He knew that the crowd never drew near him, incorruptible; but it rushed after Mirabeau, the corrupted; and, at the same time, he both envied and blamed him. The debate of the National Assembly had been stormy. There were a few nobles there, who witnessed, with profound grief, that union of all the parties of France. Mirabeau had been insulted in the rostrum. A gentleman, M. Dambly, had threatened him with his walking-stick. Mirabeau stopped his speech, drew his tablets from his pocket, and demanded M. Dambly’s address. He cried it out from one end of the hall to the other. “Very good!” said Mirabeau; “you are the one hundred and fiftieth person who has insulted me, and with whom I will fight when I have the time. Until your turn has come, hold your peace. I ask the President to make you pass your word to that effect.” Mirabeau related the story with incredible irony. All laughed—all said he was in the right. “And Lameth?” asked several members. “Which?—Alexander or Charles?” “Charles.” “Oh, that is another matter! After practising with the rapier for two days, he could not decide upon anything; and, at the close of the Assembly, M. de Castrie cried out that he was a coward. They went out, and fought, and Lameth received a rapier thrust in his arm.” “Is it true that the sword was poisoned?” asked one voice. “I know not that; but I do know that they are preparing to raze M. de Castrie’s house to the ground.” This news was greeted with a shout of laughter. At this moment, an eager voice was heard, urging the debate. Robespierre was on the forum. He began to speak in the midst of the noise. As far as I could judge, he spoke for union; but the noise and excitement were so great, that it was almost impossible to hear what he said. But, accustomed to noise and interruptions, Robespierre continued, with that indefatigable perseverance, and that indomitable stubbornness which made his greatness, and, finally, his triumph. Robespierre had spoken for ten minutes, and would, probably, have eventually succeeded in gaining silence, had not all attention been distracted from him by another arrival. This was one of the heroes of the duel which Mirabeau had spoken of—Charles Lameth. He carried his right arm in a sling; but, with that exception, looked and walked wonderfully well. All crowded round him, as they had done round Mirabeau, but with a different sentiment. Charles Lameth was the friend of all the intelligent young men who composed the majority of the Jacobin Club. Duplay pointed out to me, successively, Laharpe; the poet, Chénier; the painter, David; the tragedian, Talma; Audrien, Ledaine, Larive, Vernet, Chamfort—all men of intellect. Then I returned to the rostrum. Completely abandoned, Robespierre had descended, after throwing upon that gathering of life, hope, and activity, a glance that seemed to presage evil to come.