"Ah! if he had! what a riddance!" was the cry with which one and all greeted Billaud's last words.
"True; but he has not done it," observed Fouché drily. "As to the plot, it has escaped our grasp."
"Not so," some one remarked; "his treason is evident."
A warm discussion ensued. The treachery was obvious to the Committee, but it would not be so in the eyes of the public. It must be proved. And where was the Englishman? Where were the women? To accuse Robespierre thus, without sufficient proof, was sheer folly. The only witness available, the agent Coulongeon, was in the pay of the Committee. Robespierre would make a speech on it, call it a concocted plan, and annihilate his accusers with an oratorical flourish.
"Nothing truer!" remarked another deputy.
"He has only to open his mouth and every one trembles."
"Very well; let us gag him," said Fouché. "It's the only means of putting an end to it all."
They looked at him, not quite catching his meaning. Fouché explained his idea. They had but to drown Robespierre's voice at the sitting by their clamour. They had but to howl, scream, vociferate; the people in the galleries would protest noisily, and their outcry would add to the tumult. Robespierre would strain his voice in vain to be heard above the uproar, and then fall back exhausted and vanquished.
"That's it," they cried unanimously.
Billaud also thought this an excellent idea, and at once began to arrange for letting all their friends know as soon as possible, for Robespierre must be prevented from uttering a single audible word. Every one approved. Just then a door opened.