nswers he; "a name
tolerably known in the Revolution: my abode will soon be Annihilation
(dans le Neant); but I shall live in the Pantheon of History." A man
will endeavour to say something forcible, be it by nature or not!
Herault mentions epigrammatically that he "sat in this Hall, and was
detested of Parlementeers." Camille makes answer, "My age is that of
the bon Sansculotte Jesus; an age fatal to Revolutionists." O Camille,
Camille! And yet in that Divine Transaction, let us say, there did lie,
among other things, the fatallest Reproof ever uttered here below to
Worldly Right-honourableness; 'the highest Fact,' so devout Novalis
calls it, 'in the Rights of Man.' Camille's real age, it would seem, is
thirty-four. Danton is one year older.

Some five months ago, the Trial of the Twenty-two Girondins was the
greatest that Fouquier had then done. But here is a still greater to do;
a thing which tasks the whole faculty of Fouquier; which makes the very
heart of him waver. For it is the voice of Danton that reverberates
now from these domes; in passionate words, piercing with their wild
sincerity, winged with wrath. Your best Witnesses he shivers into ruin
at one stroke. He demands that the Committee-men themselves come as
Witnesses, as Accusers; he "will cover them with ignominy." He raises
his huge stature, he shakes his huge black head, fire flashes from
the eyes of him,--piercing to all Republican hearts: so that the very
Galleries, though we filled them by ticket, murmur sympathy; and are
like to burst down, and raise the People, and deliver him! He complains
loudly that he is classed with Chabots, with swindling Stockjobbers;
that his Indictment is a list of platitudes and horrors. "Danton hidden
on the Tenth of August?" reverberates he, with the roar of a lion in the
toils: "Where are the men that had to press Danton to shew himself, that
day? Where are these high-gifted souls of whom he borrowed energy? Let
them appear, these Accusers of mine: I have all the clearness of my
self-possession when I demand them. I will unmask the three shallow
scoundrels," les trois plats coquins, Saint-Just, Couthon, Lebas, "who
fawn on Robespierre, and lead him towards his destruction. Let them
produce themselves here; I will plunge them into Nothingness, out of
which they ought never to have risen." The agitated President agitates
his bell; enjoins calmness, in a vehement manner: "What is it to thee
how I defend myself?" cries th