The measure of the people’s misery being full, they rose, and rose successfully. Their mistake—one which ultimately suffocated all the good it was intended they should effect—took the shape of success, intoxicating itself with victory. Give a lesson to kings not to exceed their duty—yes. All France knew that the English Revolution, which sent Charles I to the block, had resulted in a social condition in England which offered an example for France to follow. But having once passed upon a man the dignity of approaching death; having thrown round him the darkness of the coming tomb—to crush his heart—to humiliate him—to embitter his last moments—to play with his life as a cat with a poor, palpitating mouse—to try to resuscitate the desire to live—to seek to change the calmness of resignation back into the whirlpool of despair—these are not the acts of men, but demons. Yet let not these acts be set down to the people. In times of trouble, all the scum boils to the surface, and it is the surface we see, not the clarified water below it. Few, very few men completed the murders of September; seven-eighths of all France knew nothing about these wholesale murders until they were achieved. But the miserable attempt to torture the King’s last hour upon earth failed utterly—he was beyond attack. His soul had already passed away. At nine o’clock there was a tumultuous noise upon the staircase, and now there was a summons at the door. It was thrown open. As far as the King’s eyes could stretch were armed men—all gazing towards Louis. Santerre appeared, attended by twelve municipals, and ten gendarmes, all of whom fell into two lines in the apartment. The King turned to the little turret door, and with his hand upon it, looked towards Santerre. In this final moment all the reserve and imperiousness of a prince returned to Louis XVI. “You are come for me,” he said. “Await me—and for a mere moment.” He paused, closed the door, and knelt at the minister’s feet. “It is finished,” he said. “Bless me, and let me go.” A moment, and he rose, came out, placed himself smilingly between the double row of armed men. In his hand was a paper. It was his will. Addressing himself to the man who appeared to be the chief of the squad, he said, “I pray you to give this letter to the Queen.” The Republicans started, and the act reminded the King of the error he had committed. “To my wife,” he said, correcting himself, to please the Republican ears. “It’s no affair of mine,” replied the man addressed, and in savage tones. “I’m not here to carry messages to your wife, but to take you to the scaffold.” This unhappy creature, one Jacques Roux, had actually been a priest, who had thrown off the cassock and joined the revolutionary army. “True,” said the King, his head falling.