In a certain church in Paris, the hearts of passed-away kings were kept in silver vases. These were seized and broken open, and the contents cast into the common sewer.
At the Hall of the Convention a fearful scene was progressing—the voting upon the sentence. It is night-time, and the hurriedly raised black hangings suggest more an execution than a place of justice. The Convention is held in an old monastery—dark, drear, and wretched. A few scattered lanterns make the darkness visible, and throw a pale light upon the faces of passers-by. At the two principal entrances are cannon, the attendant artillerymen with the continuously lighted fuse in hand. The cannon is there rather to be turned upon the members of the Convention than to intimidate the people.
“His death—or thine!”
These were the words each Conventionist heard as he passed into the Hall—words uttered in whispers, but which shook the hearers as though they were thunder.
Persons who knew the various members were present, who received them and commented upon their opinions. As Danton, Marat, Robespierre and Camille Desmoulins passed, the ranks showed all the signs of respect. Others were threatened. Languinais passed through a forest of thrusting pikes to reach the voting table.
The Hall itself was very dark, the benches being filled with young and beautiful women of the people class. Before them were a number of butchers, reeking from their slaughter-houses.
Fifteen hours had the deputies sat—few remained. Of those present, some were in little groups—others had fallen asleep.
The first votes left everything in uncertainty. Death and Exile were voted alternately.
Vergniaud, the leader of the Girondists, who had sworn to save the King’s life, whose vote would control that of all the Girondists, voted “Death!”
The King was doomed, because the Jacobins were all certain to vote “Death” to a man.