The sun of Thermidor was setting in a blood-red sky, while ******* wandered, gloomy and careworn, in the Marbeuf gardens, now a National park frequented by the Parisian idlers. There were stalls for the sale of lemonade and ices; wooden horses and shooting-galleries were provided for the younger patriots. Under a tree, a little Savoyard in rags, with a black cap on his head, was making a marmot dance to the shrill notes of his hurdy-gurdy. A man, still young, slim-waisted, wearing a blue coat and his hair powdered, with a big dog at his heels, stopped to listen to the rustic music. ******* recognized Robespierre. He found him paler, thinner, his face harder and drawn in folds of suffering. He thought to himself:
"What fatigues, how many griefs have left their imprint on his brow! How grie
