He was fetched—a man of good family and a lawyer, named Francois Phelippes.
“Citizen President,” Carrier greeted him, “the administration of Nantes has been considering an important measure. To-day you sentenced to death six prisoners in Le Bouffay for attempting to escape. You are to postpone execution so as to include all the Bouffay prisoners in the sentence.”
Although an ardent revolutionary, Phelippes was a logically minded man with a lawyer's reverence for the sacredness of legal form. This command, issued with such cynical coldness, and repudiated by none of those present, seemed to him as grotesque and ridiculous as it was horrible.
“But that is impossible, Citizen Representative,” said he.
“Impossible!” snarled Carrier. “A fool's word. The administration desires you to understand that it is not impossible. The sacred will of the august people—”
Phelippes interrupted him without ceremony.
“There is no power in France that can countermand the execution of a sentence of the law.”
“No—no power!”
Carrier's loose mouth fell open. He was too amazed to be angry.
“Moreover,” Phelippes pursued calmly, “there is the fact that all the other prisoners in Le Bouffay are innocent of the offence for which the six are to die.”