A cry of horror burst from the condemned, for many of them could not believe that innocent men could be sent to the scaffold.
Valasé, one of the youngest, slipped from his seat to the floor.
“What, Valasé! art losing courage now?” cried his friend Brissot, upholding him.
“No; I am dying!” returned Valasé; and his fingers quivered about the handle of the poniard with which he had taken his own life.
Silent horror for a moment prevailed; the Girondists blushed and bowed their heads before their dead companion, who had given them an example of fearlessness in meeting death.
Only one, named Boileau, showed cowardice. He cast his hat into the air and screamed, “I don’t belong to these men! I am a Jacobin!”
But instead of pity he only gained contempt.
And now a cry was heard; it came from Camille Desmoulins: “Let me fly,” he cried; “it is my book which has killed them!”
But the crowd seized Desmoulins, and forced him to remain.
The twenty-two came down from the high seats upon which they had heard their trial and sentence, and for a moment stood round the dead body of their friend, who had shown them how to die. Almost simultaneously they raised their hands and cried, “Innocent! Long live the republic!”