In the meanwhile Jean Nicot, equally absorbed in dreams of the future, and already in his own mind laying out to the best advantage the gold of the friend he was about to betray, took his way to the house honoured by the residence of Robespierre.  He had no intention to comply with the relenting prayer of Fillide, that the life of Glyndon should be spared.  He thought with Barrere, “Il n’y a que les morts qui ne revient pas.”  In all men who have devoted themselves to any study, or any art, with sufficient pains to attain a certain degree of excellence, there must be a fund of energy immeasurably above that of the ordinary herd.  Usually this energy is concentrated on the objects of their professional ambition, and leaves them, therefore, apathetic to the other pursuits of men.  But where those objects are denied, where the stream has not its legitimate vent, the energy, irritated and aroused, possesses the whole being, and if not wasted on desultory schemes, or if not purified by conscience and principle, becomes a dangerous and destructive element in the social system, through which it wanders in riot and disorder.  Hence, in all wise monarchies,—­nay, in all well-constituted states,—­the peculiar care with which channels are opened for every art and every science; hence the honour paid to their cultivators by subtle and thoughtful statesmen, who, perhaps, for themselves, see nothing in a picture but coloured canvas,—­nothing in a problem but an ingenious puzzle.  No state is ever more in danger than when the talent that should be consecrated to peace has no occupation but political intrigue or personal advancement.  Talent unhonoured is talent at war with men.  And here it is noticeable, that the class of actors having been the most degraded by the public opinion of the old regime, their very dust deprived of Christian burial, no men (with certain exceptions in the company especially favoured by the Court) were more relentless and revengeful among the scourges of the Revolution.  In the savage Collot d’Herbois, mauvais comedien, were embodied the wrongs and the vengeance of a class.

Now the energy of Jean Nicot had never been sufficiently directed to the art he professed.  Even in his earliest youth, the political disquisitions of his master, David, had distracted him from the more tedious labours of the easel.  The defects of his person had embittered his mind; the atheism of his benefactor had deadened his conscience.  For one great excellence of religion—­above all, the Religion of the Cross—­is, that it raises patience first into a virtue, and next into a hope.  Take away the doctrine of another life, of requital hereafter, of the smile of a Father upon our sufferings and trials in our ordeal here, and what becomes of patience?  But without patience, what is man?—­and what a people?  Without patience, art never can be high; without patience, liberty never can be perfected.  By wild throes, and impetuous, aimless struggles, Intellect seeks to soar from Penury, and a nation to struggle into Freedom.  And woe, thus unfortified, guideless, and unenduring,—­woe to both!