e o'clock in the morning of the 31st of May, 1793, when the dismal
sounds of the alarm bells, spreading from belfry to belfry, and the
deep booming of the insurrection gun, reverberating through the
streets, aroused the citizens from their slumbers, producing universal
excitement and consternation. A cold and freezing wind swept clouds of
mist through the gloomy air, and the moaning storm seemed the
appropriate requiem of a sorrow-stricken world. The Hotel de Ville was
the appointed place of rendezvous for the swarming multitudes. The
affrighted citizens, knowing but too well to what scenes of violence
and blood these demonstrations were the precursors, threw up their
windows, and looked out with fainting hearts upon the dusky forms
crowding by like apparitions of darkness. The rumbling of the wheels
of heavy artillery, the flash of powder, with the frequent report of
firearms, and the uproar and the clamor of countless voices, were
fearful omens of a day to dawn in blacker darkness than the night. The
Girondists had recently been called in the journals and inflammatory
speeches of their adversaries the Rolandists. The name was given them
in recognition of the prominent position of Madame Roland in the
party, and with the endeavor to cast reproach upon her and her
husband. Through all the portentous mutterings of this rising storm
could be heard deep and significant execrations and menaces, coupled
with the names of leading members of the Girondist party. "Down with
the aristocrats, the traitors, the Rolandists!" shouted incessantly
hoarse voices and shrill voices, of drunken men, of reckless boys, of
fiendish women.

The Girondists, apprehensive of some movement of this kind, had
generally taken the precaution not to sleep that night in their own
dwellings. The intrepid Vergniaud alone refused to adopt any measure
of safety. "What signifies life to me now?" said he; "my blood may be
more eloquent than my words in awakening and saving my country. I am
ready for the sacrifice." One of the Girondists, M. Rabout, a man of
deep, reflective piety, hearing these noises, rose from his bed,
listened a moment at his window to the tumult swelling up from every
street of the vast metropolis, and calmly exclaiming, "Illa suprema
dies," _it is our last day_, prostrated himself at the foot of his
bed, and invoked aloud the Divine protection upon his companions, his
country, and himself. Many of his friends were with him, friends who