He remembered that it had not been destroyed; Robespierre had crumpled it in his hand and tossed it aside.

And by now Robespierre would have departed, and it should not be difficult for him--the protege and intimate of Robespierre--to gain access to the Incorruptible's room.
If only he could find that document and fill in the name of Ombreval the thing would be as good as done.

True, he would require the signatures of three other Deputies; but one of these he could supply himself, and another two were easily to be requisitioned, seeing that already it bore Robespierre's.
And then as suddenly as the idea of the means had come to him, came now the spectre of the consequences to affright him.

How would it fare with him on Robespierre's return?
How angered would not Robespierre be upon discovering that his wishes had been set at naught, his very measures contravened--and this by fraud?
And than Robespierre's anger there were few things more terrible in '93.

It was an anger that shore away heads as recklessly as wayside flowers are flicked from their stems by the idler's cane.
For a second it daunted him.