Chapter 3: 2.vii

The Three Votings.

Is Louis Capet guilty of conspiring against Liberty? Shall our
Sentence be itself final, or need ratifying by Appeal to the
People? If guilty, what Punishment? This is the form agreed to,
after uproar and “several hours of tumultuous indecision:” these
are the Three successive Questions, whereon the Convention shall
now pronounce. Paris floods round their Hall; multitudinous, many
sounding. Europe and all Nations listen for their answer. Deputy
after Deputy shall answer to his name: Guilty or Not guilty?

As to the Guilt, there is, as above hinted, no doubt in the mind
of Patriot man. Overwhelming majority pronounces Guilt; the
unanimous Convention votes for Guilt, only some feeble
twenty-eight voting not Innocence, but refusing to vote at all.
Neither does the Second Question prove doubtful, whatever the
Girondins might calculate. Would not Appeal to the People be
another name for civil war? Majority of two to one answers that
there shall be no Appeal: this also is settled. Loud Patriotism,
now at ten o’clock, may hush itself for the night; and retire to
its bed not without hope. Tuesday has gone well. On the morrow
comes, What Punishment? On the morrow is the tug of war.

Consider therefore if, on this Wednesday morning, there is an
affluence of Patriotism; if Paris stands a-tiptoe, and all
Deputies are at their post! Seven Hundred and Forty-nine
honourable Deputies; only some twenty absent on mission, Duchâtel
and some seven others absent by sickness. Meanwhile expectant
Patriotism and Paris standing a-tiptoe, have need of patience.
For this Wednesday again passes in debate and effervescence;
Girondins proposing that a “majority of three-fourths” shall be
required; Patriots fiercely resisting them. Danton, who has just
got back from mission in the Netherlands, does obtain “order of
the day” on this Girondin proposal; nay he obtains further that
we decide _sans désemparer_, in Permanent-session, till we have
done.

And so, finally, at eight in the evening this Third stupendous
Voting, by roll-call or _appel nominal_, does begin. What
Punishment? Girondins undecided, Patriots decided, men afraid of
Royalty, men afraid of Anarchy, must answer here and now.
Infinite Patriotism, dusky in the lamp-light, floods all
corridors, crowds all galleries, sternly waiting to hear.
Shrill-sounding Ushers summon you by Name and Department; you
must rise to the Tribune and say.

Eye-witnesses have represented this scene of the Third Voting,
and of the votings that grew out of it; a scene protracted, like
to be endless, lasting, with few brief intervals, from Wednesday
till Sunday morning,—as one of the strangest seen in the
Revolution. Long night wears itself into day, morning’s paleness
is spread over all faces; and again the wintry shadows sink, and
the dim lamps are lit: but through day and night and the
vicissitude of hours, Member after Member is mounting continually
those Tribune-steps; pausing aloft there, in the clearer upper
light, to speak his Fate-word; then diving down into the dusk and
throng again. Like Phantoms in the hour of midnight; most
spectral, pandemonial! Never did President Vergniaud, or any
terrestrial President, superintend the like. A King’s Life, and
so much else that depends thereon, hangs trembling in the
balance. Man after man mounts; the buzz hushes itself till he
have spoken: Death; Banishment: Imprisonment till the Peace. Many
say, Death; with what cautious well-studied phrases and
paragraphs they could devise, of explanation, of enforcement, of
faint recommendation to mercy. Many too say, Banishment;
something short of Death. The balance trembles, none can yet
guess whitherward. Whereat anxious Patriotism bellows;
irrepressible by Ushers.

The poor Girondins, many of them, under such fierce bellowing of
Patriotism, say Death; justifying, _motivant_, that most
miserable word of theirs by some brief casuistry and jesuitry.
Vergniaud himself says, Death; justifying by jesuitry. Rich
Lepelletier Saint-Fargeau had been of the Noblesse, and then of
the Patriot Left Side, in the Constituent; and had argued and
reported, there and elsewhere, not a little, _against_ Capital
Punishment: nevertheless he now says, Death; a word which may
cost him dear. Manuel did surely rank with the Decided in August
last; but he has been sinking and backsliding ever since
September, and the scenes of September. In this Convention, above
all, no word he could speak would find favour; he says now,
Banishment; and in mute wrath quits the place for ever,—much
hustled in the corridors. Philippe Egalité votes in his soul and
conscience, Death, at the sound of which, and of whom, even
Patriotism shakes its head; and there runs a groan and shudder
through this Hall of Doom. Robespierre’s vote cannot be doubtful;
his speech is long. Men see the figure of shrill Sieyes ascend;
hardly pausing, passing merely, this figure says, ‘_La Mort sans
phrase_, Death without phrases;’ and fares onward and downward.
Most spectral, pandemonial!

And yet if the Reader fancy it of a funereal, sorrowful or even
grave character, he is far mistaken. “The Ushers in the Mountain
quarter,” says Mercier, “had become as Box-openers at the Opera;”
opening and shutting of Galleries for privileged persons, for
“d’Orléans Egalité’s mistresses,” or other high-dizened women of
condition, rustling with laces and tricolor. Gallant Deputies
pass and repass thitherward, treating them with ices,
refreshments and small-talk; the high-dizened heads beck
responsive; some have their card and pin, pricking down the Ayes
and Noes, as at a game of _Rouge-et-Noir_. Further aloft reigns
Mère Duchesse with her unrouged Amazons; she cannot be prevented
making long _Hahas_, when the vote is not _La Mort_. In these
Galleries there is refection, drinking of wine and brandy “as in
open tavern, _en pleine tabagie_.” Betting goes on in all
coffeehouses of the neighbourhood. But within doors, fatigue,
impatience, uttermost weariness sits now on all visages; lighted
up only from time to time, by turns of the game. Members have
fallen asleep; Ushers come and awaken them to vote: other Members
calculate whether they shall not have time to run and dine.
Figures rise, like phantoms, pale in the dusky lamp-light; utter
from this Tribune, only one word: Death. “_Tout est optique_,”
says Mercier, “the world is all an optical shadow.”[598] Deep in
the Thursday night, when the Voting is done, and Secretaries are
summing it up, sick Duchâtel, more spectral than another, comes
borne on a chair, wrapt in blankets, “in nightgown and nightcap,”
to vote for Mercy: one vote it is thought may turn the scale.

Ah no! In profoundest silence, President Vergniaud, with a voice
full of sorrow, has to say: ‘I declare, in the name of the
Convention, that the Punishment it pronounces on Louis Capet is
that of Death.’ Death by a small majority of Fifty-three. Nay, if
we deduct from the one side, and add to the other, a certain
Twenty-six, who said Death but coupled some faintest ineffectual
surmise of mercy with it, the majority will be but _One_.

Death is the sentence: but its execution? It is not executed yet!
Scarcely is the vote declared when Louis’s Three Advocates enter;
with Protest in his name, with demand for Delay, for Appeal to
the People. For this do Desèze and Tronchet plead, with brief
eloquence: brave old Malesherbes pleads for it with eloquent want
of eloquence, in broken sentences, in embarrassment and sobs;
that brave time-honoured face, with its grey strength, its broad
sagacity and honesty, is mastered with emotion, melts into dumb
tears.[599]—They reject the Appeal to the People; that having
been already settled. But as to the Delay, what they call
_Sursis_, it _shall_ be considered; shall be voted for tomorrow:
at present we adjourn. Whereupon Patriotism “hisses” from the
Mountain: but a “tyrannical majority” has so decided, and
adjourns.

There is still this _fourth_ Vote then, growls indignant
Patriotism:—this vote, and who knows what other votes, and
adjournments of voting; and the whole matter still hovering
hypothetical! And at every new vote those Jesuit Girondins, even
they who voted for Death, would so fain find a loophole!
Patriotism must watch and rage. Tyrannical adjournments there
have been; one, and now another at midnight on plea of
fatigue,—all Friday wasted in hesitation and higgling; in
_re_-counting of the votes, which are found correct as they
stood! Patriotism bays fiercer than ever; Patriotism, by
long-watching, has become red-eyed, almost rabid.

‘Delay: yes or no?’ men do vote it finally, all Saturday, all day
and night. Men’s nerves are worn out, men’s hearts are desperate;
now it shall end. Vergniaud, spite of the baying, ventures to say
Yes, Delay; though he had voted Death. Philippe Egalité says, in
his soul and conscience, No. The next Member mounting: ‘Since
Philippe says No, I for my part say Yes, _Moi je dis Oui_.’ The
balance still trembles. Till finally, at three o’clock on Sunday
morning, we have: _No Delay_, by a majority of Seventy; _Death
within four-and-twenty hours!_

Garat Minister of Justice has to go to the Temple, with this
stern message: he ejaculates repeatedly, ‘_Quelle commission
affreuse_, What a frightful function!’[600] Louis begs for a
Confessor; for yet three days of life, to prepare himself to die.
The Confessor is granted; the three days and all respite are
refused.

There is no deliverance, then? Thick stone walls answer, None—Has
King Louis no friends? Men of action, of courage grown desperate,
in this his extreme need? King Louis’s friends are feeble and
far. Not even a voice in the coffeehouses rises for him. At Méot
the Restaurateur’s no Captain Dampmartin now dines; or sees
death-doing whiskerandoes on furlough exhibit daggers of improved
structure! Méot’s gallant Royalists on furlough are far across
the Marches; they are wandering distracted over the world: or
their bones lie whitening Argonne Wood. Only some weak Priests
“leave Pamphlets on all the bournestones,” this night, calling
for a rescue; calling for the pious women to rise; or are taken
distributing Pamphlets, and sent to prison.[601]

Nay there is one death-doer, of the ancient Méot sort, who, with
effort, has done even less and worse: slain a Deputy, and set all
the Patriotism of Paris on edge! It was five on Saturday evening
when Lepelletier St. Fargeau, having given his vote, _No Delay_,
ran over to Février’s in the Palais Royal to snatch a morsel of
dinner. He had dined, and was paying. A thickset man “with black
hair and blue beard,” in a loose kind of frock, stept up to him;
it was, as Février and the bystanders bethought them, one Pâris
of the old King’s-Guard. ‘Are you Lepelletier?’ asks
he.—‘Yes.’—‘You voted in the King’s Business?’—‘I voted
Death.’—‘_Scélérat_, take that!’ cries Pâris, flashing out a
sabre from under his frock, and plunging it deep in Lepelletier’s
side. Février clutches him; but he breaks off; is gone.

The voter Lepelletier lies dead; he has expired in great pain, at
one in the morning;—two hours before that Vote of _No Delay_ was
fully summed up! Guardsman Pâris is flying over France; cannot be
taken; will be found some months after, self-shot in a remote
inn.[602]—Robespierre sees reason to think that Prince d’Artois
himself is privately in Town; that the Convention will be
butchered in the lump. Patriotism sounds mere wail and vengeance:
Santerre doubles and trebles all his patrols. Pity is lost in
rage and fear; the Convention has refused the three days of life
and all respite.