“That is true.”

“Even in a revolution, a man takes care of his fortunes!”

“Diable! speak out, citizen.”

“I have a thousand pieces of gold with me,—­they are thine, if thou wilt grant me one small favour.”

“Citizen, I grant it!” said Henriot, waving his hand majestically.  “Is it to denounce some rascal who has offended thee?”

“No; it is simply this:  write these words to President Dumas, ’Admit the bearer to thy presence; and, if thou canst, grant him the request he will make to thee, it will be an inestimable obligation to Francois Henriot.’” The stranger, as he spoke, placed pencil and tablets in the shaking hands of the soldier.

“And where is the gold?”

“Here.”

With some difficulty, Henriot scrawled the words dictated to him, clutched the gold, mounted his horse, and was gone.

Meanwhile Fouquier, when he had closed the door upon Henriot, said sharply, “How canst thou be so mad as to incense that brigand?  Knowest thou not that our laws are nothing without the physical force of the National Guard, and that he is their leader?”

“I know this, that Robespierre must have been mad to place that drunkard at their head; and mark my words, Fouquier, if the struggle come, it is that man’s incapacity and cowardice that will destroy us.  Yes, thou mayst live thyself to accuse thy beloved Robespierre, and to perish in his fall.”

“For all that, we must keep well with Henriot till we can find the occasion to seize and behead him.  To be safe, we must fawn on those who are still in power; and fawn the more, the more we would depose them.  Do not think this Henriot, when he wakes to-morrow, will forget thy threats.  He is the most revengeful of human beings.  Thou must send and soothe him in the morning!”

“Right,” said Dumas, convinced.  “I was too hasty; and now I think we have nothing further to do, since we have arranged to make short work with our fournee of to-morrow.  I see in the list a knave I have long marked out, though his crime once procured me a legacy,—­Nicot, the Hebertist.”

“And young Andre Chenier, the poet?  Ah, I forgot; we be headed him to-day!  Revolutionary virtue is at its acme.  His own brother abandoned him.” (His brother is said, indeed, to have contributed to the condemnation of this virtuous and illustrious person.  He was heard to cry aloud, “Si mon frere est coupable, qu’il perisse” (If my brother be culpable, let him die).  This brother, Marie-Joseph, also a poet, and the author of “Charles ix.,” so celebrated in the earlier days of the Revolution, enjoyed, of course, according to the wonted justice of the world, a triumphant career, and was proclaimed in the Champ de Mars “le premier de poetes Francais,” a title due to his murdered brother.)

“There is a foreigner,—­an Italian woman in the list; but I can find no charge made out against her.”