“But what does M. de Sillery say to all this?” asked I.
Duplay lifted his brows.
“No wonder M. Robespierre is not his friend!”
“One cannot be friendly with Robespierre and the Duke of Orleans at the same time,” said Duplay, shaking his head. “But patience!” All eyes are turned towards a man who enters. One felt, at first sight, without knowing him, that he was some great personage.
An immense forest of hair; a head resembling, for size and marked outline, a lion’s or a bull’s, indicated a ruler of the multitude. I had not time to ask Duplay who he was, for every mouth murmured the word “Mirabeau!—Mirabeau!”
“Ah!” cried Duplay; “there is the hurricane that brings us news. Draw near to him, that you may say, when you return home, that you have not only seen and heard Mirabeau, but that you have touched him.”
We approached; but, of a truth, it was necessary to approach in order to hear.
All the audience collected round him.
I looked for M. de Robespierre, to see if he pressed round like the others.
He was isolated, alone, leaning against the rostrum, with a disdainful air, watching the men following the idol of popularity, like a shower of leaves after an autumn storm.