Robespierre was dressed in untidy lace, several long embroidered coats, and high heeled 18th century shoes. His clothes were indicative of a mind caring only for a theory, something like freedom, pure love or some such high-minded approach.
He was a very pleasant date; he took her on a long walk around the city and held open doors for her, handed her across the threshold of a sandwich shop like a precious thing. They had a long, confidential talk about her research on the nature of evil.
As they crossed 49th he whispered in her ear, “But, madamoiselle, I am not actually a villain.”
“But you are known for the Terror, for ten months of executions, the bulk of which were peasants accused of hoarding food – the very people you wanted to help in the first place!”
His dark eyes fixed her with a glance, a glance without a ‘g’. He replied, with a great deal of intensity, it was all necessary! He said the people had no food. That they lived without meaning, hope, or bread.
At last, when the sun began to rise over the city, she saw it was hopeless. He had his own, rigid, Newtonian space, and nothing she could say would ever change it.
With a quick excuse, she left. On the way home, she threw the last crust of her sandwich to the pigeons.
