robespierre appeared at that moment, his face drawn and haggard. He
tried, however, to smile as if nothing were amiss before the family,
and said, in answer to inquiries for Lebas, "He will soon be here; I
saw him less than an hour ago."
"Where?"
"At the Hôtel de Ville."
They understood, of course. Robespierre and Lebas had been to assure
themselves that the forces of the Commune were in readiness in case
some fresh phase of affairs might force the Incorruptible to break
the bounds of the law; and when they proposed to go with him to the
Jacobin Club after supper he seemed touched, and, feeling sure of
success, was not unwilling that his intimate friends should witness
his triumph.
The front door opened. It was Lebas returning, completely out of
breath, from the Place du Trône. After having assured himself that
Olivier was not in the tumbrils, he had gone, to be quite certain, to
the very foot of the scaffold. The Incorruptible met him with
questioning looks.
"You can be at rest! He is safe for to-day..."
"Yes, I know," said Robespierre, "but have you found out where he is?"
"No," answered Lebas.
"He can only be at the Conciergerie, then. I will go there this
evening after the meeting at the Jacobins."
Supper was soon over. Robespierre wished to be at the Jacobins at
eight o'clock, at the very beginning of the sitting, for fear of
being taken unawares by the Committee, who were capable of anything.
"I am sure my worst enemies will be there," he muttered to Duplay,
who assured him to the contrary, as the family started along the Rue
Sainte-Honoré in anxious groups. The Incorruptible walked ahead, at
some distance from them; Cornélie noticed in astonishment that he did
not offer her his arm as usual, and said so to Lebas, who, forcing a
smile, answered, "He is so preoccupied just now!"
Cornélie tossed her head. It was not the first time she had
accompanied him to the Jacobin Club in times of anxiety, and on those
days he was most attentive, and seemed to feel in special need of
sympathy. Lebas did not reply, thinking of Clarisse and Olivier,
whilst Cornélie continued her threnody of woes. Robespierre was a
few paces in front of her, walking alone, and did not even turn to
bestow on her a single glance.
"Something is amiss," she said. "I never saw him thus before."
He was in fact thinking of Clarisse, of her joy a few hours hence to
have her son again, for Robespierre would take Olivier from the
Conciergerie directly he was sure of his triumph at the Jacobins; he
thought also of this triumph, now so certain, which would seem all
the greater if Clarisse could witness it. She would see then how
highly he was esteemed, admired, and loved by all true, honest
Republicans, by all staunch soldiers of justice and humanity.
Suddenly he stopped at the door of the Jacobins, and went in without
even turning to see if any one was following.
This building, once the property of the monks of St. James, had
recently been turned by the Revolutionists into a political club. A
powerful party reigned there, exercising an occult influence on the
direction of public affairs and on the rulings of the Convention,
whom they terrorised by their democratic arrogance and their violent,
obstinate fanaticism.
The meetings were held in a part of the building formerly known as
the convent-church, opening on to a long gallery hung with portraits
of monks, which led to the ancient library. At the lower end of this
assembly-room an altar was still standing, stripped of all its
ornaments and symbols of sacred services, now forgotten in the hall
where fierce fanatics, breathing slaughter, hounded to death the
victims of the guillotine.
When empty, with its amphitheatre, its presidential stand, its
tribune, the room had the aspect of an ordinary debating hall. When
full, it was a tribunal of inquisition, the headquarters of terror
and of fear.
Robespierre had become the ruling spirit of the Club. He was their
lord-paramount, whose word was absolute, and he was greeted on his
appearance by a thunder of applause. The hall was filled with an
enthusiastic crowd, exasperated at the partial defeat of their idol
at the Tuileries. Robespierre, deeply touched, returned their
salutations gratefully, and re-read his speech prepared for the
Convention, interrupted at every point by loud approval. In order to
stir their minds to the necessary pitch of excitement, he spoke of
this as his last testament, and so induced another outburst of
extravagant sympathy.
"I will die with you, Robespierre!" called out one deputy.
"Your enemies are the enemies of the whole nation!" cried another.
"Say the word, and they shall no longer exist!"
Robespierre looked at them with eyes full of gratitude. He was
hoping that some one would commence an attack, that he might
retaliate there and then, and so accentuate his triumph. He had
perceived among the crowd his adversaries, Billaud-Varennes and
Collot d'Herbois. They tried to speak, and were hissed; they
persisted, and were greeted with cries of "To death with them!"
Daggers even were drawn, and they had scarcely time to escape.
The name of Robespierre was in every mouth in that vast hall,
acclaimed with cries of wild approval that re-echoed to the very
Tuileries.
The Duplay family, as may be imagined, beside themselves with joy,
waited for Robespierre outside, but he was nowhere to be seen. It
was in vain they inquired of every likely passer-by. He had
completely disappeared.
Leaving the Assembly-room among the first he had slipped out under
cover of night, taking a short cut to the Tuileries, whose dark mass
aided his further flight. For he was flying from his glorification,
escaping from his rabid admirers, who would have borne him in triumph
through the streets of sleeping Paris, making them ring with
thunderous shouts of triumph. Creeping along the side of the walls,
his face muffled in his collar, he hastened his steps to the
Conciergerie, and as he walked his thoughts reverted to the subject
of his reception. The Jacobins' enthusiasm must have resounded to
the chamber of the Committee of Public Safety, and fallen like a
thunderbolt among the traitors in the very midst of their dark plots!
The effect must have been terrible! He already pictured the
Convention appealing to him with servile supplication, delivering the
Committee into his hands, and asking the names of his enemies, that
they might pass sentence on them all. He smiled triumphantly as he
crossed the Pont-Neuf, without casting a glance at the splendid
spectacle which lay at his feet on either side of the bridge; for it
was July, and all the glory of a summer sky studded with stars was
mirrored in the stream.
He walked on quickly, wrapt in his own thoughts. Ah! not only did
they wish to ruin him, but they would have sent Olivier to his death!
He had forestalled them, however. The very next day they should take
his son's vacant place in that same Conciergerie, the antechamber of
the guillotine!
Robespierre had reached the quay, and was now at the foot of the
Silver Tower, whose pointed spire stood out in the moonlight like a
gigantic finger raised to heaven. It was in that tower that
Fouquier-Tinville, the Public Prosecutor of the Revolutionary
Tribunal--death's henchman--lived. Robespierre scanned the windows.
All lights were out. Fouquier slept, then? What brute
insensibility! But he would sleep also, he told himself. Ah, yes!
the terrors of the scaffold would soon be over! No more butchery, no
more guillotine! He had promised it to the mother of his son, and he
would keep his word ... he would, within three days.
Reaching the side entrance of the Conciergerie, he gave three knocks,
and a grating was opened in the door.
"It is I--Citoyen Robespierre."
The gate swung back on its hinges, and a voice was heard exclaiming--
"_Salut et fraternité, citoyen!_"
It was Collas, the turnkey, on duty.
"I want Citoyen Fouquier-Tinville."
"He has not returned, _citoyen_."
Robespierre betrayed impatience.
"Can I do anything for you, _citoyen_?" said Collas.
"I wish to know if you have among your prisoners a certain Germain,
lately at La Force prison."
"Well, we can see that on the prison register, _citoyen_. Nothing
will be easier, if the registrar is still here. Let me ascertain
through the watchman. Would you care to follow me? Just wait a
moment; I have not the keys."
Collas went back into his lodge, and returned with a bunch of keys.
Then, taking down a lantern from the wall, he commenced threading the
mazy alleys of the Conciergerie, followed by the Incorruptible. It
was the first time Robespierre had entered this prison in which so
many of his victims had been immured. The two men turned into the
old banqueting hall of the Kings of France, a long gallery with a
vaulted ceiling of oval arches supported on massive pillars; keeping
to the left, they came upon an iron trellised gate, which the turnkey
opened. Robespierre found himself in a railed enclosure, a kind of
antechamber leading to another vaulted gallery, which in the dim
light seemed of indefinite length. Two towering gates on the left
opened into a court on which the moon shone, lighting up vividly a
pile of buildings surrounded with grey arcades.
As Robespierre and the turnkey advanced they came upon a man sleeping
in a chair, with a lantern at his feet. It was the night watchman.
"Hallo, Barassin!" called the turnkey, shaking his bunch of keys in
his ears.
The man woke with a start. At the mention of Robespierre he rose in
a tremor of fear at being caught slumbering on duty. He excused
himself profusely--he had been so hard-worked this last month; there
was no sleeping at all with the cart-loads of prisoners coming at
every moment. Then, with officious zeal, he invited Robespierre to
remain with him while Collas went to ascertain if the registrar was
still there, though this was very unlikely at that late hour. The
turnkey went on his errand.
"What part of the prison is this?" asked Robespierre, looking around.
"We are between the two gates, _citoyen_. Have you never been to the
Conciergerie before?"
"No; never."
Now was his chance! Barassin had a subject to interest the
Incorruptible, and he launched forth into a long description,
overcrowded with details.
On the other side of that little door to the right was the ward of
the male prisoners. Here at the end was the women's courtyard,
facing the arched building in which were their cells. Robespierre
had but to advance a little, and he could see through the gate the
fountain in which they washed their linen, for they remained dainty
to the last, and wished to ascend the scaffold in spotless clothes.
Barassin laughed a loud brutish laugh, happy at the seeming interest
Robespierre took in his explanations.
"Is the Recorder's office on the left, then?" questioned the
Incorruptible, his eyes fixed on the dark gallery through which the
turnkey had disappeared.
Barassin began another string of details. Yes, that gallery led to
it, and to the exit as well, through the concierge's lodge, where the
condemned had their hair cut after the roll-call.
"The call takes place here, just where you are standing," he
explained.
Robespierre started, and moved away. His eyes rested on the long
line of cells, whose doors were lost in long perspective under the
vaulted archway he had noticed on his entrance, and which had seemed
so vast through the iron bars of the second gate. He lowered his
voice to ask if those cells were occupied. Barassin's reply
reassured him; there was no one there just then. Then, indicating a
cell opposite Robespierre, the watchman continued, carried away by
his subject--
"This is the cell in which the Queen was locked up."
He opened a panel in the door that Robespierre might glance within.
The Incorruptible hesitated at first, and as he bent over resolutely
to look, Barassin found further material for his questionable wit:
"It's not such a palace as her Versailles, eh?"
Robespierre quickly closed the aperture, on the outside of which he
perceived a black cross.
"What! a cross?" he exclaimed, staring the while at the sign of
redemption.
The watchman told him that some prisoner had probably daubed this
cross on the panel after the Queen's death. The prisoners always
stopped before it to pray, and it was their habit to scribble in that
way over the prison walls with pencils, or even nails.
"Why, here's your name!" he chuckled, highly amused.
Robespierre shuddered.
"My name?"
Barassin raised his lantern, throwing the light on an inscription in
large letters on the wall, under some prison notices.
The Incorruptible read--
"We shall be avenged, Robespierre, monster! your turn will come!"
The watchman swung his lantern from place to place, lighting up, for
the Incorruptible's benefit, other ominous inscriptions addressed to
him.
"Robespierre, the tyrant!"
"Robespierre, the assassin!"
The Incorruptible turned pale.
He was well accustomed to insult and abuse, no doubt, but these
imprecations on the walls, in that gruesome and silent prison, seemed
like the last curses of the dead, written in letters of fire and
blood!
"They must occupy themselves, I suppose!" remarked Barassin, still
laughing.
The Incorruptible turned away, feeling ill at ease. Again he
questioned the man, fixing him the while as if he would fathom the
depths of his experience. Did he keep watch every night? He must
have witnessed some heart-rending scenes? Was he not disturbed in
his sleep, living thus in continual contact with the dread spectre of
death? Could he really sleep? Did not the cries of the victims
disturb his slumber? Was he not haunted by their solemn leavetakings
and their sobs?
Citoyen Robespierre could rest assured! Barassin slept soundly
enough! Such fancies were very well for women! In the first place,
the dead never returned, and then, after all, it was not Barassin who
killed the victims, was it?
Steps were heard advancing, and the turnkey made his reappearance.
The registrar had gone away and taken the keys with him. It was
impossible to get at the prison register. He then suggested that
Robespierre should go with him to the men's ward.
"Let us awake the prisoners. If the man you seek is there you will
easily recognize him."
The Incorruptible refused, starting involuntarily. He had no wish to
be seen by the prisoners.
Then, there was but one course left. Barrassin might accompany him,
and speak to the men's turnkey, who would look for this Germain from
bed to bed, and Barassin would bring back to Robespierre the result
of the inquiry, as he himself had to return to his post. Robespierre
would have to wait a little while, of course. And Collas moved the
watchman's chair towards him.
"Very good! I will wait, but be quick!"
The two men went away, turning to the left, through the small gate,
which Barassin carefully closed behind him. Robespierre followed the
watchman with his eyes.
"Happy brute! He can sleep in peace!" he exclaimed.
So this man's sleep was not disturbed by such horrible visions as
haunted Robespierre! But then, as the watchman said, _he_ had not
killed the victims; his name had not been inscribed on these walls as
a term and brand of infamy and hatred.
That writing on the wall seemed to be dancing before his eyes.
"Robespierre, assassin; your turn will come!" So this was the cry
which rose from every breast! If he was vanquished in the morrow's
struggle, if he had to ascend the scaffold without having
accomplished the act of social regeneration of which he had so long
dreamt, he would leave behind him the execrated memory of a despot
and bloodthirsty tyrant! His name would be coupled with all the
monsters of history! Robespierre would be cited by posterity side by
side with Nero, Caligula, Tiberius!
Stepping slowly towards the watchman's seat, he sat down sideways,
his eyes fixed, like a somnambulist's, and his arm resting on the
back of the chair, as he repeated in a low murmur--
"Your turn will come!"
Almost the same dread, ominous words had the night before forced him
to start up suddenly, and impelled him to rush towards the window of
his room.
"Arise, Robespierre, arise? Your hour has come!"
It was the shade of Camille Desmoulins that had uttered the grim
summons! Camille, accompanied by his wife, the pale and sweet
Lucile, sought to draw him to them, to drag him along with them on
the blood-strewn way to which they had been doomed! But the phantoms
had all vanished with the refreshing dawn. It was fever, of course!
He was subject to it; it peopled his sleep with harrowing visions and
fearful dreams. But these were nothing but excited hallucinations,
creatures of his overwrought brain....
Robespierre had now closed his eyes, overcome with fatigue, and still
continued the thread of his thoughts and fancies. His ideas were
becoming confused. He was vaguely wondering whether such imaginings
were due to fever after all? If this was not the case, it was
perhaps his conscience that awakened from its torpor, and rose at
night to confront him with his victims? Yes, his conscience that
relentlessly gnawed at his heart-strings, and wrung from him a
gasping confession of alarm! Had not Fouquier-Tinville seen the
Seine one night from his terrace rolling waves of blood? This was
also a mere delusion ... the outcome of remorse, perhaps? Remorse?
Why? Remorse for a just deed, for a work of redemption? No! It
sprung rather from a diseased imagination caused by an over-excited
and over-active brain, which, weakened by excess, clothed the
simplest objects with supernatural attributes.
Robespierre's eyes were now half-closed, and wandered dreamily to the
women's courtyard, where grey arches stood out in clear and sharp
relief under the soft moonlight. He was in deep reverie, wondering
what could be the true cause of such strange illusions, and as he
wondered, examples from past history came crowding to his mind.
Yes ... did not Brutus imagine that he saw the shade of Cæsar gliding
into his tent, when it could have been nothing but the flicker of a
lamp on the curtains moved by the wind, or a moonbeam playing, as
that one yonder, on a pillar?
As he gazed his eyes dilated in horror. It was no moonbeam. The
outlines of a woman's form, ethereal and transparent, stood
motionless against the pillar. It moved! Another form, white and
shadowy, glided towards the first, and a third emerged from the dim
background and joined them. Robespierre followed every movement with
horror-stricken gaze. He rose, crept nearer: was he awake, or was it
indeed a dream? Had he again fallen a prey to delusions at the very
moment when he was persuading himself of their unreality? He was not
asleep! He was wide awake! He felt the hot blood coursing through
his veins, he walked to and fro, and was completely self-possessed!
He knew he was at the Conciergerie, and had come to fetch his son
Olivier. A little while ago he had conversed with two men there, on
that very spot, the turnkey and the night watchman. And yet his
nervous imagination conjured up before his eyes those chimerical
visions clothed with the semblance of reality! For, of course, he
was not deceived, he knew well enough they were unreal delusions, and
yet he felt nervous and ill at ease!
"What strange beings we are!" he thought. "Poor human nature! We
pride ourselves on our strength of mind, and yet we are subject to
such hallucinations!"
Again he was startled from his musings. Other forms suddenly
appeared in the white moonlit courtyard, walking slowly up and down,
in pairs, singly, or in groups. They came and went, stopped,
conversed with or took leave of each other, all in a great hush,
without seeming to notice the Incorruptible, who in his fear kept as
much as possible aloof, never moving his eyes from them a moment.
Suddenly, he uttered a cry. He had bent forward to examine their
features and had recognised ... Madame Roland! ... Madame Roland! ...
and Madame Elizabeth, the king's sister; ... Good God! and there was
Charlotte Corday, the girl who had killed Marat! The courtyard
filled with new forms, blanched and wan, gliding about with
supernatural grace in the pale moonlight. Robespierre stood rooted
to the spot, seized with wild terror.
"Am I mad?" he asked himself.
Ghosts! Yes, they were ghosts! What! was he going to believe in
ghosts, like old women and children? It was folly, crass folly, and
he repeated aloud--"Madness! sheer madness!"
But what did it all mean! What were those wandering forms which
reminded him of beings long dead? Were they subtle effluences of
their bodies that could pass through the prison walls, invisible by
day, but luminous at night, as phosphorescent spectres were said to
flit among tombstones in churchyards by moonlight, to the dismay of
the weak and credulous.
"Yes, the weak and credulous!" he repeated, in a voice which quavered
none the less, "the weak and credulous, easily prone to fear and
remorse..."
He went towards the gate of the men's ward livid with fright, in the
hope that the watchman would come and put an end to these harrowing
phantasms.
He cried out in desperation--
"Does the man never mean to come!"
At that moment a man's form appeared in the gallery to his right, and
he went towards it hopefully. Barassin? But he recoiled. No! it
was not he! The form grew more distinct, others followed. There
were now six, eight, ten, twenty of them, a band of prisoners slowly
and silently moving towards the gate. They were coming, all coming!
He recognised them:
"The Girondins! .. Brissot! .. Vergniaud! .."
Were all his victims then going to show themselves behind those iron
bars like avengers, to torture and madden him?
Robespierre was suddenly dazzled by a stream of moonlight
illuminating an iron grating just above him, which he had not noticed
on his entrance. Outlines of fresh forms appeared behind the bars,
gradually growing more distinct. They were the ghosts of other
victims! For he recognised them, while they, apparently, were
unconscious of his presence.
He took his eyes off these for a moment to see if the spectres
gathered behind the grating of the ground floor were still there.
Yes! They were still there. They were everywhere then? Everywhere!
... What were they doing? Why did they come and force the past upon
him in this way? After spending the day in struggling with the
living, must his nights be spent in encounters with the dead? He
continued staring in mute and fascinated horror, as motionless as
those ghosts gathered behind the closed grill, and seeming to await
the gruesome roll-call of the condemned.
At their silence he presently took heart. None of them had their
eyes fixed on him. This was proof, he thought, that they existed
only in his imagination. For, after all, if they were real, they
would have stared at him in anger, with terrible and threatening
looks ... they would have rushed upon him, one and all. Those iron
barriers would have yielded to their united effort, and burst asunder!
Even as he thought this the gratings swung back noiselessly.
Robespierre recoiled, his flesh creeping, cold beads of perspiration
starting on his forehead.
The gates had opened! It was all true then! They were real! The
whole array of spectres was coming down upon him! They were
advancing slowly, they were entering the courtyard! No, they had not
seen him! Robespierre was still retreating, step by step.
"They haven't seen me!" he gasped. If he could gain the passage to
the left of the archway, which was the only exit available, he was
safe! He would escape them! For they were not likely to follow him
into the street....
He reached the vaulted passage, stepping cautiously backwards,
keeping them in sight all the while, like a criminal in dread of
detection. But at the entrance of the passage Danton and Camille
Desmoulins confronted him.
"Danton! Camille!"
He started back, shaking with fear. Every exit was barred!
These two noted victims were advancing carelessly, conversing
together. They had not noticed him either!
The door of the Queen's cell now moved.
What! was that going to open too?
Marie Antoinette appeared on the threshold, descended the few steps
and joined the others, who all made deep obeisance at the approach of
their sovereign.
The Queen! it was indeed the Queen!
Robespierre felt now that he was lost. Flight had become impossible.
The one remaining means of escape was by the little grating of the
men's courtyard. He tried to reach it, still walking backwards,
without once losing sight of the apparitions, his arms stretched
behind him, every muscle strained, and both hands clenched
convulsively. He soon came in contact with the grating, and tried to
push it open with his back. Not succeeding he abruptly turned round.
It was locked! He tried madly to force it, but the massive iron bars
proved too much for his strength. He seized and shook the lattice in
his agony. The rattling noise made him turn quickly, thinking all
the spectres had come down upon him. But no! They stood still in
the same places, motionless, and apparently unconscious of his
presence. But this could not last; ... they must see him sooner or
later! And if he were seen he would surely be the prey of these
arisen tenants of the tomb! He wiped the cold sweat from his brow,
panting and breathless, and made a sudden frantic effort in his
overwhelming panic to repel the ghastly vision, turning away from it.
"It is absurd! The dead never return!" he cried, stamping violently.
He persuaded himself that it was only necessary to disbelieve in it
and the vision would fade, to refuse to look, and he would no longer
see the phantoms. He then turned round boldly, as if to prove his
words.
Every eye was upon him. They appeared terrible in the awful majesty
of their wrongs, as if accusing him, as if judging him. He remained
motionless, terror-stricken. Yes, they were all looking at him!
Slowly, silently they glided towards him.
"Oh! no further! no further!" he cried. "I implore you! I am
frightened!..."
Every limb trembled, as he thus prayed them to desist.
"Oh yes! I know what you are going to say, I see the word trembling
on your lips: 'Assassin!'"
The victims seemed to him to bend their heads in mute assent. He
feared they would speak, and hastened to prevent them.... Yes, he
was an assassin, he knew it! ... It was just and right they should
call him so! He knew, yes, he knew, what they wanted of him.... He
must set free the prisoners, overthrow the scaffold?
The victims again nodded approval.
Yes! ... Yes! ... he would do everything, anything they asked. He
swore it to them....
"But in pity go! I entreat you! Oh go! in pity, go and leave me!"
The spectres remained motionless, their eyes still fixed upon him.
"Mercy!" he cried. "Have mercy!"
Yes, mercy! ... he begged for mercy! Their looks would kill him! He
could not bear it any longer! It was too much! His fright now
bordered on madness, and he cried out: "Let me alone! I am
frightened! horribly frightened!"
So saying he tottered forward, ready to drop from exhaustion, and
tried to grasp the back of the chair for support. But it gave way.
"Help! help!" he screamed.
"Hullo! who's calling?" cried a voice outside.
It was Barassin returning from the registrar's office. He opened the
grating and entered, then drew back in bewilderment at the sight of
Robespierre on the ground, his head buried in his hands. The
watchman at once thought that he must have fallen asleep on the
chair, and slipped on to the paved courtyard. He laid down his
lantern, and tried to raise the Incorruptible. Robespierre awoke and
lifted his haggard eyes. At sight of the man he violently pushed him
away.
"I see, you're not quite awake yet!" laughed Barassin.
Robespierre rubbed his eyes, and looked anxiously around.
"You've had a dream? ... A nightmare, eh?"
"Yes!" answered Robespierre, now himself again. "I have had a
fearful dream." Then rising with difficulty, he fell exhausted on
the chair which the watchman held out to him.
Barassin now told Robespierre the result of his quest. They had
interrogated the prisoners, from bed to bed. The young man he sought
was not among them.
Robespierre, still uneasy, and casting anxious and furtive glances in
every corner, expressed his thanks.
Suddenly he rose and seized Barassin by the arm.
"Are we alone, here?" he asked.
"Why, yes!" answered the man in some surprise.
"Then let us go!" said Robespierre, impatiently, "let us go at once!"
Barassin took his lantern, and walked in front.
"This way!" he said, opening the wicket through which they had
entered.
In the gallery Robespierre again seized the man's arm, and bent
forward to see if the way was clear; then feeling immense relief, he
rushed towards the exit, almost running, and followed with difficulty
by Barassin, who with the lantern dangling in his hand could scarcely
keep pace with him.
"Hallo! Citoyen Robespierre!" he panted, "you're going too fast!"
But the Incorruptible continued his headlong flight.