; that the Commission of
Twelve be irrecoverably broken. The heart of the Gironde dies within
it; distant are the Seventy-two respectable Departments, this fiery
Municipality is near! Barrere is for a middle course; granting
something. The Commission of Twelve declares that, not waiting to be
broken, it hereby breaks itself, and is no more. Fain would Reporter
Rabaut speak his and its last-words; but he is bellowed off. Too happy
that the Twenty-two are still left unviolated!--Vergniaud, carrying the
laws of refinement to a great length, moves, to the amazement of some,
that 'the Sections of Paris have deserved well of their country.'
Whereupon, at a late hour of the evening, the deserving Sections retire
to their respective places of abode. Barrere shall report on it. With
busy quill and brain he sits, secluded; for him no sleep to-night.
Friday the last of May has ended in this manner.

The Sections have deserved well: but ought they not to deserve better?
Faction and Girondism is struck down for the moment, and consents to be
a nullity; but will it not, at another favourabler moment rise, still
feller; and the Republic have to be saved in spite of it? So reasons
Patriotism, still Permanent; so reasons the Figure of Marat, visible in
the dim Section-world, on the morrow. To the conviction of men!--And so
at eventide of Saturday, when Barrere had just got it all varnished in
the course of the day, and his Report was setting off in the evening
mail-bags, tocsin peals out again! Generale is beating; armed men taking
station in the Place Vendome and elsewhere for the night; supplied with
provisions and liquor. There under the summer stars will they wait, this
night, what is to be seen and to be done, Henriot and Townhall giving
due signal.

The Convention, at sound of generale, hastens back to its Hall; but
to the number only of a Hundred; and does little business, puts off
business till the morrow. The Girondins do not stir out thither, the
Girondins are abroad seeking beds. Poor Rabaut, on the morrow morning,
returning to his post, with Louvet and some others, through streets all
in ferment, wrings his hands, ejaculating, "Illa suprema dies!" (Louvet,
Memoires, p. 89.) It has become Sunday, the second day of June, year
1793, by the old style; by the new style, year One of Liberty, Equality,
Fraternity. We have got to the last scene of all, that ends this history
of the Girondin Senatorship.

It seems doubtful whether