Cleopatra’s first thought as the man rose from his bow was that he was even shorter than Octavian, and that was saying something. He would probably be about her height if she were to stand next to him, so Caesarion would completely tower over him. Her second was that he looked oddly nervous, though she could understand why. He was representing a nation that had murdered its’ rulers, bowing in front of a divine King and Queen. Her third was much the same sentiment Caesarion muttered in Egyptian to her as the man was straightening up. “He looks ridiculous, and what’s that stupid thing on his head.”

“Citoyenn Maximilien Robespierre” Caesarion said, nodding at him “Welcome to our country”.

“We are pleased to see another Frenchman” Cleopatra added, the man’s nervous manner almost reminding her of Agrippa “We’ve become such good friends with several of your countrymen and of course their majesties were such gracious hosts to us when we visited France last year”.

Robespierre’s smile tightened. That the royal family had since been executed, by not-so-gracious-hosts, had certainly not endeared him to this tyrant of the Nile. He briefly thought of addressing her unspoken concern, decided against it for civility’s sake, and dipped another gracious bow to Caesarian. “I thank you very much,” he purred, swiftly rising from his deference. To the queen he added, “I myself have never had the pleasure of speaking with an Egyptian until I came upon your shores. I am most grateful for the opportunity and I hope you will allow me to extend the greetings of all of the French Republic to your person.” He nodded.

“To that end,” he went on, “I was permitted to bring gifts to assuage any reservations you may have in regards to our new government. Wine from the hills of the Gironde and fruit from the borders of Italy. We want nothing but friendship with Egypt, who we view as the finest monarchy that can be.” Which wasn’t saying anything, really. But still. 

Cleopatra fondly remembered visiting France, the Lafayettes were dear friends now and their children were utterly charming. The King and Queen had been interesting people, the certainly weren’t the strongest of leaders but they seemed to have good intentions and were doing the best they could.

When she’d received word that an ambassador was coming from France to see her, she was initially pleased but that turned to doubt once she was told he called himself an “Ambassador of the French Republic”.

“Will he be wearing one of those ridiculous wigs” Caesarion had asked, as they entered the throne room and settled themselves down on their golden thrones “And those damned uncomfortable trouser things? And aren’t they the people who chopped their King and Queen’s heads off? Why are we even letting him in mother?”

“I don’t know on the first and second counts, and yes on the third” she replied, carefully arranging her gown as Charmian and Iras fell into place behind her “And we’re letting him in because it’s polite and if he goes after your head we’ll feed him to the crocodiles darling, don’t worry”. Caesarion snickered at that, straightening up when one of the court heralds appeared at the doorway.

“You may send Monsieur L’Ambassador in now” Cleopatra said, and he nodded and bowed low to the ground, turning and exiting the room again to go and fetch their guest.

Robespierre knew that he had a reputation as a paranoiac. 

But he had to wonder, as he eyed the decadent (albeit crude) paintings of crocodiles devouring men at a tyrant's command whether or not Danton and the Committee weren't really out to get him.

He was a poor ambassador on the best of days, barely managing to break bread with newly converted Montagnards even. And the Committee decided to send him to the...crocodile wielding tyrants in Egypt? 

Did they want a war with Egypt? Did they want him dead? Both? He was still mulling the possibilities when a scantily clad Egyptian - a true sans-culotte, insofar as Robespierre didn't think the crooked toga counted as pants - announced that the Queen of Egypt was allowing his presence.

Behead one King and yet still be at the beck and call of a Queen, he thought grouchily as he entered the room as bidden. He swept an impeccable bow, the bow he had been taught to make before Louis XVI when he was a lad preparing a speech to welcome him to the throne. He grimaced at the floor but managed to smile graciously when he bobbed backwards. 

"Your Majesty," he greeted smoothly, "I am Citoyenn Maximilien Robespierre of the French Republic. I have been sent to extend our young nation's friendship to you." Even though you're a tyrant. 

Lookit dis tiny Marat

He’s not overdramatic

he’s just tiny

AM NOT

I agree. You are but four fingers shorter than I, and I've never fancied myself a pygmy. But you must calm yourself. Surely, your virtue is testament enough of the calumnious slander? 

Unless you are, ah, too short tempered to restrain yourself.

+2 have entered your court

 ”Well then..Citizen Robespierre you are correct. I do value my title greatly, as I am proud of what I am; as you seem to be of yours.”

"Tres bien." Robespierre allowed his gaze to flutter over the Queen once more, briefly wondering how this creature - not nearly as plump or earthy as his Eleonore - had managed to topple a queen from a throne and mount herself in its place. 

And then he smiled, as such a thought would have equal merit in regards to him.

"We always proud of what we have earned. Ah, you have thrown down a queen and I have thrown down a king, in my fashion. What quarrelsome usurpers we are."

+2 have entered your court

“I might be, Mademoiselle, one Maximilien Robespierre.”

“And may I return the question? May I have the honor of knowing your name?”

“I suppose it is a pleasure to meet your acquaintance sir Robespierre.”  ”I am Anne Boleyn, Queen of England.”

"Citizen, my name is Citizen Robespierre."

"I-I mean to say, that my title as French citizen is as valuable to me as is - I presume - "your" title of Queen of England."

+2 have entered your court

 ”And who might all you be?” 

"I might be, Mademoiselle, one Maximilien Robespierre."

"And may I return the question? May I have the honor of knowing your name?"

The Duchess and the Revolutionary

The poor man nearly jumped out of his skin. He had been so absorbed in looking over the books she had scared him.

Gee’s eyes danced merrily. He was an interesting gentleman. His face flushed and he seemed to barely grasp his bearings. He was obviously a rather shy person. Of course it did not help that he seemed to stumble over his English, which did not come easily.

Nonetheless, this did not perturb her. 

Georgiana was not unaware of what was occurring across the channel. Even as her dear friend was not. This man was, according to many, a dangerous revolutionary. But instead, he stood before her, surrounded by those he scorned, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. 

He was her guest and that would never do. 

Georgiana’s father, Earl Spencer, had provided her with an extensive education. Surprising considering she was merely a female. Among her many subjects, she had taken to languages flawlessly.

“The pleasure is mine Monsieur Robespierre,” she continued in French,” I’m so glad you were brave enough to venture into a den of decadence and oppression,” she quirked an eyebrow in amusement.

Gee knew Robespierre did not approve of her lifestyle. From what she had read, he opposed the aristocracy and the system that held it in place. He repudiated his own monarchs! 

He was fascinating and she was attempting to draw him out. 

Any comfort Robespierre could have felt from the familiar tongue was dampened by the Duchess's deriding comment of Revolutionary ideology. He swung away from the bookshelf and to avoid escalating into an argument that he would not win, that would only bungle his nation's reputation with the English, he nearly excused himself when he caught her dancing eyes. 

She had been joking. 

He did not think it was very funny, but he smiled nonetheless. He was ill-suited for the position of diplomat, had never taken to plastic smiles and trimmed impromptu phrases, but he knew that humor should be met with indulgence. 

"Your French is flawless," he praised genuinely, albeit enviously. "And I do apologize for my English." He had naturally been raised in French and he had painstakingly learned Latin. That these were proving to be woefully inadequate for the needs of his Revolution made him prickle, but he managed to keep the smile plastered to his face and hastily changed the uncomfortable subject. "But please call me 'Citizen Robespierre'. I am as proud as my title of French citizen as you are of your title of Duchess, Your Grace," he bowed again, hoping that his deference would sooth any undue offense his objection had caused. 

In truth, Robespierre had himself on occasion introduced himself as 'Monsieur' or called a colleague by that same title. But in France his mistakes had been looked at as forgivable errors. In England they would be evidence of hypocrisy.

The thought of hypocrites made his eyes peer over the Duchess's shoulder, and he inspected the sea of dresses and powder with evident distaste. For the first time in his life Maximilien Robespierre, garbed in silk stockings, an elaborate striped waistcoat, and crowned with a powdered wig, was distinctly underdressed. He was used to the opposite being true, with Marat begrudging his upper-bourgeois fashion against the People's Friend's own britches. Danton, upon informing him of his diplomatic mission to the English aristocracy, had even quipped that part of the reason he had chosen the socially awkward Robespierre for such a task was that he would not need to purchase another wardrobe in order to blend.

That was not the case. Robespierre was mildly irritated that Danton, who had visited England before, had not given him proper warning. But then his irritation with Danton was starting to become such a constant that it was arguably a personality trait, so he batted it to the side. 

"Decadent oppressors or not," he mused to the Duchess, keeping his voice light, "my sister has always been fascinated by the fashions of the aristocracy. She simply would not forgive me if I failed to acquire a sheet of fabric for her.

And I would hate to incur her displeasure any more. My colleagues were not brave enough to venture here to enjoy your hospitality but I myself am rarely brave enough to attend fetes like this, whatever shore I stand on. When I lived with my sister, she always scolded me for being aloof around her company and has yet to forgive me for my meek disposition. Now that I live in close quarters with my fiance, she scolds me for the same. I'm afraid I am as poor a guest as you are an amiable hostess and I request your pardon."

The Duchess and the Revolutionary

Robespierre was not pleased with anyone right now, least of all with Georges Danton. 

Fortunately for Danton, Robespierre was safely tucked on the other side of the English channel.

Unfortunately for the people who resided on this side of the English channel, Robespierre was safely tucked away with them.

He tried to be polite, he really did. When an Englishman saunted up to him and bid him good day, Robespierre would respond with a pulled smile and a chipper syllable. It was not fair to expect him to do more. Why did Danton think he could do more? Danton was much better with dealing with people than he was.

Heck, Collot was better with dealing people than he was. A crowd of virtuous Republicans en mass, of course he could handle that, but a swarm of individual English aristocrats all picturing the collapse of his country’s liberty with delight and relish? 

That was of greater difficulty. And not one Robespierre had much interest in surmounting, either. He had only been invited to the gathering as a novelty, a dapper little Revolutionary to be put on show and attract the ritziest of Englishmen. And he had only arrived because it was an insult to refuse. 

It did not take long for the Englishmen to leave him alone, and he indulged himself with a perusal of the book titles tucked against the Duchess of Devonshire’s shelves. 

Georgiana loved parties. If ever there was an excuse to have one she would be sure to take full advantage of it. 

Being invited by the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire was an honor and a pleasure.  Mostly due to Georgiana, who had the ability to charm and make everyone feel as if she had looked forward to seeing them especially. No one escaped Gee’s eye as she whirled through the rooms, a glass of wine in hand, flitting from guest to guest, laughing and chatting with everyone. 

As ever, she was beautifully dressed, with just the right amount of glittering jewels glimmering in the candlelight, making her look ethereal. 

As she passed through to one of the rooms she encountered Mr. Fox. She paused to chat with him and inquire how he was enjoying himself.

“As much as ever your Grace,” he responded, “much more than the revolutionary,” he chuckled, gesturing to the Frenchman, “For all their talk of freedom and equality, when surrounded by their enemies, they have little to say.”

Gee smiled.

“Mr. Fox, if you had to enter without friends into the lions den, surely you would have little to say?

He snorted.

Gee smiled affectionately at him, “perhaps he might be persuaded if he did not feel he was surrounded by lions.”

With that she curtsied and wandered over to the Frenchman.

“I’m afraid you won’t find much of interest on those shelves,” her voice was light and teasing,”not when there is so much to entertain elsewhere.”

Gee smiled warmly, “I’m afraid we have not been introduced, I am Georgiana Cavendish.”

Robespierre had been squinting at the engraved titles, quietly sounding their phrasing out under his breath. Danton's English was superb. Marat's English was superb. Robespierre, his English was passing.

And so when the graceful duchess lofted over to him, he jumped and scrambled to concoct a response. "I--" his hands fluttered to his cravat in a brief, blind moment of panic. He hastily recovered but his cheeks flushed crimson nonetheless. "I am Maximilien Robespierre." He smiled politely and dipped his host a graceful bow. 

Her introduction as Georgiana Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire, did not go unnoticed. This was his host, and moreover, as a member of the English court she (presumably?) had the ear of her regent and prime minister. It would not do to snub her. He barely refrained from indulging himself in a habitual nibble on his thumbnail at the sudden wave of panic that flushed him. What he couldn't refrain from was the facial tick, the sudden quivering of his cheek. He hastily turned the offending feature away from her and eyed her bookshelf again. 

He recalled her comment on her books and he seized it, making his retreat natural. "Ah," he purred with all the assurance he didn't feel. "I find books perfectly entertaining. And I confess that a degree of envy," he added, fingering the binding on one. "I don't have room in my home for so many. I wish I did," he added, expertly sidestepping any idea that he was digging at her aristocratic lifestyle. "You are a very lucky woman. And thank you," he added, "for your hospitality."

Before the Assembly that morning, Paul Chauvelin made his way to his employer’s office, peering into the open door.

…

La Terreur et la Vertue: @lincorruptible

La Terreur et la Vertue: fauconalaplongee: La Terreur et la Vertue:…

Paul smiled at his employer and friend. “She does indeed enjoy flowers, and I think irises would be rather lovely.” ((You should check out the language of flowers. It’s interesting))

“Good, good…” Robespierre scratched another memorandum. 

He paused, considering. Paul Chauvelin was to marry an actress. A suspected ultra-revolutionary and - being an actress - a likely sympathizer with the aristocracy. What a charmingly treasonous couple. Probably. …Potentially. 

“I would very much like to meet your future wife,” Robespierre ruled. “We could perhaps watch a play, provided that she is not performing. I could perhaps bring along the citizeness Eleanor Duplay and we could - ah, what is it that they say now? Make a day of it?” 

“I believe that is a splendid idea, Citizen. I shall speak to Marguerite and let you know when would be an ideal time.” Paul pulled his watch out and sighed. “I must be away. I shall see you in the Assembly?” ((If Robespy ever confronted Paul about his suspicions of Marg being sympaetic to the aristocracy, Paul would be like “Are you mad?! She stormed the Bastille with me!” //friendship over))

((I think the least of Chauvelin's worries is Robespierre's unsavory opinion of actresses... Robespierre had a nasty habit of...beheading...ultra-revolutionaries. Which he thinks Chauvelin is. Which Chauvelin might actually be I am actually not sure myself.))

"No. The Committee is meeting early today, and from there I am going straight to the Jacobin Club. Barere will be there though," he added brightly. "He is going to give a speech on some great victories on the front. There is much good news." 

Not that victories were necessarily good news, what with the danger of a military dictatorship always looming. But why sour the one good thing Barere had to offer to the Republic today? There was always tomorrow. 

"You will have to see me at the Duplay household when you have spoken with Marguerite with the time. I will probably be retiring early tonight, so just leave a note with the boy Simon or Elisabeth." 

Before the Assembly that morning, Paul Chauvelin made his way to his employer’s office, peering into the open door.

...

La Terreur et la Vertue: @lincorruptible

La Terreur et la Vertue: fauconalaplongee: La Terreur et la Vertue:...

Paul smiled at his employer and friend. "She does indeed enjoy flowers, and I think irises would be rather lovely." ((You should check out the language of flowers. It's interesting))

"Good, good..." Robespierre scratched another memorandum. 

He paused, considering. Paul Chauvelin was to marry an actress. A suspected ultra-revolutionary and - being an actress - a likely sympathizer with the aristocracy. What a charmingly treasonous couple. Probably. ...Potentially. 

"I would very much like to meet your future wife," Robespierre ruled. "We could perhaps watch a play, provided that she is not performing. I could perhaps bring along the citizeness Eleanor Duplay and we could - ah, what is it that they say now? Make a day of it?" 

Before the Assembly that morning, Paul Chauvelin made his way to his employer’s office, peering into the open door.

“Citizen Robespierre…” he said to get the attention of the man sitting at...

La Terreur et la Vertue: @lincorruptible

Chauvelin was surprised by the enthusiasm of the normally reserved man, but he shook his hand nonetheless. "Ah, well, I'm not entirely sure. You're the first to know beyond Marguerite and I. I had planned on letting her take care of the arrangements."

"The first to know?" Robespierre slunk back behind his desk, maintaining eye-contact with his subordinate over his shoulder. "I am flattered," he purred, settling himself back down in his chair, his uncomfortable congratulatory duty done. "I will send my best wishes to the lucky citizeness. Marguerite Saint Just," he confirmed the name as he scratched it into his notebook. 

"I suppose it would be appropriate for me to send her flowers. My Eleanor likes irises. Does your citizeness have any preference or can I perhaps..." He trailed off, realizing that regifting flowers was probably frowned upon in polite society. 

((In unrelated news, I reread my last post and I realized that I kept the part where Robespierre bitterly complained about his sister being annoying. I don't know what's wrong with me today. )) 

@lincorruptible

Before the Assembly that morning, Paul Chauvelin made his way to his employer’s office, peering into the open door.

“Citizen Robespierre…” he said to get the attention of the man sitting at the desk.

As usual, Robespierre was found - figuratively speaking - with his nose in an inkpot.  He emerged upon hearing his name, and glanced up to see the lithe form of Paul Chauvelin lingering just outside the wood paneling of his open door.

He held the other man’s gaze for a moment, noting sardonically to himself that he was the alleged rabid was not frothing at the mouth. Neither did there appear to be any drops of blood splashed against his cufflinks. 

Ah, if only uncovering ultra-revolutionaries could be as easy as all that. 

Withholding a sigh of lament, his lips twitched into a smile. “Yes, citizen. What is it?” he waved the other man in. 

He smiled slightly. “I have some good news for you today…and before you ask, no…it has nothing to do with arresting nobles or beheadings, or anything of the like.” The smile on his face was genuine, his eyes glowing, but not with the fiery passion of revolution that was normally there. This was something else entirely.

“I should say not,” Robespierre snapped. “I have never viewed the execution of our countrymen as a blessing for our nation, but as a necessity in order to consolidate our young Revolution. Do not subscribe the intoxication of the madmen on the street to me, Citizen Chauvelin.”

He was still bristling, and could not help but add the appendum, “And so help you if you become intoxicated with the liquor of blood yourself.” Immediately, he regretted the implicit warning in his words and tried to soften them with a smile that he couldn’t keep from twitching. “Not that you are in danger of such a mistake, but you must be…more careful with your words. The theories you espouse could be possibly interpreted as lacking in vertu, without which the Terror is, ah, disastrous.”  

He paused to regain his composure. “Forgive me. What was the good news?”  

He grinned—not the manic grin of a man bent on the destruction of all aristocracy, but that of one overjoyed to be alive. “Citizeness St. Just and I…we are to be wed. As soon as la Terreur is over, we shall celebrate with our wedding.”

((I always feel inadequate when I’m RPing with you.))

((Thank you? You shouldn't though. You're really good.)) 

Citizeness St. Just --- 

Robespierre blinked. "But Louis-Antoine's sister is already -- Ah!" quickly the Incorruptible realized his mistake. "I apologize. I was thinking of my colleague, Saint-Just - he has several sisters." Each of them less annoying than Charlotte Robespierre. "You mean the actress." 

And actresses were by nature aristocratic. They were clever enough to know where their bread was buttered, if nothing else. Robespierre's mind ticked through the possibilities of Chauvelin's words. As soon as la Terreur was over? Hardly the words of an ultra-revolutionary, as he had just earlier heard Collot predict that heads would have to roll for sixty more years. On the other hand, what better way to drown liberty than to drown the Revolution in blood? 

Robespierre opened his mouth to object, but then caught Chauvelin's grin, full of genuine good-will and cheer, and gave in to the contagion. He returned the smile, which was almost of genuine good-will and cheer, leaped from his chair, and swung around the table. "Ah! Congratulations, Citizen!" Acting in direct contrast to his natural reserve, Robespierre seized Chauvelin's hand and pumped it. Immediately, he took his hand back and surreptitiously wiped it against his culottes before burying it in his pocket. "Will the lady be requiring a patriotic priest or will she be advocating a Republican Wedding? An actual one," he added swiftly, not wanting Chauvelin to believe that he actually thought women liked being shoved naked into boats and sunk into rivers.

Robespierre didn't know much about women but he knew they weren't fond of that, whatever Carrier would say. 

@lincorruptible

Before the Assembly that morning, Paul Chauvelin made his way to his employer’s office, peering into the open door.

“Citizen Robespierre…” he said to get the attention of the man sitting at the desk.

As usual, Robespierre was found - figuratively speaking - with his nose in an inkpot.  He emerged upon hearing his name, and glanced up to see the lithe form of Paul Chauvelin lingering just outside the wood paneling of his open door.

He held the other man’s gaze for a moment, noting sardonically to himself that he was the alleged rabid was not frothing at the mouth. Neither did there appear to be any drops of blood splashed against his cufflinks. 

Ah, if only uncovering ultra-revolutionaries could be as easy as all that. 

Withholding a sigh of lament, his lips twitched into a smile. “Yes, citizen. What is it?” he waved the other man in. 

He smiled slightly. “I have some good news for you today…and before you ask, no…it has nothing to do with arresting nobles or beheadings, or anything of the like.” The smile on his face was genuine, his eyes glowing, but not with the fiery passion of revolution that was normally there. This was something else entirely.

"I should say not," Robespierre snapped. "I have never viewed the execution of our countrymen as a blessing for our nation, but as a necessity in order to consolidate our young Revolution. Do not subscribe the intoxication of the madmen on the street to me, Citizen Chauvelin."

He was still bristling, and could not help but add the appendum, "And so help you if you become intoxicated with the liquor of blood yourself." Immediately, he regretted the implicit warning in his words and tried to soften them with a smile that he couldn't keep from twitching. "Not that you are in danger of such a mistake, but you must be...more careful with your words. The theories you espouse could be possibly interpreted as lacking in vertu, without which the Terror is, ah, disastrous."  

He paused to regain his composure. "Forgive me. What was the good news?"  

Raoul swallowed.  "Christine..." he repeated.  "Have you...have you harmed her?"

((Sorry, Chauvy, but it wouldn't let me reblog your post without some fancy copy and pasting that I was too lazy to do.))

Robespierre's eyebrows lifted delicately at Chauvelin's tact description of the citizeness. "An actress," he pronounced. "The theaters are rife with aristocratic sensibilities. But I don't suppose that is a fact that anyone here is unfamiliar with." 

He was about to go on, when the ci-devant Vicomte interjected with his question. "No, as far as I am aware, your paramour is unharmed. And as long as she has not been dabbling in counter-revolutionary activity, she will remain so." His clipped tone softened. "Your devotion for her is very touching." 

And a cause of much discomfort. Robespierre recalled his initial goals, and waffled between cutting the subject short so as not to find himself sympathetic to the dinged man's cause, or to elaborate so as to endear himself and perhaps earn some trust. 

But être suprême, how frustrating this all was! Why should it be so difficult to garner evidence of ultra-revolutionary activity from a victim of such? He would had been expecting to have to shift through wild exaggerations, not coax the mildest of complaints from the man's lips. 

Biting his thumbnail in thought (the darkness, Robespierre believed, adequately cloaked his surrender to one of his more garish vices), Robespierre's eyes finally strayed towards Chauvelin, the possible sadist in question. Were Chauvelin truly guilty...then perhaps the citizen was too frightened to say anything in front of him. This would explain the struggle. 

"Chauvelin," Robespierre spoke suddenly, "would you be so kind as to go and find, oh, Citizen Herman or one of the Payan brothers and see if they have any files on the Citizeness? If not, please compile one for my perusal at a later date."  

@lincorruptible

Before the Assembly that morning, Paul Chauvelin made his way to his employer’s office, peering into the open door.

“Citizen Robespierre…” he said to get the attention of the man sitting at the desk.

As usual, Robespierre was found - figuratively speaking - with his nose in an inkpot.  He emerged upon hearing his name, and glanced up to see the lithe form of Paul Chauvelin lingering just outside the wood paneling of his open door.

He held the other man's gaze for a moment, noting sardonically to himself that he was the alleged rabid was not frothing at the mouth. Neither did there appear to be any drops of blood splashed against his cufflinks. 

Ah, if only uncovering ultra-revolutionaries could be as easy as all that. 

Withholding a sigh of lament, his lips twitched into a smile. "Yes, citizen. What is it?" he waved the other man in. 

At the La Force, everybody bends over backwards at visit, as comparatively spontaneous as it was. Robespierre noted that the…

La Terreur et la Vertue: vicomteoftheopera: lincorruptible: At the La Force, everybody bends…

The Revolutionary nodded curtly at his fellow citizen before turning to get the glass of water. He returned shortly after with the glass of water, barely restraining the urge to shove it down Raoul’s throat, helping him to drink the water.

La Terreur et la Vertue: vicomteoftheopera: La Terreur et la Vertue: vicomteoftheopera:…

Despite it being given to him by a man he had already learned to despise, Raoul gulped down the glass of water in the agent’s hands, his own arms too heavy to lift.  After he had drunk, he took a few breaths, and said to Robespierre, “I could tell you if I am being mistreated, monsieur…or you could use your own eyes and see for yourself.”

The prisoner all but inhaled the water, slithering it down his throat with greedy flourish. The breathy gulps echoed through the chamber, and the present member of the Committee of Public Safety was just about to remember his duty towards the public - an all-encompassing noun that included the unfortunate before him - and their safety, when the gulps were replaced by a challenge. 

Immediately, Robespierre went cold. 

“Monsieur,” Robespierre repeated the word with all the honor he would normally reserve for the address of a cockroach. Robespierre tilted his head to the side, fixing the decrepit man with an unblinking sea-green gaze. “May I remind you that your aristocratic airs, as heroic as you may fine them, are nothing more than signs of your inherent masochism. In your habitual address of me as ‘monsieur’ you deny me my exalted status of a citizen of the French Republic. This status is my most treasured possession. If you continue to deny me this status, your condition will deteriorate.” He glanced at Chauvelin. “Significantly.” 

Any chill that the implied threat could have sent through the cell was immediately undercut by the speaker’s collapse against the wall behind him. The sudden bout of light-headedness abated, Robespierre wiped his face with a initialed handkerchief and expressed his displeasure to the only sympathetic ear. He hissed to Chauvelin, “The aristocracy. I try to be kind and look at what they do. I ask you, is this fair?” He looked back towards the prisoner, his words taking on lives of their own, his sudden fury dictating against his natural instinct. “Before we continue, I should like you to apologize to me.” He cracked into a smile - more of an animalistic baring of the teeth than anything. “Apologize to the simpering lawyer who has overstepped his place, ci-devant.” 

Chauvelin stepped back as the prisoner finished the water, taking a step back against the wall. His face broke into an almost manic grin at Robespierre’s words about the prisoner’s condition deteriorating drastically, reaching down to run his thumb over the handle of his beloved whip, just about itching to put it to good use.

Raoul gasped dryly, his head lolling onto his shoulder.  ”I apologize,” he slurred, barely aware of what he was saying.  Next moment, a name slipped from his mouth: “Christine…Christine…”

Robespierre nodded complacently at the apology, but his sadistic grin didn't fall until the morose chant echoed through the cell. 

"Christine," Robespierre repeated. "That is an odd thing to say. Is that the name of your..." he was about to say paramour, but tactfully chose instead "lady?"