On the 20th of January, at two in the afternoon, Louis XVI. was awaiting his advocates, when he heard the approach of a numerous party.  He stopped with dignity at the door of his apartment, apparently unmoved:  Garat then told him sorrowfully that he was commissioned to communicate to him the decrees of the Convention.  Grouvelle, secretary of the Executive Council, read them to him.  The first declared Louis XVI. guilty of treason against the general safety of the State; the second condemned him to death; the third rejected any appeal to the people; and the fourth and last ordered his execution in twenty-four hours.  Louis, looking calmly round, took the paper from Grouvelle, and read Garat a letter, in which he demanded from the Convention three days to prepare for death, a confessor to assist him in his last moments, liberty to see his family, and permission for them to leave France.  Garat took the letter, promising to submit it immediately to the Convention.

Louis XVI. then went back into his room with great composure, ordered his dinner, and ate as usual.  There were no knives on the table, and his attendants refused to let him have any.  “Do they think me so cowardly,” he exclaimed, “as to lay violent hands on myself?  I am innocent, and I am not afraid to die.”

The Convention refused the delay, but granted some other demands which he had made.  Garat sent for Edgeworth de Firmont, the ecclesiastic whom Louis XVI. had chosen, and took him in his own carriage to the Temple.  M. Edgeworth, on being ushered into the presence of the King, would have thrown himself at his feet, but Louis instantly raised him, and both shed tears of emotion.  He then, with eager curiosity, asked various questions concerning the clergy of France, several bishops, and particularly the Archbishop of Paris, requesting him to assure the latter that he died faithfully attached to his communion.—­The clock having struck eight, he rose, begged M. Edgeworth to wait, and retired with emotion, saying that he was going to see his family.  The municipal officers, unwilling to lose sight of the King, even while with his family, had decided that he should see them in the dining-room, which had a glass door, through which they could watch all his motions without hearing what he said.  At half-past eight the door opened.  The Queen, holding the Dauphin by the hand, Madame Elisabeth, and Madame Royale rushed sobbing into the arms of Louis XVI.  The door was closed, and the municipal officers, Clery, and M. Edgeworth placed themselves behind it.  During the first moments, it was but a scene of confusion and despair.  Cries and lamentations prevented those who were on the watch from distinguishing anything.  At length the conversation became more calm, and the Princesses, still holding the King clasped in their arms, spoke with him in a low tone.  “He related his trial to my mother,” says Madame Royale, “apologising for the wretches who had condemned him.  He told