“No; he is close by here—in the Rue St. Honoré.”
“At the Jacobins?”
“There are no longer Jacobins. The club is dead.”
“Who dared do it?”
“The paid guard, who, an hour before, dared do another thing.”
“What was the other thing?”
“Fire on the people at the Champ de Mars—slay, perchance, six or seven hundred persons!”
St. Just shouted with rage.
“What! you a patriot—the friend of M. Robespierre,—and not know better than that what takes place in Paris?” said I.
“I promised my publisher to have those proofs corrected by Thursday; and in order to accomplish this I told the servant not to disturb me for anything. He brought my breakfast in my chamber, and here is my dinner already served. I have not had time to eat. I knew last night from the Jacobins they must withdraw the petition; and I doubted not that, the petition withdrawn, there might be a disturbance at the Champ de Mars. But let us not lose a moment. Since Robespierre requires me, I am at his orders.”