ime of his arrest, and of which only fragments had been
found, some words in Spanish had been deciphered and the name of
"Nieves."

On this subject Jacques Maubel refused to give the explanations
demanded; and, when the President told him that it was in the accused's
own interest to clear up the point, he answered that a man ought not
always to do what his own interest requires.

Gamelin only thought of convicting Maubel of a crime; three times over
he pressed the President to ask the accused if he could explain about
the carnation the dried petals of which he hoarded so carefully in his
pocket-book.

Maubel replied that he did not consider himself obliged to answer a
question that had no concern with the case at law, as no letter had been
found concealed in the flower.

The jury retired to the hall of deliberations, favourably impressed
towards the young man whose mysterious conduct appeared chiefly
connected with a lover's secrets. This time the good patriots, the
purest of the pure themselves, would gladly have voted for acquittal.
One of them, a _ci-devant_ noble, who had given pledges to the
Revolution, said:

"Is it his birth they bring up against him? I, too, I have had the
misfortune to be born in the aristocracy."

"Yes, but you have left them," retorted Gamelin, "and he has not."

And he spoke with such vehemence against this conspirator, this emissary
of Pitt, this accomplice of Coburg, who had climbed the mountains and
sailed the seas to stir up enemies to Liberty, he demanded the traitor's
condemnation in such burning words, that he awoke the never-resting
suspicions, the old stern temper of the patriot jury.

One of them told him cynically:

"There are services that cannot well be refused between colleagues."

The verdict of death was recorded by a majority of one.

The condemned man heard his sentence with a quiet smile. His eyes, which
had been gazing unconcernedly about the hall, as they fell on Gamelin's
face, took on an expression of unspeakable contempt.

No one applauded the decision of the court.

Jacques Maubel was taken back to the Conciergerie; here he wrote a
letter while he waited the hour of execution, which was to take place
the same evening, by torchlight:

_My dear sister,--The tribunal sends me to the scaffold, affording
me the only joy I have been able to appreciate since the death of
my adored Nieves. They have taken from me the only relic I had left