The Convention, at sound of generale, hastens back to its Hall; but to the number only of a Hundred; and does little business, puts off business till the morrow.  The Girondins do not stir out thither, the Girondins are abroad seeking beds.  Poor Rabaut, on the morrow morning, returning to his post, with Louvet and some others, through streets all in ferment, wrings his hands, ejaculating, “Illa suprema dies!” (Louvet, Memoires, p. 89.) It has become Sunday, the second day of June, year 1793, by the old style; by the new style, year One of Liberty, Equality, Fraternity.  We have got to the last scene of all, that ends this history of the Girondin Senatorship.

It seems doubtful whether any terrestrial Convention had ever met in such circumstances as this National one now does.  Tocsin is pealing; Barriers shut; all Paris is on the gaze, or under arms.  As many as a Hundred Thousand under arms they count:  National Force; and the Armed Volunteers, who should have flown to the Frontiers and La Vendee; but would not, treason being unpunished; and only flew hither and thither!  So many, steady under arms, environ the National Tuileries and Garden.  There are horse, foot, artillery, sappers with beards:  the artillery one can see with their camp-furnaces in this National Garden, heating bullets red, and their match is lighted.  Henriot in plumes rides, amid a plumed Staff:  all posts and issues are safe; reserves lie out, as far as the Wood of Boulogne; the choicest Patriots nearest the scene.  One other circumstance we will note:  that a careful Municipality, liberal of camp-furnaces, has not forgotten provision-carts.  No member of the Sovereign need now go home to dinner; but can keep rank,—­plentiful victual circulating unsought.  Does not this People understand Insurrection?  Ye, not uninventive, Gualches!—­

Therefore let a National Representation, ‘mandatories of the Sovereign,’ take thought of it.  Expulsion of your Twenty-two, and your Commission of Twelve:  we stand here till it be done!  Deputation after Deputation, in ever stronger language, comes with that message.  Barrere proposes a middle course:—­Will not perhaps the inculpated Deputies consent to withdraw voluntarily; to make a generous demission, and self-sacrifice for the sake of one’s country?  Isnard, repentant of that search on which river-bank Paris stood, declares himself ready to demit.  Ready also is Te-Deum Fauchet; old Dusaulx of the Bastille, ’vieux radoteur, old dotard,’ as Marat calls him, is still readier.  On the contrary, Lanjuinais the Breton declares that there is one man who never will demit voluntarily; but will protest to the uttermost, while a voice is left him.  And he accordingly goes on protesting; amid rage and clangor; Legendre crying at last:  “Lanjuinais, come down from the Tribune, or I will fling thee down, ou je te jette en bas!” For matters are come to extremity.  Nay they do clutch hold of Lanjuinais, certain zealous Mountain-men;