Mind racing, searching for another strategy, Matteo spun one more time, kicking Robespierre’s legs and tripping him up. Stumbling, the man spun in an effort to regain his balance. Taking advantage of that split second of weakness, Matteo lunged, knife in front of him, and thrust it into Robespierre’s side. Not a direct hit to the heart, but Robespierre seemed stunned by it and slumped to the ground, eyes rolling back in his head.

Matteo searched the courtyard for Scarlet, circling again, combing the crowd. Not finding her, he became frantic.

“Matteo! No!”

He whipped around toward the sound of Scarlet’s voice and was knocked to his back by a barreling Robespierre, running at him, shoulder down. Matteo blinked, trying to focus on the man now standing above him, knife in hand. He raised up on one elbow, prepared to roll and avoid a new thrust of the knife. But a guard caught in a fight with another fell across his legs, pinning him to the ground. Robespierre smiled, satisfaction and triumph darkening his features. Then they clouded, and shock and confusion marred his face.

As Robespierre started to teeter on his feet, he cried out in pain and rubbed at the back of his neck, dropping his knife, his hands slapping at his skin, spreading a thin, white powdery substance up in the air in a great cloud around him.

“Back away!” Scarlet’s voice carried. “It’s Hellebore. Don’t breathe it or touch it.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

A great cheer shook the walls of Paris as a signal from the guards indicated the start of the death processional. Callers, sent out from the committee, read decrees and with great shouts of announcement encouraged the whole city to come. A mass of people, the size of which they hadn’t seen since the death of Louis XVI pressed into La Place, bodies and smells all blending together into one great mass. The sun shone in a great brightness and the people, glistening with sweat, chanted and cheered, knowing that today the infamous Pimpernel would finally lose his battle at the hands of the great and feared Robespierre.

“They are coming!” Guards stood at their posts, shouting.

The people, as one, strained their necks, twisting against each other from where they stood, to gain sight of the first cart as it would roll into La Place. Everyone attempted a guess at the identity of the clever master of disguise; many wagered they knew him. Fights broke out in the cause of discovery.

However, when the first wheels touched the cobblestone of the great square, silence rolled in, touching them one at a time, rolling through the crowd as the cart became visible to each person, blanketing all in a great wave.

Empty, pulled by a donkey, the sound of wheels on stone echoed hollowly in the great, silent square. The next cart also empty, and the next.

“Pas encore! Not again,” someone shouted, followed by absolute quiet.