“The greater the miracle,” said the old woman. “I am just eighty-one, and I don’t feel a day older since Catherine Theot promised me I should be one of the elect!” Here the women were jostled aside by some newcomers, who talked loud and eagerly. “Yes,” cried a brawny man, whose garb denoted him to be a butcher, with bare arms, and a cap of liberty on his head; “I am come to warn Robespierre. They lay a snare for him; they offer him the Palais National. ‘On ne peut etre ami du peuple et habiter un palais.’” (“No one can be a friend of the people, and dwell in a palace.”--“Papiers inedits trouves chez Robespierre,” etc., volume ii. page 132.) “No, indeed,” answered a cordonnier; “I like him best in his little lodging with the menuisier: it looks like one of US.” Another rush of the crowd, and a new group were thrown forward in the vicinity of Nicot. And these men gabbled and chattered faster and louder than the rest. “But my plan is--” “Au diable with YOUR plan! I tell you MY scheme is--” “Nonsense!” cried a third. “When Robespierre understands MY new method of making gunpowder, the enemies of France shall--” “Bah! who fears foreign enemies?” interrupted a fourth; “the enemies to be feared are at home. MY new guillotine takes off fifty heads at a time!” “But MY new Constitution!” exclaimed a fifth. “MY new Religion, citizen!” murmured, complacently, a sixth. “Sacre mille tonnerres, silence!” roared forth one of the Jacobin guard. And the crowd suddenly parted as a fierce-looking man, buttoned up to the chin, his sword rattling by his side, his spurs clinking at his heel, descended the stairs,--his cheeks swollen and purple with intemperance, his eyes dead and savage as a vulture’s. There was a still pause, as all, with pale cheeks, made way for the relentless Henriot. (Or H_a_nriot. It is singular how undetermined are not only the characters of the French Revolution, but even the spelling of their names. With the historians it is Vergniau_d_,--with the journalists of the time it is Vorgniau_x_. With one authority it is Robespierre,--with another Robe_r_spierre.) Scarce had this gruff and iron minion of the tyrant stalked through the throng, than a new movement of respect and agitation and fear swayed the increasing crowd, as there glided in, with the noiselessness of a shadow, a smiling, sober citizen, plainly but neatly clad, with a downcast humble eye. A milder, meeker face no pastoral poet could assign to Corydon or Thyrsis,--why did the crowd shrink and hold their breath? As the ferret in a burrow crept that slight form amongst the larger and rougher creatures that huddled and pressed back on each other as he passed. A wink of his stealthy eye, and the huge Jacobins left the passage clear, without sound or question. On he went to the apartment of the tyrant, and thither will we follow him. CHAPTER 7.VII.