He leaned forward in his chair. "You shall lay aside your broom and dust-rags. I would see more of you. I have it. You shall be the Goddess of Beauty at our next great fête. In that rôle Robespierre himself will render you homage." Rising, he took one of her hands in his. She shuddered. It was as if a snake had coiled itself about her fingers. The contact with her soft hand sent just a drop of blood to his sallow cheek. "What sayst thou, O glorious creature? Wilt thou be a goddess of beauty and sit enthroned upon the Champ de Mars, dressed in radiant clothing, instead of these poor garments?" He spoke in low tones meant to be tender. Again the vision of Charlotte Corday flashed before her. "No, no!" she cried out, more in answer to the thought that terrified her than to his question. "Fear nothing, fair one," he said soothingly. "Robespierre is only terrible to the guilty; to the good he is always magnanimous and kind. Some say that I abuse my power, but that is false. True, I condemn many, but 'tis done with justice; and I also pardon many. Should I receive no credit for my clemency?" he continued, as if he were arguing with some unseen personage. He released her hand and leaned his elbow on the desk. Her hand fell cold and numb to her side, but the spell in which he had held her was broken. A sudden daring resolve entered her head. "I have been told that you were a cruel monster, who condemned for the pleasure of condemning; who did not know the meaning of clemency," she said, "and therefore I am afraid of you." "They have maligned me," he answered. "Will you prove it by granting me a pardon, one that I can use as I may wish?" Robespierre became alert on the instant. "You would set some man at liberty?" "Yes." "Your lover, is it not?" "I pray you, do not ask me." "Do not ask you!" repeated Robespierre. "And yet you ask me to pardon him. Why should I do it?" "To prove that you know what clemency is." "I would rather show it in some other way. I should be a fool to set your lover at liberty, so that you both might laugh at me." "I have not said that it was my lover." "No, but I say so." "You said a moment ago that you knew what mercy was, yet you cannot understand my feeling at the thought that he must die." Robespierre took up a pen from the table and poised it over a sheet of paper. The pleading look in the beautiful eyes gave him great enjoyment, and he took a keen relish in prolonging it. "A few words from my pen," he said tantalizingly, "would set the man at liberty. How would you reward me if I wrote them for you?" "Oh, I pray you to do so," she cried out, throwing herself at his feet. "I pray you to write them. If you have the power, use it for mercy." Robespierre gazed deep into the eyes which looked up at him imploringly. "Who are you?" he demanded with the energy of sudden passion. "You are no woman of the common people. Who are you?"