Ou La Morte. . .
Robespierre had not slept the night before. He had sat, fully awake, sipping coffee and staring at a piece of paper upon which had sputtered several smears of tallow from the lighted candle.
"Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite. . ." he murmured as he wrote.
The People needed a slogan, a catchphrase, something they could say and believe in. It was up to him, just now, to give the people this playing chip - an he did it properly, he knew he would have the chance that his ambitious heart had always wanted - to enter as a master into the game of Power.
Simplicity was the key - simplicity and misdirection. But use a simple tool and the audience does not know that it's attention is being distracted. . .
Robespierre was no fool. He knew that the game into which this would propel him was a deadly one. He would conquer, or he would die. Simple.
So very simple. . .
In one flashpoint of brilliance mingled with the arrogant paranoia which was to soon power a whole nation, Robespierre entered three final words on the paper before him. Simple, yet they would turn what until then had been no more than a common motto into the byword of an age.
He smiled. The duel to the death had begun.
The morning broke.
"Liberte, Egalite, Fraternite - ou la Mort!"