"The pardon of my wife, who is condemned to death by Carrier."
"Your wife condemned to death by Carrier! The wife of Marceau, the well-known Republican! the Spartan soldier! What is Carrier then doing at Nantes?"
Marceau gave him an account of the atrocities which Carrier was superintending at Nantes.
"See how I am always misunderstood," cried Robespierre, with a hoarse voice, broken by emotion. "Above all, where my eyes cannot see, nor my hand arrest. There is enough blood being spilt that we cannot avoid, and we are not at the end of it yet."
"Give me my wife's pardon."
"Then give me my wife's pardon."
Robespierre took a leaf of white paper.
"What was her name?"
"Why do you wish to know that?"
"It is necessary in cases of identity."
"Blanche de Beaulieu."
Robespierre let his pen fall.
"What? The daughter of the Marquis de Beaulieu, the chief of the Royalists of La Vendée. How is it that she is your wife?"
Marceau told him all.
"Young fool and madman!" he said. "Must you—" Marceau interrupted him.
"I ask from you neither insults nor abuse. I ask for her life. Will you give it me?"
"Will family ties, love's influence, never lead you to betray the Republic?"
"Never."
"If you find yourself armed, face to face with the Marquis de Beaulieu?"
"I will fight against him as I have already done."
"And if he falls into your hands?"
Marceau reflected an instant:
"I will bring him to you, and you shall be his judge."
"You swear it to me?"
"Upon my honour."
Robespierre took up his pen and finished writing.
"There is your wife's pardon," he said.
"You can depart."
Marceau took his hand and wrung it with force. He wished to speak, but tears choked his utterance; and it was Robespierre who said to him—
"Go! there is not an instant to lose. Au revoir!"
Marceau sprang down the stairs and into the street, and ran toward the Palais-Egalité, where his carriage waited.
From what a weight his heart was freed! What happiness awaited him! What joy after so much grief! His imagination plunged into the future, and he saw the moment when, appearing on the threshold of the prison-cell, he would cry—
"Blanche, you are saved! You are free! Before us lies a life of love and happiness."
Yet from time to time a vague uneasiness tormented him; a sudden chill struck cold upon his heart. He spurred on the postillions by lavish promises of gold, and the horses flew along the road. Everything
