The body was carried by torchlight to the garden of the house in which he made his most inflammatory speeches; and there he was buried under trees heavily laden with countless brilliantly-illuminated paper lamps.
His head was placed in an urn, and hung in the centre of the Convention. His memory was decreed an altar, and at its foot his admirers appropriately called for blood.
The enemy was now approaching on all sides, and thousands more Royalists were in array.
Meanwhile Danton was sinking in estimation, Robespierre rising, for Robespierre was a patient man.
Danton, dazzled with his new wife, wished to live the life of a small country gentleman. It was too late.
Robespierre was breaking in health, but his temperance would stand him in good stead of health for a long while. His motto was “Wait.”
The Committee of Public Safety was meanwhile reaping a rich harvest of death.
Money was no longer to be seen.
Bread was rare.
People were dying of starvation (especially the old) in every street.