. It was necessary
to get rid of this document at any cost. The municipality sent Mandat
an order to come to the Hotel-de-Ville. He knew nothing about the
revolution that had just taken place there. And yet he hesitated to
obey. A secret presentiment took possession of his soul. Finally, at
the instance of Roederer, he decided, towards five in the morning, to
leave the Tuileries and go to that Hotel-de-Ville, which was to be so
fatal to him. When he came before the municipality he was surprised to
see new faces.

He was accused of having intended to disperse "the {282} innocent and
patriotic column of the people," and sentenced to be taken to the Abbey
prison. It was a sentence of death. Mandat was massacred on the steps
of the Hotel-de-Ville. A pistol-shot brought him down. Pikes and
sabres finished him. His body was thrown into the Seine. Such was the
first exploit of the new Commune. It preluded thus the massacres of
September. "Mandat's death," says Count de Vaublanc in his Memoirs,
"was, beyond any doubt, the chief cause of the calamities of the day.
If he had attacked the rebels as soon as they came near the palace, he
could have dispersed them with ease. They took a long time to form and
set off; and, being undecided and uneasy, they often halted. No troop
marching from a given point in this immense city knew whether it was
seconded by the rebels from other quarters, and lost much time in
making sure." The second exploit of the Commune was to confine Petion
at the mayoralty under the guard of six men. A voluntary captive, this
accomplice of the insurrection rejoiced at a measure which sheltered
him from every danger. As M. Mortimer-Ternaux has observed: "On this
fatal night, when the passion of the royalty was fulfilled, Petion
doubled the parts of Judas and Pontius Pilate. Like Judas, he went at
nightfall to give the kiss of peace to Louis XVI. by assuring him of
his loyalty; like the Roman governor, he proclaimed at daybreak the
impotence with which he had stricken himself, and washed his hands of
all that was to happen."

{283}

When the first fires of this fatal day were kindling in the sky, Marie
Antoinette experienced a profound emotion. Looking with melancholy at
the horizon which began to lighten: "Sister," said she to Madame
Elisabeth, "come and see the sun rise." It was the sun that was to
illumine the death-struggle of royalty. Sinister omen! the sun was red
as blood.