and one sees not where it will
end."--Rumour may spread over Paris: the Convention clusters itself
into groups; wide-eyed, whispering, "Danton arrested!" Who then is safe?
Legendre, mounting the Tribune, utters, at his own peril, a feeble word
for him; moving that he be heard at that Bar before indictment; but
Robespierre frowns him down: "Did you hear Chabot, or Bazire? Would you
have two weights and measures?" Legendre cowers low; Danton, like the
others, must take his doom.

Danton's Prison-thoughts were curious to have; but are not given in any
quantity: indeed few such remarkable men have been left so obscure to us
as this Titan of the Revolution. He was heard to ejaculate: "This
time twelvemonth, I was moving the creation of that same Revolutionary
Tribunal. I crave pardon for it of God and man. They are all Brothers
Cain: Brissot would have had me guillotined as Robespierre now will. I
leave the whole business in a frightful welter (gachis epouvantable):
not one of them understands anything of government. Robespierre will
follow me; I drag down Robespierre. O, it were better to be a poor
fisherman than to meddle with governing of men."--Camille's young
beautiful Wife, who had made him rich not in money alone, hovers round
the Luxembourg, like a disembodied spirit, day and night. Camille's
stolen letters to her still exist; stained with the mark of his tears.
(Apercus sur Camille Desmoulins in Vieux Cordelier, Paris, 1825, pp.
1-29.) "I carry my head like a Saint-Sacrament?" so Saint-Just was heard
to mutter: "Perhaps he will carry his like a Saint-Dennis."

Unhappy Danton, thou still unhappier light Camille, once light Procureur
de la Lanterne, ye also have arrived, then, at the Bourne of Creation,
where, like Ulysses Polytlas at the limit and utmost Gades of his
voyage, gazing into that dim Waste beyond Creation, a man does see the
Shade of his Mother, pale, ineffectual;--and days when his Mother nursed
and wrapped him are all-too sternly contrasted with this day! Danton,
Camille, Herault, Westermann, and the others, very strangely massed up
with Bazires, Swindler Chabots, Fabre d'Eglantines, Banker Freys, a most
motley Batch, 'Fournee' as such things will be called, stand ranked
at the Bar of Tinville. It is the 2d of April 1794. Danton has had but
three days to lie in Prison; for the time presses.

What is your name? place of abode? and the like, Fouquier asks;
according to formality. "My name is Danton," a