On that night, Robespierre went to the apartments of St. Just, in the Rue St. Anne, and found him calmly going to bed.
“Why not?” asked St. Just. “Murder will be done to-night, but I cannot prevent it. And again, those who will die are our enemies. Good night.”
He fell asleep. Awaking, hours after, he marked Robespierre, pale, haggard.
“Have you returned?”
“Returned!”
“What! have you not slept?”
“Slept!” cried Robespierre; “when the blood of thousands is being shed by hundreds of assassins—when pure or impure blood runs down the streets like water! Oh, no,” he continued, with a sardonic smile; “I have not slept—I have watched, like remorse or crime; I have had the weakness not to close my eyes. But Danton—he has slept!”
On Sunday (of all days in the week), it being the 2nd of September, at three in the afternoon, the signal for the massacre was given, by one of those strange accidents with which we are all acquainted. Five coaches, filled with prisoners, were passing. These prisoners happened, by chance, to be all priests.
“See the friends of the Prussians!” cried one in the crowd. It was enough. The rage of knowing that the Prussians had conquered Verdun made them mad in a moment.
From that hour until four days were passed, murder was unceasing all over Paris. It was enough to look like a Royalist, and death followed.