Drug Calculations Ratio and Proportion Problems for Clinical Practice 9th Edition Brown Test

Drug Calculations Ratio and Proportion

Problems for Clinical Practice 9th
Edition Brown Test Bank
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Drug Calculations Ratio and Proportion Problems for Clinical Practice 9th Edition Brown Test

Chapter 2: Ratio and Proportion

Test Bank

SHORT ANSWER

Directions: Solve the following problems.

1. Solve for , and prove your answer: 2 : 5 :: 10 :

ANS:
x = 25

Know Want to Know

2 : 5 :: 10 :

Proof: 2  25 = 50
5  10 = 50

2. Solve for , and prove your answer: 3 : 10 :: 6 :

ANS:
x = 20

Know Want to Know

3 : 10 :: 6 :

Proof: 3  20 = 60
10  6 = 60

Directions: Set up a ratio and proportion in each of the following problems. Label and prove
your answers.

3. There are 20 patient beds contained in each hospital unit. How many units would there be
for a hospital with a 300-bed capacity?

ANS:
15 units

Visit TestBankFan.com to get complete for all chapters

 Know Want to Know
20 beds : 1 unit :: 300 beds : units

Proof: 20  15 = 300
1  300 = 300

4. Each nurse is assigned five patients for a shift. How many nurses will be needed for 250
patients?

ANS:
50 nurses

Know Want to Know

1 nurse : 5 patients :: nurses : 250 patients

Proof: 1  250 = 250

5  50 = 250

5. If a patient needs to have three pills four times a day, how many pills will be needed for a
1-week supply?

ANS:
84 pills

Know Want to Know

12 pills : 1 day :: pills : 7 days

= 12  7

= 84 pills

Proof: 12  7 = 84
1  84 = 84

6. A hospital hires one CNA for every ten patients. How many CNAs will be needed for 200
patients?

ANS:
20 CNAs
 Know Want to Know
1 CNA : 10 patients :: CNAs : 200 patients

= 20 CNAs

Proof: 1  200 = 200

10  20 = 200

7. A patient has a bottle of liquid medicine that contains 60 doses of medicine. How many
days will the bottle last if the patient takes 4 doses a day?

ANS:
15 days

Know Want to Know

4 doses : 1 day :: 60 doses : days

Proof: 4  15 = 60
1  60 = 60

8. A hospital averages 22 admissions per day. How many admissions does it average in a
30-day month?

ANS:
600 admissions

Know Want to Know

22 admissions : 1 day :: admissions : 30 days
= 22  30
= 660 admissions

Proof: 22  30 = 660
1  660 = 660

9. The x-ray department schedules a chest x-ray every 15 minutes. How many chest x-rays can
be taken in 7 hours?

ANS:
28 x-rays
Another random document with
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 Robespierre looked at them with eyes full of gratitude. He was hoping
that some one would commence an attack, that he might retaliate there and
then, and so accentuate his triumph. He had perceived among the crowd his
adversaries, Billaud-Varennes and Collot d'Herbois. They tried to speak,
and were hissed; they persisted, and were greeted with cries of "To death
with them!" Daggers even were drawn, and they had scarcely time to
escape.

The name of Robespierre was in every mouth in that vast hall,

acclaimed with cries of wild approval that re-echoed to the very Tuileries.

The Duplay family, as may be imagined, beside themselves with joy,

waited for Robespierre outside, but he was nowhere to be seen. It was in
vain they inquired of every likely passer-by. He had completely
disappeared.

Leaving the Assembly-room among the first he had slipped out under
cover of night, taking a short cut to the Tuileries, whose dark mass aided his
further flight. For he was flying from his glorification, escaping from his
rabid admirers, who would have borne him in triumph through the streets of
sleeping Paris, making them ring with thunderous shouts of triumph.
Creeping along the side of the walls, his face muffled in his collar, he
hastened his steps to the Conciergerie, and as he walked his thoughts
reverted to the subject of his reception. The Jacobins' enthusiasm must have
resounded to the chamber of the Committee of Public Safety, and fallen like
a thunderbolt among the traitors in the very midst of their dark plots! The
effect must have been terrible! He already pictured the Convention
appealing to him with servile supplication, delivering the Committee into
his hands, and asking the names of his enemies, that they might pass
sentence on them all. He smiled triumphantly as he crossed the Pont-Neuf,
without casting a glance at the splendid spectacle which lay at his feet on
either side of the bridge; for it was July, and all the glory of a summer sky
studded with stars was mirrored in the stream.

He walked on quickly, wrapt in his own thoughts. Ah! not only did they
wish to ruin him, but they would have sent Olivier to his death! He had
forestalled them, however. The very next day they should take his son's
vacant place in that same Conciergerie, the antechamber of the guillotine!
 Robespierre had reached the quay, and was now at the foot of the Silver
Tower, whose pointed spire stood out in the moonlight like a gigantic finger
raised to heaven. It was in that tower that Fouquier-Tinville, the Public
Prosecutor of the Revolutionary Tribunal—death's henchman—lived.
Robespierre scanned the windows. All lights were out. Fouquier slept, then?
What brute insensibility! But he would sleep also, he told himself. Ah, yes!
the terrors of the scaffold would soon be over! No more butchery, no more
guillotine! He had promised it to the mother of his son, and he would keep
his word ... he would, within three days.

Reaching the side entrance of the Conciergerie, he gave three knocks,

and a grating was opened in the door.

"It is I—Citoyen Robespierre."

The gate swung back on its hinges, and a voice was heard exclaiming—

"Salut et fraternité, citoyen!"

It was Collas, the turnkey, on duty.

"I want Citoyen Fouquier-Tinville."

"He has not returned, citoyen."

Robespierre betrayed impatience.

"Can I do anything for you, citoyen?" said Collas.

"I wish to know if you have among your prisoners a certain Germain,
lately at La Force prison."

"Well, we can see that on the prison register, citoyen. Nothing will be
easier, if the registrar is still here. Let me ascertain through the watchman.
Would you care to follow me? Just wait a moment; I have not the keys."

Collas went back into his lodge, and returned with a bunch of keys.
Then, taking down a lantern from the wall, he commenced threading the
mazy alleys of the Conciergerie, followed by the Incorruptible. It was the
first time Robespierre had entered this prison in which so many of his
victims had been immured. The two men turned into the old banqueting hall
of the Kings of France, a long gallery with a vaulted ceiling of oval arches
supported on massive pillars; keeping to the left, they came upon an iron
trellised gate, which the turnkey opened. Robespierre found himself in a
railed enclosure, a kind of antechamber leading to another vaulted gallery,
which in the dim light seemed of indefinite length. Two towering gates on
the left opened into a court on which the moon shone, lighting up vividly a
pile of buildings surrounded with grey arcades.

As Robespierre and the turnkey advanced they came upon a man

sleeping in a chair, with a lantern at his feet. It was the night watchman.

"Hallo, Barassin!" called the turnkey, shaking his bunch of keys in his
ears.

The man woke with a start. At the mention of Robespierre he rose in a

tremor of fear at being caught slumbering on duty. He excused himself
profusely—he had been so hard-worked this last month; there was no
sleeping at all with the cart-loads of prisoners coming at every moment.
Then, with officious zeal, he invited Robespierre to remain with him while
Collas went to ascertain if the registrar was still there, though this was very
unlikely at that late hour. The turnkey went on his errand.

"What part of the prison is this?" asked Robespierre, looking around.

"We are between the two gates, citoyen. Have you never been to the
Conciergerie before?"

"No; never."

Now was his chance! Barassin had a subject to interest the

Incorruptible, and he launched forth into a long description, overcrowded
with details.

On the other side of that little door to the right was the ward of the male
prisoners. Here at the end was the women's courtyard, facing the arched
building in which were their cells. Robespierre had but to advance a little,
and he could see through the gate the fountain in which they washed their
linen, for they remained dainty to the last, and wished to ascend the scaffold
in spotless clothes. Barassin laughed a loud brutish laugh, happy at the
seeming interest Robespierre took in his explanations.

"Is the Recorder's office on the left, then?" questioned the Incorruptible,
his eyes fixed on the dark gallery through which the turnkey had
disappeared.

Barassin began another string of details. Yes, that gallery led to it, and
to the exit as well, through the concierge's lodge, where the condemned had
their hair cut after the roll-call.

"The call takes place here, just where you are standing," he explained.

Robespierre started, and moved away. His eyes rested on the long line
of cells, whose doors were lost in long perspective under the vaulted
archway he had noticed on his entrance, and which had seemed so vast
through the iron bars of the second gate. He lowered his voice to ask if
those cells were occupied. Barassin's reply reassured him; there was no one
there just then. Then, indicating a cell opposite Robespierre, the watchman
continued, carried away by his subject—

"This is the cell in which the Queen was locked up."

He opened a panel in the door that Robespierre might glance within.

The Incorruptible hesitated at first, and as he bent over resolutely to look,
Barassin found further material for his questionable wit:

"It's not such a palace as her Versailles, eh?"

Robespierre quickly closed the aperture, on the outside of which he

perceived a black cross.

"What! a cross?" he exclaimed, staring the while at the sign of

redemption.
 The watchman told him that some prisoner had probably daubed this
cross on the panel after the Queen's death. The prisoners always stopped
before it to pray, and it was their habit to scribble in that way over the
prison walls with pencils, or even nails.

"Why, here's your name!" he chuckled, highly amused.

Robespierre shuddered.

"My name?"

Barassin raised his lantern, throwing the light on an inscription in large

letters on the wall, under some prison notices.

The Incorruptible read—

"We shall be avenged, Robespierre, monster! your turn will come!"

The watchman swung his lantern from place to place, lighting up, for
the Incorruptible's benefit, other ominous inscriptions addressed to him.

"Robespierre, the tyrant!"

"Robespierre, the assassin!"

The Incorruptible turned pale.

He was well accustomed to insult and abuse, no doubt, but these

imprecations on the walls, in that gruesome and silent prison, seemed like
the last curses of the dead, written in letters of fire and blood!

"They must occupy themselves, I suppose!" remarked Barassin, still

laughing.

The Incorruptible turned away, feeling ill at ease. Again he questioned

the man, fixing him the while as if he would fathom the depths of his
experience. Did he keep watch every night? He must have witnessed some
heart-rending scenes? Was he not disturbed in his sleep, living thus in
continual contact with the dread spectre of death? Could he really sleep?
Did not the cries of the victims disturb his slumber? Was he not haunted by
their solemn leavetakings and their sobs?

Citoyen Robespierre could rest assured! Barassin slept soundly enough!

Such fancies were very well for women! In the first place, the dead never
returned, and then, after all, it was not Barassin who killed the victims, was
it?

Steps were heard advancing, and the turnkey made his reappearance.
The registrar had gone away and taken the keys with him. It was impossible
to get at the prison register. He then suggested that Robespierre should go
with him to the men's ward.

"Let us awake the prisoners. If the man you seek is there you will easily
recognize him."

The Incorruptible refused, starting involuntarily. He had no wish to be

seen by the prisoners.

Then, there was but one course left. Barrassin might accompany him,
and speak to the men's turnkey, who would look for this Germain from bed
to bed, and Barassin would bring back to Robespierre the result of the
inquiry, as he himself had to return to his post. Robespierre would have to
wait a little while, of course. And Collas moved the watchman's chair
towards him.

"Very good! I will wait, but be quick!"

The two men went away, turning to the left, through the small gate,
which Barassin carefully closed behind him. Robespierre followed the
watchman with his eyes.

"Happy brute! He can sleep in peace!" he exclaimed.

So this man's sleep was not disturbed by such horrible visions as

haunted Robespierre! But then, as the watchman said, he had not killed the
victims; his name had not been inscribed on these walls as a term and brand
of infamy and hatred.
 That writing on the wall seemed to be dancing before his eyes.
"Robespierre, assassin; your turn will come!" So this was the cry which
rose from every breast! If he was vanquished in the morrow's struggle, if he
had to ascend the scaffold without having accomplished the act of social
regeneration of which he had so long dreamt, he would leave behind him
the execrated memory of a despot and bloodthirsty tyrant! His name would
be coupled with all the monsters of history! Robespierre would be cited by
posterity side by side with Nero, Caligula, Tiberius!

Stepping slowly towards the watchman's seat, he sat down sideways, his
eyes fixed, like a somnambulist's, and his arm resting on the back of the
chair, as he repeated in a low murmur—

"Your turn will come!"

Almost the same dread, ominous words had the night before forced him
to start up suddenly, and impelled him to rush towards the window of his
room.

"Arise, Robespierre, arise? Your hour has come!"

It was the shade of Camille Desmoulins that had uttered the grim
summons! Camille, accompanied by his wife, the pale and sweet Lucile,
sought to draw him to them, to drag him along with them on the blood-
strewn way to which they had been doomed! But the phantoms had all
vanished with the refreshing dawn. It was fever, of course! He was subject
to it; it peopled his sleep with harrowing visions and fearful dreams. But
these were nothing but excited hallucinations, creatures of his overwrought
brain....

Robespierre had now closed his eyes, overcome with fatigue, and still
continued the thread of his thoughts and fancies. His ideas were becoming
confused. He was vaguely wondering whether such imaginings were due to
fever after all? If this was not the case, it was perhaps his conscience that
awakened from its torpor, and rose at night to confront him with his
victims? Yes, his conscience that relentlessly gnawed at his heart-strings,
and wrung from him a gasping confession of alarm! Had not Fouquier-
Tinville seen the Seine one night from his terrace rolling waves of blood?
This was also a mere delusion ... the outcome of remorse, perhaps?
Remorse? Why? Remorse for a just deed, for a work of redemption? No! It
sprung rather from a diseased imagination caused by an over-excited and
over-active brain, which, weakened by excess, clothed the simplest objects
with supernatural attributes.

Robespierre's eyes were now half-closed, and wandered dreamily to the

women's courtyard, where grey arches stood out in clear and sharp relief
under the soft moonlight. He was in deep reverie, wondering what could be
the true cause of such strange illusions, and as he wondered, examples from
past history came crowding to his mind.

Yes ... did not Brutus imagine that he saw the shade of Cæsar gliding
into his tent, when it could have been nothing but the flicker of a lamp on
the curtains moved by the wind, or a moonbeam playing, as that one
yonder, on a pillar?

As he gazed his eyes dilated in horror. It was no moonbeam. The

outlines of a woman's form, ethereal and transparent, stood motionless
against the pillar. It moved! Another form, white and shadowy, glided
towards the first, and a third emerged from the dim background and joined
them. Robespierre followed every movement with horror-stricken gaze. He
rose, crept nearer: was he awake, or was it indeed a dream? Had he again
fallen a prey to delusions at the very moment when he was persuading
himself of their unreality? He was not asleep! He was wide awake! He felt
the hot blood coursing through his veins, he walked to and fro, and was
completely self-possessed! He knew he was at the Conciergerie, and had
come to fetch his son Olivier. A little while ago he had conversed with two
men there, on that very spot, the turnkey and the night watchman. And yet
his nervous imagination conjured up before his eyes those chimerical
visions clothed with the semblance of reality! For, of course, he was not
deceived, he knew well enough they were unreal delusions, and yet he felt
nervous and ill at ease!

"What strange beings we are!" he thought. "Poor human nature! We

pride ourselves on our strength of mind, and yet we are subject to such
hallucinations!"
 Again he was startled from his musings. Other forms suddenly appeared
in the white moonlit courtyard, walking slowly up and down, in pairs,
singly, or in groups. They came and went, stopped, conversed with or took
leave of each other, all in a great hush, without seeming to notice the
Incorruptible, who in his fear kept as much as possible aloof, never moving
his eyes from them a moment.

Suddenly, he uttered a cry. He had bent forward to examine their

features and had recognised ... Madame Roland! ... Madame Roland! ... and
Madame Elizabeth, the king's sister; ... Good God! and there was Charlotte
Corday, the girl who had killed Marat! The courtyard filled with new forms,
blanched and wan, gliding about with supernatural grace in the pale
moonlight. Robespierre stood rooted to the spot, seized with wild terror.

"Am I mad?" he asked himself.

Ghosts! Yes, they were ghosts! What! was he going to believe in ghosts,
like old women and children? It was folly, crass folly, and he repeated aloud
—"Madness! sheer madness!"

But what did it all mean! What were those wandering forms which
reminded him of beings long dead? Were they subtle effluences of their
bodies that could pass through the prison walls, invisible by day, but
luminous at night, as phosphorescent spectres were said to flit among
tombstones in churchyards by moonlight, to the dismay of the weak and
credulous.

"Yes, the weak and credulous!" he repeated, in a voice which quavered

none the less, "the weak and credulous, easily prone to fear and remorse..."

He went towards the gate of the men's ward livid with fright, in the hope
that the watchman would come and put an end to these harrowing
phantasms.

He cried out in desperation—

"Does the man never mean to come!"

 At that moment a man's form appeared in the gallery to his right, and he
went towards it hopefully. Barassin? But he recoiled. No! it was not he! The
form grew more distinct, others followed. There were now six, eight, ten,
twenty of them, a band of prisoners slowly and silently moving towards the
gate. They were coming, all coming! He recognised them:

"The Girondins! .. Brissot! .. Vergniaud! .."

Were all his victims then going to show themselves behind those iron
bars like avengers, to torture and madden him?

Robespierre was suddenly dazzled by a stream of moonlight

illuminating an iron grating just above him, which he had not noticed on his
entrance. Outlines of fresh forms appeared behind the bars, gradually
growing more distinct. They were the ghosts of other victims! For he
recognised them, while they, apparently, were unconscious of his presence.

He took his eyes off these for a moment to see if the spectres gathered
behind the grating of the ground floor were still there. Yes! They were still
there. They were everywhere then? Everywhere! ... What were they doing?
Why did they come and force the past upon him in this way? After spending
the day in struggling with the living, must his nights be spent in encounters
with the dead? He continued staring in mute and fascinated horror, as
motionless as those ghosts gathered behind the closed grill, and seeming to
await the gruesome roll-call of the condemned.

At their silence he presently took heart. None of them had their eyes
fixed on him. This was proof, he thought, that they existed only in his
imagination. For, after all, if they were real, they would have stared at him
in anger, with terrible and threatening looks ... they would have rushed upon
him, one and all. Those iron barriers would have yielded to their united
effort, and burst asunder!

Even as he thought this the gratings swung back noiselessly.

Robespierre recoiled, his flesh creeping, cold beads of perspiration

starting on his forehead.
 The gates had opened! It was all true then! They were real! The whole
array of spectres was coming down upon him! They were advancing slowly,
they were entering the courtyard! No, they had not seen him! Robespierre
was still retreating, step by step.

"They haven't seen me!" he gasped. If he could gain the passage to the
left of the archway, which was the only exit available, he was safe! He
would escape them! For they were not likely to follow him into the street....

He reached the vaulted passage, stepping cautiously backwards, keeping

them in sight all the while, like a criminal in dread of detection. But at the
entrance of the passage Danton and Camille Desmoulins confronted him.

"Danton! Camille!"

He started back, shaking with fear. Every exit was barred!

These two noted victims were advancing carelessly, conversing

together. They had not noticed him either!

The door of the Queen's cell now moved.

What! was that going to open too?

Marie Antoinette appeared on the threshold, descended the few steps

and joined the others, who all made deep obeisance at the approach of their
sovereign.

The Queen! it was indeed the Queen!

Robespierre felt now that he was lost. Flight had become impossible.
The one remaining means of escape was by the little grating of the men's
courtyard. He tried to reach it, still walking backwards, without once losing
sight of the apparitions, his arms stretched behind him, every muscle
strained, and both hands clenched convulsively. He soon came in contact
with the grating, and tried to push it open with his back. Not succeeding he
abruptly turned round. It was locked! He tried madly to force it, but the
massive iron bars proved too much for his strength. He seized and shook
the lattice in his agony. The rattling noise made him turn quickly, thinking
all the spectres had come down upon him. But no! They stood still in the
same places, motionless, and apparently unconscious of his presence. But
this could not last; ... they must see him sooner or later! And if he were seen
he would surely be the prey of these arisen tenants of the tomb! He wiped
the cold sweat from his brow, panting and breathless, and made a sudden
frantic effort in his overwhelming panic to repel the ghastly vision, turning
away from it.

"It is absurd! The dead never return!" he cried, stamping violently.

He persuaded himself that it was only necessary to disbelieve in it and

the vision would fade, to refuse to look, and he would no longer see the
phantoms. He then turned round boldly, as if to prove his words.

Every eye was upon him. They appeared terrible in the awful majesty of
their wrongs, as if accusing him, as if judging him. He remained
motionless, terror-stricken. Yes, they were all looking at him! Slowly,
silently they glided towards him.

"Oh! no further! no further!" he cried. "I implore you! I am

frightened!..."

Every limb trembled, as he thus prayed them to desist.

"Oh yes! I know what you are going to say, I see the word trembling on
your lips: 'Assassin!'"

The victims seemed to him to bend their heads in mute assent. He

feared they would speak, and hastened to prevent them.... Yes, he was an
assassin, he knew it! ... It was just and right they should call him so! He
knew, yes, he knew, what they wanted of him.... He must set free the
prisoners, overthrow the scaffold?

The victims again nodded approval.

Yes! ... Yes! ... he would do everything, anything they asked. He swore
it to them....
 "But in pity go! I entreat you! Oh go! in pity, go and leave me!"

The spectres remained motionless, their eyes still fixed upon him.

"Mercy!" he cried. "Have mercy!"

Yes, mercy! ... he begged for mercy! Their looks would kill him! He
could not bear it any longer! It was too much! His fright now bordered on
madness, and he cried out: "Let me alone! I am frightened! horribly
frightened!"

So saying he tottered forward, ready to drop from exhaustion, and tried

to grasp the back of the chair for support. But it gave way.

"Help! help!" he screamed.

"Hullo! who's calling?" cried a voice outside.

It was Barassin returning from the registrar's office. He opened the

grating and entered, then drew back in bewilderment at the sight of
Robespierre on the ground, his head buried in his hands. The watchman at
once thought that he must have fallen asleep on the chair, and slipped on to
the paved courtyard. He laid down his lantern, and tried to raise the
Incorruptible. Robespierre awoke and lifted his haggard eyes. At sight of
the man he violently pushed him away.

"I see, you're not quite awake yet!" laughed Barassin.

Robespierre rubbed his eyes, and looked anxiously around.

"You've had a dream? ... A nightmare, eh?"

"Yes!" answered Robespierre, now himself again. "I have had a fearful
dream." Then rising with difficulty, he fell exhausted on the chair which the
watchman held out to him.

Barassin now told Robespierre the result of his quest. They had
interrogated the prisoners, from bed to bed. The young man he sought was
not among them.
 Robespierre, still uneasy, and casting anxious and furtive glances in
every corner, expressed his thanks.

Suddenly he rose and seized Barassin by the arm.

"Are we alone, here?" he asked.

"Why, yes!" answered the man in some surprise.

"Then let us go!" said Robespierre, impatiently, "let us go at once!"

Barassin took his lantern, and walked in front.

"This way!" he said, opening the wicket through which they had
entered.

In the gallery Robespierre again seized the man's arm, and bent forward
to see if the way was clear; then feeling immense relief, he rushed towards
the exit, almost running, and followed with difficulty by Barassin, who with
the lantern dangling in his hand could scarcely keep pace with him.

"Hallo! Citoyen Robespierre!" he panted, "you're going too fast!"

But the Incorruptible continued his headlong flight.

CHAPTER XII

THE EVE OF THE BATTLE

Robespierre could breathe again. He was once more in the open, the
silent stars above him, the Seine flecked with white bars of reflected
moonlight, flowing at his feet. But he dared not linger there. He turned
quickly, and darted along close to the walls, fearing that for him, as once for
Fouquier-Tinville, the water would take the crimson hue of blood. By slow
degrees he became calmer. Refreshing gusts of cool night air fanned his
fevered brow, and restored him to reality. He thought of Olivier again. If he
were not in the Conciergerie, where could he be?

Entering the inner court of the Tuileries, at first he seemed undecided,

and then, as if under a sudden impulse, went straight towards the Pavilion
of Liberty. The Committee of Public Safety held its meetings there, in the
very apartment once occupied by Louis XVI. This committee usually
worked far into the night, and Robespierre was sure of finding some one.
As he expected, he met Billaud-Varennes and Collot d'Herbois, who were
crossing the vestibule of the ground floor at that moment. He accosted them
angrily, for the two men, who had been hissed and hooted at the Jacobin
Club, now seemed to exult, as though they held some secret threat over his
head. The ironical smiles he fancied he saw playing round their lips
aggravated his fury.

"So you have released the prisoner I sent to La Force?" he cried.

"Quite true!" replied Billaud-Varennes, relishing Robespierre's

discomfiture as a set-off against the Jacobins' hooting.

"For what reason?"

"To cross-examine him."

"Where is he?"

"That is for you to find out."

"I command you to send him back immediately to La Force!"

"We receive no orders from you!"

"Then it is to be war between us? You shall have it, scoundrels! war to
the knife! And to-morrow too!" and turning away abruptly, he went towards
the steps, and pushed the door open in a violent rage.
 Billaud-Varennes and Collot d'Herbois retraced their steps to apprise
their colleagues at the Convention of their stormy interview with
Robespierre. But on the threshold of the Assembly-room Billaud stopped
his companion.

"Wait a moment," he said, "let me cross-examine the young man first."

So saying, he went upstairs to the attics, where Olivier had been locked
up ever since five o'clock under the charge of a gendarme, to whom
Coulongeon, the Committee's agent, had confided him, with strict orders
that the prisoner was to be kept entirely out of sight until the Committee
had decided on his fate.

Coulongeon was one of the sharpest detectives of the Committee. It was

he who, disguised as a beggar, had been the object of Blount's sudden barks
in the forest of Montmorency, where he had witnessed the interview
between Robespierre and Vaughan. Driven away by Robespierre's agents,
he had gone immediately to the entrance of the forest, expecting vainly the
Englishman's reappearance.

On his return to Paris the same evening he had reported his discovery at
once to the Committee of Public Safety. Billaud-Varennes rubbed his hands
gleefully. He was on the scent of a plot. An Englishman? That could be no
other than Vaughan, Fox's agent, who was known to have been already two
days in Paris. Ah! Robespierre had secret interviews with him, had he? A
plot, of course! It was splendid! Nothing could be more opportune!

"Run quickly, and ascertain if the Englishman is still at the American

Consulate, while we draw up the warrant of arrest!" was his immediate
order.

But at the Consulate the detective was told that Vaughan had just left
Paris. Suspecting a trick, he took other means to continue his inquiries, only
to find after all that the Englishman had started for Geneva directly after
leaving Montmorency.
 The members of the Committee were greatly disappointed on learning
that the plot must remain unravelled, for how could they prove the
interview without witnesses? Coulongeon was the only one who had seen
Robespierre speaking with Vaughan, but he was in the pay of the
Committee, and no one would believe him. They rested their hopes on the
probable return of the Englishman, but they waited to no purpose, and were
finally obliged to abandon the attempt.

One evening, however, Coulongeon had brought the Committee an

unlooked-for piece of news. Having had a message to take to the prison of
La Bourbe, he had found himself in the Acacia courtyard among the
prisoners just at their supper-hour. Two female prisoners had attracted his
attention. It seemed to him as if it was not the first time he had seen them,
and after searching his memory for a moment, he recognised them as the
two women who were with Vaughan in the forest of Montmorency before
Robespierre arrived on the scene. Yes, he remembered it all now! It was so!
There was not the slightest doubt! The gaoler, when questioned, completely
confirmed his suspicions. The women did come from Montmorency, where
they had been arrested by Robespierre's orders. "Now we have two
witnesses!" Billaud-Varennes cried in delight.

"Three!" the agent interjected. "For, now I come to think of it, there was
a young man with them."

"He must be found also! Quick to Montmorency, and bring him back
with you!"

At Montmorency, after two days of fruitless search, the detective

discovered Clarisse's house in the forest. The gardener on being
interrogated replied that he was completely ignorant of the whereabouts of
Olivier, who had disappeared the very day his mother and his fiancée were
arrested.... Perhaps Leonard the locksmith could tell him. Questioned in his
turn, Leonard replied evasively. Coulongeon then informed him who he
was, and threatened him with the law, so that Leonard ended by owning that
the young man had started the same night for Paris. He swore that was all
he knew. Coulongeon, pretending to be quite satisfied, thanked him and
went away. But returning soon after he adroitly questioned the neighbours
on Leonard's connections and acquaintances. The agent learnt that when the
locksmith went to Paris he took up his abode in furnished apartments in the
Rue de Rocher, kept by a certain widow Beaugrand.

"Now I am on the right track," thought Coulongeon.

Once back in Paris the agent had little difficulty in making the good
woman speak. Did the widow Beaugrand know the young man? Pardieu!
She knew him too well! He was the daring insulter of Robespierre, the
young madman arrested on the Fête of the Supreme Being who was now
imprisoned at La Force.

The joy of the Committee knew no bounds, when they learnt the news
on leaving the hall of the Convention on the 8th Thermidor.

Billaud-Varennes, as can be imagined, was also overjoyed.

"We will have the three prisoners out of gaol, at once, and keep them
here at hand."

Two orders of release had been immediately drafted, one for the prison
of La Bourbe, the other for La Force.

Coulongeon had gone first of all to La Force to fetch Olivier, whom he

conducted straight to the Tuileries and locked in a little chamber above the
Committee-room under charge of a gendarme. But at the prison of La
Bourbe he was too late; the two women had been taken away by Lebas,
under an order of release from Robespierre.

On his return the police-agent had sought Billaud-Varennes to apprise

him of the result of his errand, but finding that he was away until after the
meeting of the Jacobins, he left a sealed note for him with full particulars.

Billaud received this on his return from the Jacobins accompanied by

Collot d'Herbois.

"Out of three witnesses, only one is left to us!" he exclaimed on reading

it. "The most important one, however! We have the man himself who
insulted the traitor! We must cross-examine him directly. It will be
amusing."

Robespierre just then appeared on the scene and hastened the

examination by his violent outburst.

Billaud-Varennes began to cross-examine Olivier in the little chamber

above the Committee-room. The young man knew nothing of the plot.
Robespierre might have had an interview with Vaughan in the forest, this
was very possible, but he, Olivier, had left just after the Englishman's
arrival.

"You spoke to him, I suppose?"

"To whom?"

"To Vaughan."

"Why, yes! I exchanged a few words with him."

"You knew him, then?"

"My mother knew him. He was an old friend of hers."

"She knew then what he came to Montmorency for?"

"Not in the least. It was quite a chance-meeting. He had lost his way,
when they..."

"And you know absolutely nothing of what passed after your

departure?"

"Nothing, except that my mother and my fiancée were arrested by

Robespierre's infamous orders."

Billaud-Varennes left the room greatly disappointed. He wondered if,

after all, Olivier was telling the truth.
 "However, the young man has the night to reflect over it," he said to
himself, as he descended the stair. "I will question him again to-morrow
after having conferred with the Committee, perhaps by that time he will
have decided to speak! And yet I cannot but think he was sincere."

With this he re-entered the room where his colleagues were assembled.
But such an extraordinary scene of animation presented itself when he
opened the door that he forgot the object of his visit.

This Committee-room, like the others next to it, formed part of a suite
of apartments recently belonging to the King. It offered a strange spectacle,
with its mixture of elegance and vulgarity, which said more than words for
the ravages of the Revolution.

Over the five doors, two of which opened on to a long corridor, the
royal arms surmounted by a crown had been roughly erased. The walls and
panels of the doors were covered with printed decrees of the Convention,
and tricolour placards were pasted up everywhere. This array of
Revolutionary literature struck the observer as at once ominous and
pathetic, in the midst of all the grace and beauty of that white and gold
reception-room, decorated in the purest Louis XV. style, with its daintily
carved cornices and painted ceiling, where Nymphs and Cupids sported in
the glowing spring-tide among flowers. The contrast was even more
apparent in the furniture. Gilded armchairs covered with rare tapestry, now
all torn, stood side by side with plain deal seats, some of which were very
rickety. A sideboard laden with eatables and wine-bottles completed the
installation of the Terror in the palace of the Tuileries.

Billaud-Varennes was still standing there on the threshold. Collot

d'Herbois, surrounded by Barère, Carnot, Prieur, and Elie Lacoste, was
violently addressing Saint-Just, Robespierre's friend, who was seated at the
table, engaged in writing the speech he was to deliver before the
Convention on the morrow. Saint-Just, calm and contemptuous, replied to
their insults by a shrug of the shoulders. This disdain exasperated Collot
d'Herbois beyond measure, and Saint-Just aggravated him still more by
ironical inquiries about the Jacobins' meeting.
 "You are nothing more than a traitor!" cried Collot; "it is our indictment
you are drawing up there, I suppose?"

"Yes, traitor! threefold traitor!" exclaimed Elie Lacoste. "Traitor and

perjurer, you form with Robespierre and Couthon a triumvirate of calumny,
falsehood, and betrayal."

Saint-Just, without losing self-possession a moment, stopped in his

writing, and coldly offered to read them his speech.

Barère disdainfully refused to listen.

"We fear neither you nor your accomplices! You are but a child,
Couthon a miserable cripple, and as to Robespierre..."

At this moment an usher brought in a letter to Barère. He looked uneasy

after he had read it, and signed to his colleagues to follow, leaving Saint-
Just free to continue his work. In the lobby Barère told them it was a letter
from Lecointre announcing the approaching attack upon the Committee by
the troops of the Commune, and offering the battalion of his section for
their defence.

"It is exactly as I told you!" cried Elie Lacoste. "The leaders of the
Commune must be instantly arrested, and with them Robespierre and his
two accomplices!"

"Commencing with Saint-Just and his speech," said Collot.

"Robespierre was here just now," observed Billaud-Varennes, who had

followed his colleagues out of the room; "he wanted to know what we had
done with the prisoner from La Force. We told him we had not to render
account to him, whereupon he went away in a rage, crying out, 'You want
war? War you shall have then!' We have been warned by the Incorruptible
himself, you see!"

"Yes, but we shall crush him through his Englishman! We have

witnesses enough now!"
 "Nay, unhappily we have not!" replied Billaud.

"What! we have no witnesses?" exclaimed Barère in surprise. "What do

you mean? ... Has not Coulongeon...?"

"Coulongeon arrived too late at La Bourbe Lebas had just taken them
off, by Robespierre's orders—no one knows whither."

"Oh! the villain! he suspected something, then, and abducted them to

suppress their evidence; but we have at any rate the young man from La
Force."

"He is upstairs, but he knows nothing."

"He lies, he is a traitor!"

"No, he seemed quite sincere, and he execrates Robespierre; but I shall

question him again to-morrow."

"And meanwhile we must resort to stratagem," remarked Barère.

They discussed and debated the question, and all came to the conclusion
that Barère was right. Their safety lay in stratagem. After all, there was no
immediate peril. Robespierre was not fond of violent measures, he would
not break the bounds of the law unless driven to it. It was out of sheer
vexation that he had thrown that challenge in Billaud-Varennes' face; and
after all, since Saint-Just had again assured them of the Incorruptible's pure
intentions, it would be perhaps prudent to dissemble and to disarm the
triumvirate by simulating confidence.

On the whole the members of the Committee were undecided, hesitating

between two alternatives, one as dangerous as the other. Either they must
openly attack Robespierre and overthrow him, and thus add to the already
unbounded power of the Committee, which would then more easily crush
the Convention; or they must leave the power in Robespierre's hands, who,
when once master, would lose no time in annihilating them.
 The members returned to the Committee-room where Saint-Just was
still writing. They spoke as if they had altered their mind on thinking things
over. They regretted their hasty words, for after all the patriotism of
Robespierre and his friends had stood a long test. They spoke of precautions
to be taken in case of an unexpected attack, for warnings had reached them
from every quarter. All this was discussed aloud before Saint-Just,
ostensibly to show their complete confidence in him.

Saint-Just, to all appearance the dupe of their hypocrisy, assured them

they were unnecessarily alarmed. If the Jacobins and the Commune had
formed any projects against the Committee, he would have heard of it.
There was certainly considerable excitement in the streets among the people
whose anger had been aroused at the calumnies to which Robespierre had
been subject. But the Incorruptible would soon calm them down. As far as
he, Saint-Just, was concerned, he was ready to forget the somewhat hasty
words which one of his colleagues had addressed to him in the heat of the
moment.

Collot d'Herbois upon a sign from Barère feigned to regret his hasty
speech, which was, of course, he said, the outcome of excitement. It was so
easy in these times of anger and enmity to be carried away by the fever of
the moment. The dissensions of the Committee were making them the
laughing-stock of their enemies.

Saint-Just, cold and impassive as before, quietly assented, and

meanwhile continued to draft his speech, and when he had finished put it in
his pocket, and looked up at the clock. It was five in morning.

"At ten, the speech will be copied, and I shall read it to you before the
sitting, so that there may be no unpleasantness," said Saint-Just, rising to
go.

Taking his hat and stick, he moved off, the others, to all appearance
reassured, pretending to do likewise; but Saint-Just had no sooner
disappeared than they returned to the Committee-room. It was agreed to
send for the three leaders suspected of assisting Robespierre in the
insurrection: Hauriot, the Commander of the troops; Payan, the Commune
agent; and Fleuriot-Lescot, Mayor of Paris. The ushers returned with the
two last named, but Hauriot was not to be found. For the space of four
hours they retained Payan and Fleuriot-Lescot, smoking, drinking, eating,
talking, and discussing, in the sultry and oppressive heat which heralded the
near approach of a storm. They thus held them in check for the time being,
overwhelming them meanwhile with questions, to which they replied in
terms that tended to calm the anxiety of the Committee.

During this time the Parisian populace, who had not slept either, had
entered the Convention, the assembly-hall of which, situated also in the
palace of the Tuileries, within ear-shot of the Committee, had been filling
since five o'clock that morning, though the sitting was not to commence
until noon.

Every moment messengers arrived at the Committee-room, ushers out

of breath bringing news, messages, and reports in an endless succession,
which increased as the hours advanced. Payan and Fleuriot-Lescot had just
left, after completely reassuring the Committee. It was now half-past ten,
and the sitting was opened. Saint-Just did not put in an appearance, but the
thump of crutches was heard in the corridor, announcing the arrival of
Couthon, the cripple.

"Where is Saint-Just?"

"He is coming!"

For one hour Couthon kept the Committee in suspense, entertaining

them with Saint-Just's favourite theme, Robespierre's single-minded
patriotism, but still no Saint-Just appeared. The Committee began to feel
annoyed, and soon Carnot, who suspected treachery, spoke out boldly. It
was nothing less, he said, than a preconcerted plan between Couthon, Saint-
Just, and Robespierre.

Couthon protested.

"You do wrong to speak ill of the patriot Robespierre! You are basely
calumniating a friend of your childhood!"
 "If I am base, you are a traitor!" retorted Carnot, beside himself with
rage.

But Couthon, anticipating a storm, took up his crutches and stumped

off, protesting as he went. Sinister sounds now reached the Committee.
They had been betrayed! Saint-Just was going to denounce them from the
tribune! The document he had been drafting before them, there on that
table, was nothing more or less than the indictment of the Committee!
Barère had just received trustworthy information to that effect. Robespierre
had drawn up a list of eighteen names of those destined for the scaffold. A
deputy entered and asked for Billaud-Varennes. He was told that Billaud
had just gone out, but would return shortly.

"Ah! Here is Fouché!" some one exclaimed.

It was in truth Fouché, the deputy, who now entered. He was beset with
questions. Yes! they were not mistaken, he told them. Robespierre was now
going to throw off the mask, and denounce some of his colleagues. "And I
am sure he has not forgotten me," added Fouché, ironically.

He was immediately surrounded by eager questioners. The names? Did

he know the names? they asked anxiously. Fouché did not know; but
everybody was threatened, and each must look after himself; the sitting
would soon begin.

All turned their eyes anxiously to the clock. It was not yet noon; they
had still twelve minutes! Now another deputy came in, breathless with the
news that Robespierre had just entered the Hall of the Convention, with his
brother Augustin, Couthon, Saint-Just, Lebas, and all his followers. The
galleries, crowded to excess, had received the Incorruptible with loud
cheers.

"Hark, the rabble are applauding; he has hired his usual claque," said
one.

"That's true," another answered. "Since five this morning the

Robespierrists, male and female, have taken possession of the galleries,
yelling, feasting, and drinking."
 "They are already drunk."

"Well! Let us go and offer our heads to the drunkards!" exclaimed

Fouché.

But just then a door on the right opened, and Billaud-Varennes entered.
Every one paused.

"Here is Billaud at last."

Billaud was looking anxious, and wiping his brow, worn out with the
heat, he asked for a glass of beer. They eagerly questioned him.

"Was it true, then? They would have to fight?"

"Yes! fight to the death. They ought to have listened to him. Robespierre
had told him plainly enough that there would be war. And now that they
could not prove the plot...."

"What plot?" asked Fouché.

"Ah, yes! It's true; you don't know...."

Billaud made a sign to shut the doors, as Robespierre had spies in all the
corridors. The doors securely closed, Billaud-Varennes again told the story
of the Englishman. Fouché listened with curiosity. Other members, Vadier,
Amar, Voullaud, who had just entered, also followed Billaud's story with
keen interest, while those who already knew of the plot, came and went,
deep in discussion, waiting for Billaud to finish, to give their opinion.

Billaud-Varennes now produced the order of release for the two women,
signed by Robespierre, and brought from the prison of La Bourbe by
Coulongeon.

"There can be no doubt. We have in this quite enough to ruin him," said
Fouché; "but what about that young man from La Force?"

"I questioned him again closely just now in the next room. He persists
in his first statement, which appears to me quite genuine—as genuine as is
his rage against Robespierre, whom he regrets, he says, not to have stabbed
at the Fête of the Supreme Being."

"Ah! if he had! what a riddance!" was the cry with which one and all
greeted Billaud's last words.

"True; but he has not done it," observed Fouché drily. "As to the plot, it
has escaped our grasp."

"Not so," some one remarked; "his treason is evident."

A warm discussion ensued. The treachery was obvious to the

Committee, but it would not be so in the eyes of the public. It must be
proved. And where was the Englishman? Where were the women? To
accuse Robespierre thus, without sufficient proof, was sheer folly. The only
witness available, the agent Coulongeon, was in the pay of the Committee.
Robespierre would make a speech on it, call it a concocted plan, and
annihilate his accusers with an oratorical flourish.

"Nothing truer!" remarked another deputy.

"He has only to open his mouth and every one trembles."

"Very well; let us gag him," said Fouché. "It's the only means of putting
an end to it all."

They looked at him, not quite catching his meaning. Fouché explained
his idea. They had but to drown Robespierre's voice at the sitting by their
clamour. They had but to howl, scream, vociferate; the people in the
galleries would protest noisily, and their outcry would add to the tumult.
Robespierre would strain his voice in vain to be heard above the uproar, and
then fall back exhausted and vanquished.

"That's it," they cried unanimously.

Billaud also thought this an excellent idea, and at once began to arrange
for letting all their friends know as soon as possible, for Robespierre must
be prevented from uttering a single audible word. Every one approved. Just
then a door opened.

"Be quick! Saint-Just is ascending the tribune!" called a voice.

"Very well. We may as well commence with him."

And they one and all made for the doors in an indescribable disorder.

"Now for it," cried Billaud, laying his glass down on the sideboard.

But meanwhile Fouché signed to Vadier, Amar, and Voullaud to remain.

They looked at him in surprise. Fouché waited for the noise to subside, then
assuring himself that no one could overhear him, he confided his fears to
them. It was not everything to drown Robespierre's voice. Even arrested,
condemned, and on the death-tumbril, his hands bound, Robespierre would
still be dangerous; a sudden rush and riot could deliver him, and crush them
all! Then lowering his voice, he continued—

"The young madman of whom Billaud spoke just now...."

"Well?"

"Where is he?"

Amar pointed to a door on the left.

"Let him come in!" said Fouché; "I will speak to him in the name of the
Committee."

They did not yet quite grasp his meaning, but Voullaud went all the
same and opened the door.

"Hush!" said Fouché, "here is the young man!"

Olivier entered, followed by a gendarme, who, on seeing Fouché and

the other members, stopped on the threshold. Olivier looked at them
indifferently, expecting to be again cross-examined about the Englishman.
Fouché had taken his hat and put it on, as if going out.
 "Young man, you were the first to charge the despot, whom we are
about to fight, with his crimes! This is sufficient to recommend you to the
indulgence of the Committee."

As Olivier advanced in astonishment, he continued—

"You may go if you like!"

Fouché turned to the gendarme—

"The citoyen is free!"

The gendarme retired.

Vadier now understood Fouché's idea. Taking up his hat also, he

remarked—

"And if our enemy is victorious, take care not to fall again into his
clutches!"

Olivier who was preparing to go, stopped suddenly. Unhappily, he said,

he had not only himself to tremble for. His mother and fiancée were in
prison and Robespierre would revenge himself on them.

"Most probably!" replied Fouché.

"Then the Committee ought to release them also, and with even more
reason!"

Fouché shrugged his shoulders regretfully.

It had been the intention of the Committee, but the two prisoners were
beyond their reach.

"How?" asked Olivier anxiously.

Simply because they were no longer at the prison of La Bourbe.

Olivier gasped—
 "Condemned?"

"Not yet! But Lebas had taken them away with an order from
Robespierre."

Here Fouché, picking up the order left on the table by Billaud-Varennes,

showed it to Olivier, who read it in horrified amazement.

"Where are they then," he cried.

"At the Conciergerie, where they would be judged within twenty-four

hours."

"The wretch! the wretch!"

He implored them that they might be released. The Committee were all-
powerful!—They, powerful, indeed? They looked at him pityingly. He
believed that? What simplicity! How could they release the two women
when they were on the point of being sacrificed themselves? They would
have difficulty enough to save their own heads!

"To-morrow," continued Fouché, "we shall most likely be with your

mother, at the foot of the scaffold."

Olivier looked at them in terror. Was it possible? Was there no one that
could be found to kill this dangerous wild beast?

Fouché, who had consulted his colleagues in a rapid glance, now felt the
moment ripe.

"Assassinate him, you mean?" he asked.

Olivier lost all self-control. Is a mad dog assassinated? He is killed,

that's all! What did it matter if the one who did it were torn to pieces; he
would have had his revenge, and would save further victims.

"Certainly," said Fouché, "and if Robespierre is victorious, it is the only

chance of saving your mother."