The two generous companions, we rejoice to find, did not perish.  But it is time that Jourgniac de Saint-Meard should speak his last words, and end this singular trilogy.  The night had become day; and the day has again become night.  Jourgniac, worn down with uttermost agitation, has fallen asleep, and had a cheering dream:  he has also contrived to make acquaintance with one of the volunteer bailiffs, and spoken in native Provencal with him.  On Tuesday, about one in the morning, his Agony is reaching its crisis.

’By the glare of two torches, I now descried the terrible tribunal, where lay my life or my death.  The President, in grey coats, with a sabre at his side, stood leaning with his hands against a table, on which were papers, an inkstand, tobacco-pipes and bottles.  Some ten persons were around, seated or standing; two of whom had jackets and aprons:  others were sleeping stretched on benches.  Two men, in bloody shirts, guarded the door of the place; an old turnkey had his hand on the lock.  In front of the President, three men held a Prisoner, who might be about sixty’ (or seventy:  he was old Marshal Maille, of the Tuileries and August Tenth).  ’They stationed me in a corner; my guards crossed their sabres on my breast.  I looked on all sides for my Provencal:  two National Guards, one of them drunk, presented some appeal from the Section of Croix Rouge in favour of the Prisoner; the Man in Grey answered:  “They are useless, these appeals for traitors.”  Then the Prisoner exclaimed:  “It is frightful; your judgment is a murder.”  The President answered; “My hands are washed of it; take M. Maille away.”  They drove him into the street; where, through the opening of the door, I saw him massacred.

’The President sat down to write; registering, I suppose, the name of this one whom they had finished; then I heard him say:  “Another, A un autre!”

’Behold me then haled before this swift and bloody judgment-bar, where the best protection was to have no protection, and all resources of ingenuity became null if they were not founded on truth.  Two of my guards held me each by a hand, the third by the collar of my coat.  “Your name, your profession?” said the President.  “The smallest lie ruins you,” added one of the judges,—­“My name is Jourgniac Saint-Meard; I have served, as an officer, twenty years:  and I appear at your tribunal with the assurance of an innocent man, who therefore will not lie.”—­“We shall see that,” said the President:  “Do you know why you are arrested?”—­“Yes, Monsieur le President; I am accused of editing the Journal De la Cour et de la Ville.  But I hope to prove the falsity"’—­

But no; Jourgniac’s proof of the falsity, and defence generally, though of excellent result as a defence, is not interesting to read.  It is long-winded; there is a loose theatricality in the reporting of it, which does not amount to unveracity, yet which tends that way.  We shall suppose him successful, beyond hope, in proving and disproving; and skip largely,—­to the catastrophe, almost at two steps.