XIII.—THE REIGN OF THE KING OF TERROR.
But while the orgies of the Revolution are filling Paris with horror, let
us search for Thomas Paine!
He is not in his home—nor in the Convention, nor in the streets—then
where is he?
Come with me, at dead of night, and I will show you a strange
scene.—
In the central chamber of yonder Royal palace, a solitary, dim, flickering
light burns in the socket.
Yes, a solitary light stands in the centre of that chamber, stands on the
table there, flinging its feeble rays out upon the thick darkness of that room.
It is a spacious chamber, but you can discover nothing of its lofty doors
—nothing of the tapestry that adorns its walls—for all save that spot in the
centre of the chamber, where the light is burning, all is darkness.
I ask you to steep your souls in the silence, in the gloom of this place,
and then listen to that creaking sound of an opening door—that low—stealthy
footstep.
Behold a figure advances—stands there with one hand on the table—
It is the figure of a slenderly formed man dressed in the extreme of
dandyism—a jaunty blue coat—spotless white vest, lined with crimson
satin—a faultlessly white cravat.
There is a diamond on his bosom—ruffles round his wrists.
Look for a moment at his face—the features small and mean—the hue a
discolored yellow; the eyes bleared and blood-shot. Who is this puny,
trembling dandy, who stands here, with that paper in his hand at dead of
night?
That puny dandy, is the King of King Guillotine, that is Maximilian
Robespierre! The paper that he grasps in his sallow hands, is a letter
from King Robespierre to King Gullotine! Eighty victims are to feed the
sawdust and the axe to-morrow: their names are on that paper.
And now as we stand here in this Palace Hall, gazing upon this Blood-thirsty
dandy, let us look at his malicious lip, how it writhes, at his blood-shot
eye, how it gleams with spite and hate. These eighty victims sacraficed;
eighty of the noblest and the best of France; then the Guillotine
can be locked up forever, then the name of Robespierre, will be lost in the
name of his supreme equality, Maximillen, the First, King of France!
And as he stands there, the full light of the lamp, streaming over his discolored
face; let us look over his shoulder; let us read the names on this
death-scroll!
There are the names of Hero-men, of Hero-women, and first in the
scroll, you see the names of Madame La Fayette and Thomas Paine.
Yes, the eye of Robespierre gleams with a terrible light, as he it rests
upon that name; the name of the most determined foe.
Thomas Paine! To night he paces the damp floor of his sleepless-cell
—to-morrow into the death-cart, and on to the Guillotine—ho, ho, so ends
the Author-hero, Thomas Paine!
