Robespierre breathed freely again. Here was only an analogy of thought, suggested, hinted at by Rousseau, and which he, Robespierre, had more fully developed. Smiling and reassured he returned to his place. CHAPTER III THE ENGLISHMAN These words of Rousseau read before the open bookcase, suggestive as they were of voices from the past still echoing through his memory, had no meaning for him. They kindled no spark in the dead embers of his conscience to reveal the truth. And yet it was a warning from heaven--a moment of grave and vital import in the life of this man, who, had he not been blinded by an insane ambition, might have recognised in the passing stranger a messenger of Fate. For the voice which had distracted him from his work was the voice of Clarisse, and the young apprentice who had just left him was his son. The outcast child, now grown to manhood, had been within touch of his own father, but unseen by him. No mysterious affinity had drawn them together, though the voice had vaguely troubled him as he returned to his work. The young man on leaving _l'Ermitage_ took the path that led to the forest. He was a fine, stoutly built lad, with a brisk lively manner, strong and supple, revealing in spite of his workman's garb an air of good breeding which might have perhaps betrayed his origin to a keen observer. His hair was dark brown, his blue eyes looked out from the sunburnt and weather-beaten face with an expression of extreme sweetness, and his full lips smiled under a downy moustache. He walked with rapid strides, a hazel stick in his hand, towards the forest, which he soon reached, threading the paths and bypaths with the assurance of one to whom the deep wood and its intricate labyrinths was familiar. He slackened his pace now and then to wipe the perspiration from his forehead, keeping to the more shady side of the way, for the sun, already high in the heavens, shed its rays in a burning shower through the leaves, scorching the very grass in its intensity. At last, overcome by the heat, he took off his coat and hung it at the end of the stick across his shoulder. Presently he turned into an avenue of oak saplings through which a green glade was visible, an oasis where refreshing coolness told of the presence of running water. Here he shaded his eyes with his hands to make out a form outlined against the distance, and a smile lit up his face as he recognised the approaching figure. Hastening his steps he called out-- "Thérèse!" A fresh, clear voice answered-- "Good morning, Olivier! Good morning!" as a young girl came towards him with outstretched hands. She was tall and lithe, of a fair, rosy complexion, and wore a peasant's dress from which the colour had long since faded. She advanced rapidly, now and then replacing with a quick, graceful movement the rebel locks of fair hair that caressed her cheeks, all in disorder from the air and exercise.