It is possible that Eleanor had never before spoken to her lover in language so tender; it is also probable that she had never before asked of him any request, in which ought of a political nature was concerned.  Be that as it may, as soon as she had finished speaking, her face became suffused with scarlet, as though she had said something of which she was ashamed.  One would think that there was nothing in the term of endearment which she had used which could have displeased a betrothed husband; nothing in the petition she, had made which could have angered a political friend.  Robespierre, however, soon showed that he was displeased and angered; nay, worse still, that his black, unmanly suspicion was aroused.  To his disordered brain it seemed that Eleanor was practising on him her woman’s wiles for some unworthy purpose, and that treason lurked in her show of humanity and affection.  He believed that she, who had always believed in him, loved him, almost worshipped him, had become in an instant false and designing.

He looked her steadily in the face a moment or two before he answered, and she did not bear calmly the fierce glance of his eye; she saw at once that she had angered him, and, in spite of her love, she could not but know how dark and terrible was his anger.

“Who has set you on to talk to me of this?” he said slowly, still keeping his eyes fixed on hers.

“Set me on, M. Robespierre! what do you mean?  Who should have set me on?”

“There are hundreds, I grieve to say, ready to do so.  Some of them are daily near you.  I should have thought, though, that with you I might have been safe.”

“Safe with me!  And do you doubt it now—­do you doubt that you are safe with me?” and as she spoke, she laid her hand upon his arm, and attempted to appeal to his affection.  He gently withdrew his arm from her grasp, and again concealed his face with his hand.  “As I stand here alive before you,” continued she, speaking with a more assured voice than she had hitherto used, “I have not whispered a word to man or woman upon this subject, but yourself.”

Eleanor had risen from her chair when her companion first expressed his suspicion, and she was now standing; but Robespierre remained seated, still shading his eyes with his hand, as though he had nothing further to say to her, and would wish to be alone.  She, however, felt that she could not leave him without some further explanation on her part, some retraction on his; but she knew not how to set about it.  The most eloquent men in France had found it difficult to explain anything to Robespierre’s satisfaction.  No one had yet been able to make him retract the word which he had spoken.

“Say that you believe me, M. Robespierre,” said she; “for mercy’s sake, say that you do not doubt me!  Do you not know that I would always obey you, that your words are always to me the words of truth?  I have done wrong, I doubt not, in speaking to you of public matters.  I beg your pardon, and promise that I will not so transgress again; but before I leave you, tell me that you do not distrust my fidelity.”