For in that night fell Robespierre, cast down by the Convention he had dominated so long. The dawn that found him shattered, praying for the death he had vainly sought, awakened Paris from the long nightmare which had been the marriage gift of her nuptials with this incubus.
At four o'clock on the afternoon of the 10th Thermidor, Robespierre's head fell under the bloody axe of the Terror, and with his last gasp the life went out of the greatest tyranny of modern times.
When Goyot came home with the news, Dangeau's face flamed, and he put his hand before his eyes for a moment.
Then he went up to Aline. She had lain in a deep sleep for many, many hours, but towards the afternoon she had wakened, taken food, and dressed herself, all in a strange, mechanical fashion. She was neither to be gainsaid nor persuaded, and Dangeau, reasonable once more, had left her to the kind and unexciting ministrations of Marie Carlier. Now he could keep away no longer; Goyot followed him and the housekeeper met them by the door.
"She is strange, Monsieur," she whispered.
"She has not roused at all?" inquired Goyot rather anxiously.
Marie shook her head.
"She just sits and stares at the sky. God knows what she sees there, poor lamb. If she would weep——"
"Just so, just so," Goyot nodded once or twice. Then he turned a penetrating look on Dangeau.
"Ha, you are all right again. A near thing, my friend, eh? Small wonder you were upset by it."