Curses are heard mingling with the shrieks of the rabble, for among the crowd there are many victims of the Terror, widows and orphans conjuring up the memory of all their anguish, all the drama of the guillotine, the work of the Incorruptible.
A woman clutches at the tumbril in which Robespierre sits, a woman whose two children had been torn from her by the Prairial law.
"Monster!" she cries, "vile monster! in the name of all mothers, I curse you to hell!"
The crowd following the cortège grows denser as it proceeds. It is Decadi, the Republican Sunday. All Paris is out of doors. The windows and balconies are thronged with men and women in festal attire, pressing forward to see the procession file past, and showering down shouts of joy and triumph, for the passing of those tumbrils means also the passing away of the reign of Terror.
Robespierre continues his dreadful way, his eyes fixed and glassy, his face wrapped in the bandage which holds his jaw together, and partly hides it like some ghastly mask. By his side sits Hauriot, livid and terrified, covered with the mud and filth of the sewer into which he had fallen. Couthon and Augustin Robespierre, pitifully mutilated, are lying at the bottom of the cart. Saint-Just alone stands erect, his hands bound, and retains his scornful air.
The tumbrils enter the Rue Saint-Honoré near the Jacobin Club, where two days before the Incorruptible reigned supreme. The martyrdom is not over. They are before the house of the Duplays.
The cortège stops.
At a given signal a child dips a broom in a pail of blood, and sprinkles the front door.
"Ha! Robespierre, here is your cavern branded with the blood of your victims!" cries a voice.
A plaintive howl is heard from behind the blood-smeared door. It is Blount, who has scented his master. Robespierre shuts his eyes but it is useless, for he can hear!