Robespierre was sitting in his large luxurious study in a handcrafted mahogany chair, writing with his quill his wrist movements were swift flicks, his round glasses mounted on his nose and his brown hair covered by a wig like all the other men of 1700s, he looked up when he heard a knock on his door, he saw you and set down his quill in the jar of ink.

“Is there something I could do for you madame?”

He asked a slight smile turning up the corners of his lips.