Henriot.—I thank your caution.
Fouché.—I have seen Tallien
And offered peace between you; he knew not
That Laurens' daughter had assail'd your life,
Or he had mentioned it. Nor did he dream
Of what will peal upon his ears to-morrow.
Robes.—Then, friends, farewell until to-morrow dawns.
Fouché.—And ere its night sets in we hail thee Ruler,
Dictator of the land.
Robes.—If such your will—
Without you I am nothing—fare you well.
(they leave him.)
(looking up to the stars.)—Unchang'd, unfading, never-dying lights—
Gods, or coeval with them! If there be
In your bright aspects aught of influence
Which men have made a science here on earth,
Shed it benignly on my fortunes now!
Spirit of Terror! Rouse thee at my bidding—
Shake thy red wings o'er Liberty's Golgotha—
Palsy men's energies and stun their souls,
That no more foes may cross my path to-morrow
Than I and mine can drown in their own blood;
Or, let them rise by thousands, so my slaves
Fight but as heartily for gold and wine
As they have done ere now. When I shall lead them,
Then 'mid the artillery's roar and bayonet's flash
I write my title to be Lord of France
In flame and carnage, o'er this den of thieves.
Beneath th' exterior, frozen, stern demeanor,
How my veins throb to bursting, while I think
On the rich feast of victory and revenge
The coming day may yield me! Yes, this land
Of bigot slaves who tremble at a devil,
Or frantic atheists who with lifted hands
Will gravely VOTE their Maker from his throne,
This horde of dupes and miscreants shall feel
And own in tears, blood, crime and retribution,
The iron rule of him they trampled on—
The outrag'd, ruin'd, and despised attorney.
Though few the anxious hours that lie between
My brightest, proudest hopes, or sure destruction,
All yet is vague, uncertain, and obscure
As what may chance in ages yet to come.
How if the dungeon or the scaffold—Ha!
That shall not be—my hand shall overrule it—
Ingenious arbiter of life and death!
(looking to the charge of a small pistol.)
Be thou my bosom friend in time of need!
No—if my star is doom'd to set forever,
The cheeks of men shall pale as they behold
The lurid sky it sinks in. Should I fall
Leading my Helots on to slay each other,
Then death, all hail!—for only thou canst quench
The secret fire that rages in my breast;
If there be an hereafter, which I know not,
He who hath borne my life may dare its worst,
And if mortality's last pangs end all,
Welcome eternal sleep!—annihilation!
SCENE IV.
THE HALL OF THE NATIONAL CONVENTION.
Couthon concluding a speech from the Tribune. Tallien, Fouché, Carnôt, and others, standing near him. Robespierre, St. Just, and others, in their seats.
Tallien (to Fouché.)—Are you ready?