A moi....

In his hand....

The letter!..." There was the sound of a heavy thud, of a terrible scuffle there on the floor in the darkness and then a yell of victory from Collot d'Herbois.
"I have the letter! A Paris!" "Victory!" echoed Chauvelin, exultant and panting, "victory!! The Angelus, friend Hebert! Take the calotin to ring the Angelus!!!" It was instinct which caused Collot d'Herbois to find the door; he tore it open, letting in a feeble ray of light from the corridor.

He stood in the doorway one moment, his slouchy, ungainly form distinctly outlined against the lighter background beyond, a look of exultant and malicious triumph, of deadly hate and cruelty distinctly imprinted on his face and with upraised hand wildly flourishing the precious document, the brand of dishonour for the enemy of France.
"A Paris!" shouted Chauvelin to him excitedly.

"Into Robespierre's hands.