"No," he cried, "the past is not dead, since your son is here, the living proof of what has been..."
Clarisse shook her head.
"The punishment is mine, for if his hatred has been a blow to your pride, causing you some transient pain, it is I who must live out my life beside that hatred. Each time my son pronounces your name with loathing and indignation, I can only ask myself in terrified agony, if he will ever pardon me for having given him a father such as you!"
Robespierre, thoroughly disheartened, looked at her sadly. "You also!" he exclaimed. What! did Clarisse share the general error? Did not she penetrate through the apparent violence of his policy to the sublime end he had in view? He sought to explain his views to her, his notions for ensuring the universal happiness of mankind; he depicted the sacred ideal he dreamt of reaching by purging France of all base and evil-minded traitors who defiled her. He an assassin! He a tyrant! No! he was an avenger, an apostle of justice and virtue! He was not responsible for the excesses of a nation who had been enslaved for centuries, and had suddenly cast off their chains. Every conquest was of necessity accompanied by carnage, every revolution left the stains of blood behind!
Clarisse contemplated him with the same astonishment Vaughan had experienced in the forest of Montmorency, when Robespierre had unfolded to the Englishman his projects and visions of universal happiness, which could only be realised by the help of the guillotine.
"The future will justify me!" he continued. "When I am in power my deeds will convince you."
"But are you not all-powerful now?" Clarisse exclaimed in spite of herself.
He showed her she was mistaken. No, he was not supreme! Not yet! Enemies barred his way; but they were the last, and he was about to overthrow them in one decisive contest! Yes, he yearned for that moment to come, for his strength would not hold out much longer.
Then, lowering his voice, and trembling lest he should be heard, he told her of the wretched life he led; hunted down on all sides, hated, betrayed, his every movement watched, a dagger ever hanging over his head. He spoke of his sleepless nights! Oh! how he would hasten that last battle! To make the victory sure it would be as terrible as possible; the whole horde of wretches who had caused him such unspeakable torture should be swept from his path! Peace! Peace! how glad he should be to welcome it with open arms...
Clarisse listened in amazement to this wild tirade. He had spoken of his haunted life, his sleepless nights. But were not these ever the lot of tyrants? He sought forgetfulness, peace, a renewal of some of the joys of life? Then why did he not stay the infamous proceedings of the Revolutionary Tribunal, and throw wide the prison doors? From every breast would then resound a cry of deliverance which would atone for all! What greater happiness for him, after causing so many tears than to dry them again! "Impossible! impossible!" answered Robespierre. Not yet! He would have to pay for it with his life like Danton! The hour had not yet come! Clemency was treason, mercy meant death. In order to survive it was necessary to denounce, accuse, strike, and slay remorselessly. For it was the fear of death which prompted the French to their most inhuman acts. It influenced every one, from the Convention, the Committees, the Revolutionary Tribunal, to the very crowd who had become the abject slaves of that terror which held France in absolute subjection. They had well called this Government "the Terror." Oh, yes! it was a terror for the victims, for the accusers, for the judges, a terror for all!