SCENE II.
Reading edition
TALLIEN'S HOUSE. Tallien with a letter in his hand.
In prison!—In his power!—to die to-morrow! My body trembles and my senses reel. This is a just and fearful retribution— Would it were on my head alone! Oh Heaven, Spare but this angel woman and her father, And let me die—or might my life be pardon'd, The criminal excess to which these times Have hurried my rash hand and wilful heart, I will atone to outrag'd human nature, To her and to my country. Wretched France! Once the fair home of music and of mirth, So torn, so harrassed by these factions now, That even the wise and good of other lands Cannot believe a patriot breathes in this! And she complains that I am grown a craven! My acts of late may justify the thought, But let to-morrow show how much I fear him. (A Servant enters.)
Servant.—The Minister of Police——
Tallien.—Attend him hither— Fouché—perhaps to sound me; let him try— I yet may baffle him, and one more fatal—— (Fouché enters.)
Fouché.—So you are in the scales with Robespierre, And which do you expect will kick the beam?
Tallien.—Why should you think that I will stake my power, Friends, interest, and life, in useless efforts To thwart the destined ruler of the land?
Fouché.—Yourself have told me so. I did but mean That he had risk'd his power and party strength Against your life. You mean to strike at his. Your faltering voice and startled looks betray The secret of your heart, though sooth to say, I knew it all before.
Tallien.—You see too far, And are for once wise over much, Monsieur; I never sought to oppose your great colleague, But would conciliate him if I might.
Fouché. (sternly.) And do you hope to throw dust in my eyes? What means this note from Madame de Cabarus Now in your bosom—sent to you this morning— And this your answer? (producing a billet.) Have I fathom'd you? The mystic writing on the palace wall Scar'd not Belshazzar more than this does you. (Tallien goes to the door.) Nay, never call your men or make those signals, I have foreseen the worst that you can do.
Tallien.—Chief of Police, while you are in this house Your life is in my hands—when you are gone, Mine is in yours. Now tell me why you came?
Fouché.—To show you that I know of your designs.
Tallien.—And is that all?
Fouché.—Not quite. To offer service— A politician should not start as you do At every word.
Tallien.—Ah—can I—dare I trust you?
Fouché.—I do not ask created man to trust Honor or oath of him whose name is Fouché. I know mankind, and study my own interest— Interest, Tallien—that mainstring of all motion— Chain of all strength—pole star of all attraction For human hearts to turn to. Let me see My interest in supporting you, and I Can aid and guard you through the coming peril.
Tallien.—Name your terms.
Fouché.—My present post and what Beside is mentioned in this schedule. (giving a paper.)
Tallien.—Your price is high, but I am pledged to pay it. (giving his hand.)
Fouché.—Thou knowest I never was over scrupulous, But he whom I was link'd with, Robespierre, Can stand no longer. Earth is weary of him. The small majority in the Convention He calculates upon to be his plea For wreaking summary vengeance on the heads Of all who, like yourself, are not prepared To grant him supreme power or dip their hands In blood for any, every, or no profit. A ravenous beast were better in the chair. Henriot and the civic force here, stand Prompt to obey him. Were we only sure To raise the citizens, these dogs were nothing— But, sink or swim, to-morrow is the day Must ruin him or us. Do you impeach him, And paint his crimes exactly as they are; Have a decree of arrest, and I and mine Will see he quits not the Convention Hall But in the custody of friends of ours. 'Tis true I bargain'd to assist the fiend The better to deceive him. Mark, Tallien, A presage of his fall—not only I Abandon him, but I can bring Barrère And all his tribe to give their votes against him. Give me carte blanche to pay them for their voices.
Tallien.—But think you I can move them to arrest him?
Fouché.—That is a chance unknown even to myself, There are so many waiters on the wind, Straws to be blown wherever it may list That surety of success we cannot have, But certain ruin if we pass to-morrow.
Tallien.—Is't true she aim'd a weapon at his life?
Fouché.—A lie of his invention. I have seen The weapon he pretended to have snatch'd From her fair hands, and know it for his own. Though I seem foul compar'd to better men, I claim to appear an angel match'd with him.