t
eminent of the Girondists, had obtained admittance into the prison to
accompany his friends to the guillotine, and to administer to them the
last consolations of religion. He stood in the corridor, looking
through the open door upon those assembled around the table, and, with
his pencil in his hand, noted down their words, their gestures, their
sighs--their weakness and their strength. It is to him that we are
indebted for all knowledge of the sublime scenes enacted at the last
supper of the Girondists. The repast was prolonged until the dawn of
morning began to steal faintly in at the grated windows of the prison
and the gathering tumult without announced the preparations to conduct
them to their execution.

Vergniaud, the most prominent and the most eloquent of their number,
presided at the feast. He had little, save the love of glory, to bind
him to life, for he had neither father nor mother, wife nor child; and
he doubted not that posterity would do him justice, and that his death
would be the most glorious act of his life. No one could imagine, from
the calm and subdued conversation, and the quiet appetite with which
these distinguished men partook of the entertainment, that this was
their last repast, and but the prelude to a violent death. But when
the cloth was removed, and the fruits, the wines, and the flowers
alone remained, the conversation became animated, gay, and at times
rose to hilarity. Several of the youngest men of the party, in sallies
of wit and outbursts of laughter, endeavored to repel the gloom which
darkened their spirits in view of death on the morrow. It was
unnatural gayety, unreal, unworthy of the men. Death is not a jest,
and no one can honor himself by trying to make it so. A spirit truly
noble can encounter this king of terrors with fortitude, but never
with levity. Still, now and then, shouts of laughter and songs of
merriment burst from the lips of these young men, as they endeavored,
with a kind of hysterical energy, to nerve themselves to show to their
enemies their contempt of life and of death. Others were more
thoughtful, serene, and truly brave.

"What shall we be doing to-morrow at this time?" said Ducos.

All paused. Religion had its hopes, philosophy its dreams, infidelity
its dreary blank. Each answered according to his faith. "We shall
sleep after the fatigues of the day," said some, "to wake no more."
Atheism had darkened their minds. "Death is an eternal sleep," had