Everything declared in favor of Louis’s death by this same January 16. On this day itself, a poor fellow named Louvain, who had been one at the taking of the Bastille, venturing to say that the republic ought to be established without the death of Louis XVI, a friend and companion near him plunged his sword into his breast. In the evening, a book-pedlar, suspected of royalism, leaving a public reading-room, was accused by the people of distributing pamphlets in favor of the King’s cause. He was assassinated with thirty dagger-thrusts. Upon this day the soldiery swept over Paris, brandishing their swords, singing patriotic songs, and looking eagerly for the least signs of opponents. In a certain church in Paris, the hearts of passed-away kings were kept in silver vases. These were seized and broken open, and the contents cast into the common sewer. At the Hall of the Convention a fearful scene was progressing—the voting upon the sentence. It is night-time, and the hurriedly raised black hangings suggest more an execution than a place of justice. The Convention is held in an old monastery—dark, drear, and wretched. A few scattered lanterns make the darkness visible, and throw a pale light upon the faces of passers-by. At the two principal entrances are cannon, the attendant artillerymen with the continuously lighted fuse in hand. The cannon is there rather to be turned upon the members of the Convention than to intimidate the people. “_His death—or thine!_” These were the words each Conventionist heard as he passed into the Hall—words uttered in whispers, but which shook the hearers as though they were thunder. Persons who knew the various members were present, who received them and commented upon their opinions. As Danton, Marat, Robespierre and Camille Desmoulins passed, the ranks showed all the signs of respect. Others were threatened. Languinais passed through a forest of thrusting pikes to reach the voting table. The Hall itself was very dark, the benches being filled with young and beautiful women of the people class. Before them were a number of butchers, reeking from their slaughter-houses. Fifteen hours had the deputies sat—few remained. Of those present, some were in little groups—others had fallen asleep. The first votes left everything in uncertainty. _Death_ and _Exile_ were voted alternately. Vergniaud, the leader of the Girondists, who had sworn to save the King’s life, whose vote would control that of all the Girondists, voted “_Death!_” The King was doomed, because the Jacobins were all certain to vote “Death” to a man. Robespierre started, and Danton said, in a low, scoffing voice, “These are your orators!” The last man but one called to vote was the King’s cousin, the Duc d’Orleans, Philip Equality. It was thought the ties of nature and of blood would compel him to vote for exile. He said these words:—