Brissot was the last but one.

Last came Vergniaud, the greatest and most illustrious of them all.  All Paris knew, and had beheld him in the tribune, and was now curious to gaze not only on the orator on a level with his enemies, but the man reduced to take his place on the bench of the accused.  His prestige still followed him, and he was one of those men from whom everything, even impossibilities, are expected.

IV.—­The Banquet of Death

The jury closed the debate on October 30, at eight o’clock in the evening.  All the accused were declared guilty of having conspired against the unity and indivisibility of the republic, and condemned to death.  One of them, who had made a motion with his hand as though to tear his garments, slipped from his seat on to the floor.  It was Valaze.

“What, Valaze, are you losing your courage?” said Brissot, striving to support him.

“No, I am dying,” returned Valaze.  And he expired, his hand on the poignard with which he had pierced his heart.

At this spectacle silence instantly prevailed, and the example of Valaze made the young Girondists blush for their momentary weakness.

It was eleven o’clock at night.  After a moment’s pause, occasioned by the unexpectedness of the sentence and the emotion of the prisoners, the sitting was closed amidst cries of “Vive la Republique!”

The Girondists, as they quitted their places, cried simultaneously.  “We die innocent!  Vive la Republique!”

They were all confined for this their last night on earth in the large dungeon, the waiting room of death.

The deputy Bailleul, their colleague at the Assembly, proscribed like them, but who had escaped the proscription, and was concealed in Paris, had promised to send them from without on the day of their trial a last repast, triumphant or funeral, according to the sentence.  Bailleul, though invisible, kept his promise through the agency of a friend.  The funeral supper was set out in the large dungeon; the daintiest meats, the choicest wines, the rarest flowers, and numerous flambeaux decked the oaken table—­prodigality of dying men who have no need to save aught for the following day.

The repast was prolonged until dawn.  Vergniaud, seated at the centre of the table, presided, with the same calm dignity he had presided at the Convention on the night of August 10.  The others formed groups, with the exception of Brissot, who sat at the end of the table, eating but little, and not uttering a word.  For a long time nothing in their features or conversation indicated that this repast was the prelude to death.  They ate and drank with appetite, but sobriety; but when the table was cleared, and nothing left except the fruit, wine, and flowers, the conversation became alternately animated, noisy and grave, as the conversation of careless men, whose thoughts and tongues are freed by wine.

Towards the morning the conversation became more solemn.  Brissot spoke prophetically of the misfortunes of the republic, deprived of her most virtuous and eloquent citizens.  “How much blood will it require to wash out our own?” cried he.  They were silent, and appeared terrified at the phantom of the future evoked by Brissot.