eeps 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