“You know that men do not use the same means to accomplish a like work,” said Cagliostro, animated as by inspiration. “Therefore our Brutus will not resemble the antique one.”
“That makes me the more eager to see ours.”
“There he is.”
He pointed to a man leaning against the rostrum in such a position that his head alone was in the light. Pale and livid, this head seemed dissevered from the trunk. The eyes seemed to shine with a viper’s expression, with almost scornful hatred, knowing his venom was deadly. Gilbert felt a creeping of the flesh.
“You were right to warn me,” he said; “this is neither Brutus nor Cromwell.”
“No, it is rather Cassius the pale-faced and leaned man whom the Emperor dreaded most. Do you not know him?”
“No; or rather I have seen him in the Assembly. He is one of the longest-winded speechifyers of the Left, to whom nobody listens. A pettifogger from Arras——“
“The very man.”
“His name is Maximilian Robespierre.”
“Just so. Look at him. You are a pupil of Lavater the physiognomist.”