"And where must they be taken?" he asked. "To what prison?"
"Where you like! Only see that they are arrested immediately. Now be quiet ... here come our friends!"
The tinkling of a bell was heard, and the crack of a whip. Then gay voices and bursts of laughter and merriment broke on the ear. A man made his appearance, who was lame and walked with the help of a stick, preceded by Blount, the dog gambolling round him in welcome. It was Duplay's nephew, Simon, the wooden-legged. While a volunteer in 1792, he had lost his left leg at the battle of Valmy, and now, disabled and pensioned off by the army commission, he acted as secretary to Robespierre. Simon advanced gaily, like a guide reaching his journey's end.
"Good morning, Maximilien! Have you been here long?"
Robespierre was about to equivocate and say that he had only just arrived, but he was spared the trouble of replying. Cries of "Good morning, Maximilien! Good morning, friend!" sounded across the hedge, a few steps from him. The whole Duplay family appeared in sight, all perched on a cart drawn by a lean, jaded beast. Old Duplay, in his shirt sleeves, his face all red and bathed in perspiration, led the horse by the bridle over the ruts of the road, while his son, Maurice, a boy of fifteen, ran about, his hair floating in the wind, waving the branch of a tree to beat away the flies. Behind the cart, pushing it forward by the wheels, was another man, neatly dressed. This was Lebas, Robespierre's colleague at the Convention and at the Committee of Public Safety, the husband of one of Duplay's daughters. In the cart were all the family: mother Duplay, seated on a stool, a solidly built woman, with arms bare to the elbow, holding the reins, and by her side, seated on a heap of provisions and crockery, were the three daughters, Elizabeth, the wife of Lebas; Victoire, the youngest, a fair-haired girl with beautiful eyes; and Eleonore, or Cornélie, for the Duplays had unearthed the name of a Roman matron to give her a character of antique grace in the sight of Robespierre, who, it was said, was going to marry her.
Dark and strong, with clear, almond-shaped eyes, her hair neatly plaited, Cornélie was dressed like her sisters, in light summer clothes, with a simplicity in which a practised eye could detect a grain of coquetry. The three sisters wore bonnets, caught up and fastened with tricolour ribbons and cockades, thus giving to the old cart, decorated with branches and palms gathered on the way, an air of gaiety and life.
It was a custom of the Duplays to come thus on fine days to join their friend, in some shady, secluded spot for a picnic on the grass, and enjoy his company for a few quiet hours of intimacy in the silence and coolness of the wood.
The cart now stopped.
Robespierre gallantly assisted the women to alight, amidst timid exclamations and flutters of fear and laughing protests of: "Oh! dear! How high! I shall never be able to get down!" followed by ripples of laughter and a whole babel of questions and chatter. "Have you slept well, bon ami? Ah! How well you look this morning!"
"The joy of seeing you," replied Robespierre.