despise any, for the finger of Destiny marks in the soul and not upon the brow.  Robespierre had nothing:  neither birth, nor genius nor exterior which should point him out to men’s notice.  There was nothing conspicuous about him; his limited talent had only shone at the bar or in provincial academies; a few verbal harangues filled with a tame and almost rustic philosophy, some bits of cold and affected poetry, had vainly displayed his name in the insignificance of the literary productions of the day:  he was more than unknown, he was mediocre and contemned.  His features presented nothing which could attract attention, when gazing round in a large assembly:  there was no sign in visible characters of this power which was all within; he was the last word of the Revolution, but no one could read him.

Robespierre’s figure was small, his limbs feeble and angular, his step irresolute, his attitudes affected, his gestures destitute of harmony or grace; his voice, rather shrill, aimed at oratorical inflexions, but only produced fatigue and monotony; his forehead was good, but small and extremely projecting above the temples, as if the mass and embarrassed movement of his thoughts had enlarged it by their efforts; his eyes, much covered by their lids and very sharp at the extremities, were deeply buried in the cavities of their orbits; they gave out a soft blue hue, but it was vague and unfixed, like a steel reflector on which a light glances; his nose straight and small was very wide at the nostrils, which were high and too expanded; his mouth was large, his lips thin and disagreeably contracted at each corner; his chin small and pointed, his complexion yellow and livid, like that of an invalid or a man worn out by vigils and meditations.  The habitual expression of this visage was that of superficial serenity on a serious mind, and a smile wavering betwixt sarcasm and condescension.  There was softness, but of a sinister character.  The prevailing characteristic of this countenance was the prodigious and continual tension of brow, eyes, mouth, and all the facial muscles; in regarding him it was perceptible that the whole of his features, like the labour of his mind, converged incessantly on a single point with such power that there was no waste of will in his temperament, and he appeared to foresee all he desired to accomplish, as though he had already the reality before his eyes.  Such then was the man destined to absorb in himself all those men, and make them his victims after he had used them as his instruments.  He was of no party, but of all parties which in their turn served his ideal of the Revolution.  In this his power consisted, for parties paused but he never did.  He placed this ideal as an end to reach in every revolutionary movement, and advanced towards it with those who sought to attain it; then, this goal reached, he placed it still further off, and again marched forward with other men, continually advancing without ever deviating, ever pausing, ever retreating.  The Revolution, decimated in its progress, must one day or other inevitably arrive at a last stage, and he desired it should end in himself.  He was the entire incorporation of the Revolution,—­principles, thoughts, passions, impulses.  Thus incorporating himself wholly with it, he compelled it one day to incorporate itself in him—­that day was a distant one.