“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 at Émile Blanchard calmly. His face gave nothing away.

“Do I know you?” he asked at last.

“I attended you once,” said Émile, “at the request of your own doctor, Souberbielle, when he was indisposed.”

“I remember you. Souberbielle thought highly of you.”

Blanchard bowed.

“You say she is pregnant?”

“I do.”

Robespierre continued to stare at him.

“Was Danton one of your patients?”

“Yes. For a while.”