Meanwhile Robespierre, with his head buried in his bosom, seemed plunged in deep thought.  “Life is a melancholy thing, Couthon!” said he, suddenly.

“Begging your pardon, I think death worse,” answered the philanthropist, gently.

Robespierre made no rejoinder, but took from his portefeuille that singular letter, which was found afterwards amongst his papers, and is marked LXI. in the published collection. ("Papiers inedits,’ etc., volume ii. page 156.)

“Without doubt,” it began, “you are uneasy at not having earlier received news from me.  Be not alarmed; you know that I ought only to reply by our ordinary courier; and as he has been interrupted, dans sa derniere course, that is the cause of my delay.  When you receive this, employ all diligence to fly a theatre where you are about to appear and disappear for the last time.  It were idle to recall to you all the reasons that expose you to peril.  The last step that should place you sur le sopha de la presidence, but brings you to the scaffold; and the mob will spit on your face as it has spat on those whom you have judged.  Since, then, you have accumulated here a sufficient treasure for existence, I await you with great impatience, to laugh with you at the part you have played in the troubles of a nation as credulous as it is avid of novelties.  Take your part according to our arrangements,—­all is prepared.  I conclude,—­our courier waits.  I expect your reply.”

Musingly and slowly the Dictator devoured the contents of this epistle.  “No,” he said to himself,—­“no; he who has tasted power can no longer enjoy repose.  Yet, Danton, Danton! thou wert right; better to be a poor fisherman than to govern men.” ("Il vaudrait mieux,” said Danton, in his dungeon, “etre un pauvre pecheur que de gouverner les hommes.”)

The door opened, and Payan reappeared and whispered Robespierre, “All is safe!  See the man.”

The Dictator, satisfied, summoned his attendant Jacobin to conduct Nicot to his presence.  The painter entered with a fearless expression in his deformed features, and stood erect before Robespierre, who scanned him with a sidelong eye.

It is remarkable that most of the principal actors 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!”