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Two days later Maximilien Robespierre
and his satellites perished in their turn on the guillotine; that
26th day of July which had meant life or death to Aurore and André
had also meant life or death to the most bloodthirsty tyrant the
civilized world has ever known. It was the first eclipse of his
power and of his popularity. Swift as had been his rise, his fall
from the giddy heights of dictatorship was swifter still. The
same throats, which less than a couple of months ago had yelled
themselves hoarse with praise of Robespierre as second only to
the Supreme Being, now shouted execrations on the fallen tyrant.
Terrified for their own lives his enemies had made a super-human
effort to drag him down. It was he or they, his head or theirs.
In the pocket of his coat taken off at the club because the night
was very hot had been found a list of names to be indicted on
the morrow, names of men to be accused, tried, and condemned.
They were the names of the most influential men in the National
Convention, Tallien's at the head. It was their life or his, and
they put forth all their strength, all their terror, and all their
eloquence to bring him down. And they succeeded. On the 26th of
July the tyrant was indicted for treason against the Republic;
on the 27th, he was dragged, wounded and almost dying, to the
bar of the accused; on the 28th, at even, he died on the guillotine.
His death was inglorious and sordid, but it marked an epoch.
As if by a magic wand the whole aspect of France was changed.
Terrorism died in as many days as it had taken years to maintain
itself. Within twenty-four hours the Convention, free from tyranny
and from fear of death, passed a law that every man or woman indicted
for treason and conspiracy must be served with a Writ of Accusation
so that they might know of what they were accused. Prisoners were
liberated by the hundred. Houses of Detention were emptied. Justice
once more put on the semblance of a bandage over he eyes and held
the scales with a steady hand.
And while André and Aurore dreamed their dream of love
in the sunny apartment of the Quai de la Ferraille, the aspect
of France was changed. Life went on, but no longer the same, for
there was hope in every heart, even though hope was often linked
with incurable sorrow.
And that is the end of the story which Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., told to His Royal Highness that evening in the Assembly Rooms at Bath.
"A fine fellow, your André Vallon," His Royal
Highness remarked. "What became of him?"
"He was duly served with a Writ of Accusation, brought to
the bar, and acquitted. He has taken up his work again with the
blind and the deaf and dumb."
"And he and your lovely Aurore spin the thread of perfect
love in their apartment on the Quai de la Ferraille, is that it?"
"I should say as perfect as I have ever seen, sir,"
Blakeney remarked with a smile.
"Outside your own, you lucky dog!" His Royal Highness
rejoined with a sigh. "But what happened to that rascal,
Hector Talon?"
"He was indicted for false accusations against a patriot.
His name appeared below that of Charles de Marigny on the letter
which denounced Vallon to the Committee of Public Safety which
has now ceased to exist. He died a very inglorious death just
a week after he had hoped to see his old enemy go up the steps
of the guillotine."
"Did the daughter ever recover her father's body for decent
burial?"
"I believe so."
"Ah, well!" His Royal Highness concluded. "I'll
grant you, Blakeney, that for a child of that awful revolution,
your friend Vallon has come out of the flames unscathed."
The end.
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