SCENE III.
Reading edition
ROBESPIERRE'S HOUSE. Robespierre, Fouché, Henriot and others.
Henriot.—All things are ready now, six thousand men And twenty cannon wait your word to-morrow.
Robes.—Henriot, I have a word to say to thee: Thou hast one vice that suits not with a leader, If that thou hopest to thrive in our attempt, Taste not of wine till victory is ours.
Henriot.—I thank your caution.
Fouché.—I have seen Tallien And offered peace between you; he knew not That Laurens' daughter had assail'd your life, Or he had mentioned it. Nor did he dream Of what will peal upon his ears to-morrow.
Robes.—Then, friends, farewell until to-morrow dawns.
Fouché.—And ere its night sets in we hail thee Ruler, Dictator of the land.
Robes.—If such your will— Without you I am nothing—fare you well. (they leave him.) (looking up to the stars.)—Unchang'd, unfading, never-dying lights— Gods, or coeval with them! If there be In your bright aspects aught of influence Which men have made a science here on earth, Shed it benignly on my fortunes now! Spirit of Terror! Rouse thee at my bidding— Shake thy red wings o'er Liberty's Golgotha— Palsy men's energies and stun their souls, That no more foes may cross my path to-morrow Than I and mine can drown in their own blood; Or, let them rise by thousands, so my slaves Fight but as heartily for gold and wine As they have done ere now. When I shall lead them, Then 'mid the artillery's roar and bayonet's flash I write my title to be Lord of France In flame and carnage, o'er this den of thieves. Beneath th' exterior, frozen, stern demeanor, How my veins throb to bursting, while I think On the rich feast of victory and revenge The coming day may yield me! Yes, this land Of bigot slaves who tremble at a devil, Or frantic atheists who with lifted hands Will gravely VOTE their Maker from his throne, This horde of dupes and miscreants shall feel And own in tears, blood, crime and retribution, The iron rule of him they trampled on— The outrag'd, ruin'd, and despised attorney. Though few the anxious hours that lie between My brightest, proudest hopes, or sure destruction, All yet is vague, uncertain, and obscure As what may chance in ages yet to come. How if the dungeon or the scaffold—Ha! That shall not be—my hand shall overrule it— Ingenious arbiter of life and death! (looking to the charge of a small pistol.) Be thou my bosom friend in time of need! No—if my star is doom'd to set forever, The cheeks of men shall pale as they behold The lurid sky it sinks in. Should I fall Leading my Helots on to slay each other, Then death, all hail!—for only thou canst quench The secret fire that rages in my breast; If there be an hereafter, which I know not, He who hath borne my life may dare its worst, And if mortality's last pangs end all, Welcome eternal sleep!—annihilation!