The former， stiff in his starched cravat， posing "like the Holy Ghost，" more didactic and more absolute than Robespierre himself， comes and proclaims to Frenchmen from the tribune， equality， probity， frugality， Spartan habits， and a rural cot with all the voluptuousness of virtue；[66] this suits admirably the chevalier Saint-Just， a former applicant for a place in the Count d'Artois' body-guard， a domestic thief， a purloiner of silver plate which he takes to Paris， sells and spends on prostitutes， imprisoned for six months on complaint of his own mother，[67] and author of a lewd poem which he succeeds in rendering filthy by trying to render it fanciful. - Now， indeed， he is grave； he no longer leers； he kills - but with what arguments， and what a style！[68] The young Laubardemont as well as the paid informers and prosecutors of imperial Rome， have less disgraced the human intellect， for these creatures of a Tiberius or a Richelieu still used plausible arguments in their reasoning， and with more or less adroitness. With Saint-Just， there is no connection of ideas； there is no sequence or march in his rhapsody； like an instrument strained to the utmost， his mind plays only false notes in violent fits and starts； logical continuity， the art then so common of regularly developing a theme， has disappeared； he stumbles over the ground， piling up telling aphorisms and dogmatic axioms. In dealing with facts there is nothing in his speech but a perversion of the truth；impostures abound in it of pure invention， palpable， as brazen as those of a charlatan in his booth；[69] he does not even deign to disguise them with a shadow of probability； as to the Girondists， and as to Danton， Fabre d'Eglantine and his other adversaries， whoever they may be， old or new， any rope to hang them with suffices for him；any rough， knotted， badly-twisted cord he can lay his hands on， no matter what， provided it strangles， is good enough； there is no need of a finer one for confirmed conspirators； with the gossip of the club and an Inquisition catechi**， he can frame his bill of indictment. -Accordingly， his intellect grasps nothing and yields him nothing； he is a sententious and overexcited declaimer， an artificial spirit always on the stretch， full of affectations，[70] his talent reducing itself down to the rare flashes of a somber imagination， a pupil of Robespierre， as Robespierre himself is a pupil of Rousseau， the exaggerated scholar of a plodding scholar， always rabidly ultra， furious through calculation， deliberately violating both language and ideas，[71] confining himself to theatrical and funereal paradoxes， a sort of "grand vizier"[72] with the airs of an exalted moralist and the bearing of the sentimental shepherd.[73] Were one of a mocking humor one might shrug one's shoulders； but， in the present state of the Convention， there is no room for anything but fear. Launched in imperious tones， his phrases fall upon their ears in monotonous strokes， on bowed heads， and， after five or six blows from this leaden hammer， the stoutest are stretched out stupefied on the ground；discussion is out of the question； when Saint-Just， in the name of the Convention， affirms anything， it must be believed； his dissertation is a peremptory injunction and not an effort of reason； it commands obedience； it is not open to examination； it is not a report which he draws from his coat pocket， but a bludgeon.
The other reporter， Barère， is of quite another stamp， a "patent-right" haranguer， an amusing Gascon， alert， "free and easy，" fond of a joke， even on the Committee of Public Safety，[74] unconcerned in the midst of assassinations， and， to the very last， speaking of the reign of Terror as "the ******st and most innocent thing in the world."[75]
