as difficult, because his hearers had the best
possible reasons for knowing that the author of the Law of Prairial was
a Terrorist on principle. And in truth we know that Robespierre had no
definite intention of erecting clemency into a rule. He had not mental
strength enough to throw off the profound apprehension, which the
incessant alarms of the last five years had engendered in him; and the
only device, that he could imagine for maintaining the republic against
traitors, was to stimulate the rigour of the Revolutionary Tribunal.

If, however, Robespierre lacked the grasp which might have made him the
representative of a broad and stable policy, it was at least his
interest to persuade the men of the Plain that he entertained no designs
against them. And this is what in his own mind he intended. But to do it
effectively, it was clearly best to tell his hearers, in so many words,
whom he really wished them to strike. That would have relieved the
majority, and banished the suspicion which had been busily fomented by
his enemies, that he had in his pocket a long list of their names, for
proscription. But Robespierre, having for the first time in his life
ventured on aggressive action without the support of a definite party,
faltered. He dared not to designate his enemies face to face and by
name. Instead of that, he talked vaguely of conspirators against the
republic, and calumniators of himself. There was not a single bold,
definite, unmistakable sentence in the speech from first to last. The
men of the Plain were insecure and doubtful; they had no certainty that
among conspirators and calumniators he did not include too many of
themselves. People are not so readily seized by grand phrases, when
their heads are at stake. The sitting was long, and marked by changing
currents and reverses. When they broke up, all was left uncertain.
Robespierre had suffered a check. Billaud felt that he could no longer
hesitate in joining the combination against his colleague. Each party
was aware that the next day must seal the fate of one or other of them.
There is a legend that in the evening Robespierre walked in the Champs
Elysees with his betrothed, accompanied as usual by his faithful dog,
Brount. They admired the purple of the sunset, and talked of the
prospect of a glorious to-morrow. But this is apocryphal. The evening
was passed in no lover's saunterings, but amid the storm and uproar of
the Club. He went to the Jacobins to rea