es, cried simultaneously. "We
die innocent! Vive la Republique!"

They were all confined for this their last night on earth in the large
dungeon, the waiting room of death.

The deputy Bailleul, their colleague at the Assembly, proscribed like
them, but who had escaped the proscription, and was concealed in Paris,
had promised to send them from without on the day of their trial a last
repast, triumphant or funeral, according to the sentence. Bailleul,
though invisible, kept his promise through the agency of a friend. The
funeral supper was set out in the large dungeon; the daintiest meats,
the choicest wines, the rarest flowers, and numerous flambeaux decked
the oaken table--prodigality of dying men who have no need to save aught
for the following day.

The repast was prolonged until dawn. Vergniaud, seated at the centre of
the table, presided, with the same calm dignity he had presided at the
Convention on the night of August 10. The others formed groups, with the
exception of Brissot, who sat at the end of the table, eating but
little, and not uttering a word. For a long time nothing in their
features or conversation indicated that this repast was the prelude to
death. They ate and drank with appetite, but sobriety; but when the
table was cleared, and nothing left except the fruit, wine, and flowers,
the conversation became alternately animated, noisy and grave, as the
conversation of careless men, whose thoughts and tongues are freed by
wine.

Towards the morning the conversation became more solemn. Brissot spoke
prophetically of the misfortunes of the republic, deprived of her most
virtuous and eloquent citizens. "How much blood will it require to wash
out our own?" cried he. They were silent, and appeared terrified at the
phantom of the future evoked by Brissot.

"My friends," replied Vergniaud, "we have killed the tree by pruning it.
It was too aged. Robespierre cuts it. Will he be more fortunate than
ourselves? No, the soul is too weak to nourish the roots of civic
liberty; this people is too childish to wield its laws without hurting
itself. We were deceived as to the age in which we were born, and in
which we die for the freedom of the world."

A long silence followed this speech of Vergniaud's, and the conversation
turned from earth to heaven.

"What shall we be doing to-morrow at this time?" said Ducos, who always
mingled mirth with the most serious subjects. Each replied according to
his nature.