The aspect of the land was horrible. People feared to go about in anything but rags, dreading to be supposed rich, and therefore only fit to die; land remained uncultivated, for its owners had fled; and the half-destroyed, empty houses of the nobility began falling into ruins. Not a carriage was to be seen, nor a jewel, nor any sign of luxury. All was abject, wretched, debased. The bakers’ shops were almost like prisons (to this day, bakers’ shops in Paris are often barred); and the only prodigality was that of wine, the many years store of which flowed in terrible abundance. It was cheaper than bread, and steeled the heart to pity. Commerce had ceased, and not a sail beyond that of a French fishing-smack was to be seen in the French waters. Marat now advocated the pillage of every store-house in the land, and the hanging of some of the owners in their own gateways, as an example to the rest. And now that which was most feared occurred—civil war. La Vendée, in the north-west of France—the Brittany of to-day—rose almost to a man, and defied the republic. Spain now began to pour her soldiers upon the south, while Austrians and Prussians were gaining victory after victory in the north and east. So north, south, east, and west, enemies’ faces were turned upon France, while England was preparing to sweep her navy around the whole of the coasts of the now devoted land. The Convention commanded that a black flag should float from the towers of the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris. The theatres were closed. Only one cry was heard in the streets—“To arms—to arms!” Danton and Robespierre now quarrelled. One Legendre undertook to reconcile them, and they met without previous warning. Danton, a bull-dog in ferocity, and with the bull-dog’s generosity advanced, and held out his hand. Robespierre, with the silent stealth of the tiger, which waits and pounces, affected not to see it, ate his dinner in silence, and went away, after the utterance of a few words, which were the first that openly indicated his intention of betraying Danton. Danton was beginning to repent. His remorse was natural. He had lost his wife, whose death had been accelerated by terror. Unable to endure his loneliness, he sought another wife; her parents rejected him with loathing. But, after a little, they pitied his misery, and gave their daughter to this strangely compounded man. Danton now contemplated what was done after Napoleon had reigned and lived, after Louis XVIII had reigned and died, after Charles X had been driven from the French throne—the giving of a King to France, not belonging directly to the hated Bourbons, but to the younger branch, the Orleanists, the leader of whom, Philip Equality, had voted Louis XVI’s death. He was never crowned; he died on the scaffold. His son, Louis Philippe, ultimately became King of France. Philip Equality refused the proposal.