Robespierre appears to revive. He looks round, and his eyes fall on Saint-Just and Dumas, side by side in the recess of one of the windows, shrugging their shoulders at the rudeness of the people who pass through the room and stare at them as if they were curiosities. The insults are now directed against Robespierre, who turns away:--"There is fallen majesty for you!" exclaims one.... "Majesty laid low," says another.... "With his bandages he looks like a mummy or a nun!" ... "Yes, a nun with her head-gear awry!" ... "He is thinking of his Supreme Being! It's just the right moment!" But Robespierre, under this railing clamour and abuse, does not stir. There he lies, stretched out motionless, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, the very embodiment of silent scorn. Slowly and without a word, he drinks the cup of bitterness; he will drink it so, to the very dregs. A conqueror, he would have been to them a god; vanquished, they nail him to the pillory. Such is the constant perfidy of human nature! And yet he had been so near success, so near! If the Convention had not proved so cowardly at the sitting, had not succumbed directly before Tallien's attack! ... If they had but let him speak! If they had allowed him to defend himself! But the plot had been too well laid. Then Robespierre's thoughts wander to the other wretches, the Communes, the cowards on whom he had counted, the vile traitors and base deserters! His bitter meditations are suddenly cut short by a shooting pain in the knee, which runs through him like a knife. It is his garter, which is too tightly drawn. He raises himself and stretches out his hand to undo it, but his strength fails, and he falls back again. Suddenly he feels some one gently loosening it. He lifts himself again and bends forward. Can he be dreaming? That young man ... yes, it is Olivier! ... Olivier, himself! "Oh, thank you, my ... thank you, my ... thank you, monsieur!" he says hastily. He is on the point of saying, "my son!" but has strength enough left to recollect himself. No! Olivier must never know the secret of his birth, never, never! Robespierre falls back again. The emotion is too much for him, and he faints away. Yes, it is Olivier, who has just obtained from the Committee a passport for his mother, his _fiancée_, and himself. Crossing the waiting-room he had seen Robespierre stretched out on the table in front of him. Touched with pity at his vain and painful attempts to undo the garter, he had come to his assistance. Olivier now leaves the Committee of Public Safety to rejoin Clarisse and Thérèse, who are waiting for him in the Tuileries Gardens, and overcome with fatigue have sat down on a bench, and seeing them in the distance hastens his steps. "I have the passport!" he exclaims. "Then let us go, and lose no time!" Clarisse answers; "let us return to Montmorency, at once! I long to leave the city of woe and misery."