I have before said that Robespierre was the idol of the women.

Strange certainly!--but then they were French women! The old Marquise, who, like Catherine Theot, called him "son," really seemed to love him piously and disinterestedly as a mother; and as she peeled the oranges, and heaped on him the most caressing and soothing expressions, the livid ghost of a smile fluttered about his meagre lips.

At a distance, Payan and Couthon, seated at another table, were writing rapidly, and occasionally pausing from their work to consult with each other in brief whispers.
Suddenly one of the Jacobins opened the door, and, approaching Robespierre, whispered to him the name of Guerin.

(See for the espionage on which Guerin was employed, "Les Papiers inedits," etc., volume i.
page 366, No.

xxviii.) At that word the sick man started up, as if new life were in the sound.
"My kind friend," he said to the Marquise, "forgive me; I must dispense with thy tender cares.