Robespierre had quietly waited the while.

He was in no hurry: being a night-bird of very pronounced tastes, he was quite ready to sit here until the small hours of the morning watching Citizen Chauvelin mentally writhing in the throes of recollections of the past few months.
There was nothing that delighted the sea-green Incorruptible quite so much as the aspect of a man struggling with a hopeless situation and feeling a net of intrigue drawing gradually tighter and tighter around him.
Even now, when he saw Chauvelin's smooth forehead wrinkled into an anxious frown, and his thin hand nervously clutched upon the table, Robespierre heaved a pleasurable sigh, leaned back in his chair, and said with an amiable smile: "You do agree with me, then, Citizen, that the situation has become intolerable ?" Then as Chauvelin did not reply, he continued, speaking more sharply: "And how terribly galling it all is, when we could have had that man under the guillotine by now, if you had not blundered so terribly last year." His voice had become hard and trenchant like that knife to which he was so ready to make constant allusion.

But Chauvelin still remained silent.
There was really nothing that he could say.
"Citizen Chauvelin, how you must hate that man!" exclaimed Robespierre at last.
Then only did Chauvelin break the silence which up to now he had appeared to have forced himself to keep.
"I do!" he said with unmistakable fervour.
"Then why do you not make an effort to retrieve the blunders of last year ?" queried Robespierre blandly.

"The Republic has been unusually patient and long-suffering with you, Citizen Chauvelin.

She has taken your many services and well-known patriotism into consideration.