BLANCHE DE BEAULIEU. 259 
himself calm and indifferent, his companion anxious, restless, and 
agitated. 
«“ This, then, was the man who held in his hands the fate of 
Blanche ; the man of whom he had heard so much, and whose po- 
pularity appeared a problem. He had employed none of the means 
made use of by his predecessors to raise himself to his present dis- 
tinction ; he had neither the captivating eloquence of Mirabeau, 
nor the plausible sophistry of Barrére, nor the wild impetuosity of 
Danton, nor the loose eloquence of Hébert. In the midst of the 
universal disregard of language and dress which prevailed, he had 
preserved his pointed and studied expressions and elegance of cos- 
tume. In fact, while the others had laboured to embody themselves 
with the mob, his constant endeavour had been to make them feel 
his superiority ; and one saw ata glance that this singular man must 
be the zdol or victim of the multitude. He was both. 
Arrived at their destination, Robespierre led the way up a narrow 
staircase to a small room on the third floor. A bust of Rousseau, 
a table covered with books and papers, a secretaire, and a few chairs, 
formed the whole furniture of the apartment. Robespierre saw the 
surprise of the young General as he threw open the door, and said 
with a smile, “ Behold the palace of César! What have you to ask 
of the dictator?” ‘The pardon of my wife, condemned by Car- 
rier,” replied Marceau, gravely. ‘Thy wife ? Condemned by 
Carrier? The wife of Marceau—of a republican officer—of my 
brave Spartan soldier—condemned ? Impossible!” “It is never- 
theless true;” and Marceau proceeded to explain the facts with 
which the reader has been already made acquainted. During the 
recital, Robespierre was evidently uneasy, but spoke not a word 
until Marceau had finished. Then, in a voice stified with rage, 
he muttered, “This is how I am always misunderstood, in every 
place where my eye is not there to see, and my hand to stop, 
this useless carnage. Much blood must necessarily yet be spilt ; 
still, this indiscriminate slaughter, this—.” ‘‘ But, Robespierre, her 
pardon—my wife’s pardon.” Taking a sheet of paper, Robespierre 
prepared to write, but paused a moment to enquire her maiden 
name. “ Why do you ask?” said Marceau evasively. “It is ne- 
cessary to constitute her identity.” In a low voice, but firmly and 
distinctly, Marceau replied, “ Blanche de Beaulieu.” The pen fell 
from the hand of Robespierre. “What!” he exclaimed, “ the 
daughter of the Marquis de Beaulieu, the chief of the insurgents in 
Lia Vendée?” “The same.” ‘And how, then, became she thy 
