bloody breast, sleeps cold in death; hears not their singing.  Vergniaud has his dose of poison; but it is not enough for his friends, it is enough only for himself; wherefore he flings it from him; presides at this Last Supper of the Girondins, with wild coruscations of eloquence, with song and mirth.  Poor human Will struggles to assert itself; if not in this way, then in that. (Memoires de Riouffe in Memoires sur les Prisons, Paris, 1823, p. 48-55.)

But on the morrow morning all Paris is out; such a crowd as no man had seen.  The Death-carts, Valaze’s cold corpse stretched among the yet living Twenty-one, roll along.  Bareheaded, hands bound; in their shirt-sleeves, coat flung loosely round the neck:  so fare the eloquent of France; bemurmured, beshouted.  To the shouts of Vive la Republique, some of them keep answering with counter-shouts of Vive la Republique.  Others, as Brissot, sit sunk in silence.  At the foot of the scaffold they again strike up, with appropriate variations, the Hymn of the Marseillese.  Such an act of music; conceive it well!  The yet Living chant there; the chorus so rapidly wearing weak!  Samson’s axe is rapid; one head per minute, or little less.  The chorus is worn out; farewell for evermore ye Girondins.  Te-Deum Fauchet has become silent; Valaze’s dead head is lopped:  the sickle of the Guillotine has reaped the Girondins all away.  ‘The eloquent, the young, the beautiful and brave!’ exclaims Riouffe.  O Death, what feast is toward in thy ghastly Halls?

Nor alas, in the far Bourdeaux region, will Girondism fare better.  In caves of Saint-Emilion, in loft and cellar, the weariest months, roll on; apparel worn, purse empty; wintry November come; under Tallien and his Guillotine, all hope now gone.  Danger drawing ever nigher, difficulty pressing ever straiter, they determine to separate.  Not unpathetic the farewell; tall Barbaroux, cheeriest of brave men, stoops to clasp his Louvet:  “In what place soever thou findest my mother,” cries he, “try to be instead of a son to her:  no resource of mine but I will share with thy Wife, should chance ever lead me where she is.”  (Louvet, p. 213.)

Louvet went with Guadet, with Salles and Valady; Barbaroux with Buzot and Petion.  Valady soon went southward, on a way of his own.  The two friends and Louvet had a miserable day and night; the 14th of November month, 1793.  Sunk in wet, weariness and hunger, they knock, on the morrow, for help, at a friend’s country-house; the fainthearted friend refuses to admit them.  They stood therefore under trees, in the pouring rain.  Flying desperate, Louvet thereupon will to Paris.  He sets forth, there and then, splashing the mud on each side of him, with a fresh strength gathered from fury or frenzy.  He passes villages, finding ’the sentry asleep in his box in the thick rain;’ he is gone, before the man can call after him.  He bilks Revolutionary Committees; rides in carriers’ carts, covered carts and open; lies hidden in one, under knapsacks and cloaks of soldiers’ wives on the Street of Orleans, while men search for him:  has hairbreadth escapes that would fill three romances:  finally he gets to Paris to his fair Helpmate; gets to Switzerland, and waits better days.