Paris: The Novel

said no such thing.”
    “The prisoner will be silent,” said the judge.
    “I may not be defended?”
    “By the law of 22 Prairial, enacted by the Convention this year,” the judge intoned, “those brought before this court are not allowed any counsel for their defense.”
    He turned to the jury.
    “How do you find?” he asked.
    “Guilty,” they said all together.
    He nodded and turned back to Sophie.
    “Citizen Sophie de Cygne,” he announced, “you are sentenced to death at the guillotine. The sentence may be carried out at once.”
    And that was the end of the matter.

    She had been sitting in a cell with Étienne and four other unfortunates for two hours when Dr. Blanchard appeared. The guard let Blanchard in and he embraced the de Cygnes warmly, but his face was grave. He knew already what the sentence of the court had been, and he told them that there was a priest visiting the prison, and that he would arrange for the priest to come to their cell, if they would like to see him.
    Then Blanchard took Étienne to one side and whispered to him earnestly for a minute or two. Sophie could not hear what they were saying, but she saw Étienne nod. After this, Blanchard told her that there was another, empty cell nearby, in which he wished to see her alone, and calling the guard to open the door, he motioned her to follow him. Étienne told her she should go. So, still rather puzzled, she accompanied him.
    Then he told her that he wished to examine her.

    It was a long shot. He would have to be convincing. And it was not certain that the Tribunal would take any notice. But there had been a number of examples recently when they had canceled or deferred the execution of women who were pregnant. Even a stay of execution would be something. A delay might bring another chance of life, at least.
    After returning Sophie to her cell, Blanchard went quickly out of the Conciergerie and across to the Palais de Justice. He had to wait an hour before the Tribunal would see him.
    He knew how to speak to them. His tone was respectful, but professionally firm.
    “I must inform you at once,” he told the presiding judge, “that the de Cygne woman is pregnant.”
    “How do you know?”
    “I have just examined her.”
    “It seems suspicious.”
    “I don’t think so. She is a young married woman.”
    “In these cases, Doctor, we normally send the women to our old people’s home, where they are examined by the nurses.”
    “As you wish. But forgive me if I say that my diagnosis is more likely to be correct than that of some old midwives. I have made this a particular field of study.”
    “Hmm.”
    The judge was considering his decision when Blanchard heard the door opening behind him and saw the judge’s eyes look up alertly, and then saw him bow his head. Then a high-pitched voice cut through the quiet.
    “I sent two aristocrats to you. Named de Cygne.”
    “They are already dealt with, citizen,” said the judge.
    And Blanchard turned, to find himself staring into the face of Maximilien Robespierre.
    What a strange, enigmatic figure he was, Blanchard thought. Most men feared him, and with good reason; but as a doctor, he found the incorruptible Jacobin an interesting study.
    Most of the Jacobins were atheists. If they worshipped anything, it was Reason; if they were impelled by any emotion, it was probably as much a hatred of the old regime as a love of Liberty. But not Robespierre. He believed in God. Not the old God of the Church, to be sure, but a new, enlightened God, that he had invented: a Supreme Being whose vehicle was the Revolution, and whose expression would be the new world of free and reasonable men.
    He was quite open about it. Just recently, on the great open space of the Champ de Mars south of the river, he had organized a huge Festival to the Supreme Being which thousands had attended. Some found it pretentious, even laughable, but as Robespierre had given his long and grandiloquent speech, it was clear that this extraordinary Jacobin was not just a soldier of the Revolution, but a visionary, a high priest.
    Perhaps this was his strength. Perhaps this was what made him so ruthless, so unbending. The servant of a Supreme Being has little fear of hurting mortal men.
    Yet he was still a mortal himself. He could be jealous, even petty.
    “There is a problem, however, citizen,” the judge continued.
    “What problem?”
    “This doctor says the woman is pregnant.”
    Maximilien Robespierre looked