rs of the Revolution
were singularly hideous in appearance,--from the colossal ugliness of
Mirabeau and Danton, or the villanous ferocity in the countenances
of David and Simon, to the filthy squalor of Marat, the sinister and
bilious meanness of the Dictator's features. But Robespierre, who was
said to resemble a cat, had also a cat's cleanness; and his prim and
dainty dress, his shaven smoothness, the womanly whiteness of his
lean hands, made yet more remarkable the disorderly ruffianism that
characterised the attire and mien of the painter-sans-culotte.

"And so, citizen," said Robespierre, mildly, "thou wouldst speak with
me? I know thy merits and civism have been overlooked too long. Thou
wouldst ask some suitable provision in the state? Scruple not--say on!"

"Virtuous Robespierre, toi qui eclaires l'univers (Thou who enlightenest
the world.), I come not to ask a favour, but to render service to the
state. I have discovered a correspondence that lays open a conspiracy of
which many of the actors are yet unsuspected." And he placed the papers
on the table. Robespierre seized, and ran his eye over them rapidly and
eagerly.

"Good!--good!" he muttered to himself: "this is all I wanted. Barrere,
Legendre! I have them! Camille Desmoulins was but their dupe. I loved
him once; I never loved them! Citizen Nicot, I thank thee. I observe
these letters are addressed to an Englishman. What Frenchman but must
distrust these English wolves in sheep's clothing! France wants no
longer citizens of the world; that farce ended with Anarcharsis Clootz.
I beg pardon, Citizen Nicot; but Clootz and Hebert were THY friends."

"Nay," said Nicot, apologetically, "we are all liable to be deceived. I
ceased to honour them whom thou didst declare against; for I disown my
own senses rather than thy justice."

"Yes, I pretend to justice; that IS the virtue I affect," said
Robespierre, meekly; and with his feline propensities he enjoyed, even
in that critical hour of vast schemes, of imminent danger, of meditated
revenge, the pleasure of playing with a solitary victim. (The most
detestable anecdote of this peculiar hypocrisy in Robespierre is that
in which he is recorded to have tenderly pressed the hand of his old
school-friend, Camille Desmoulins, the day that he signed the warrant
for his arrest.) "And my justice shall no longer be blind to thy
services, good Nicot. Thou knowest this Glyndon?"

"Yes, well,--intimately. He WAS my friend,