The gloomy _cortège_ crosses the Place de la Grêve, and moves in the direction of the quay, on its way to the Tuileries, beneath a cloudless sky that smiles after the rain, as the stars are gradually effaced by the first gleams of dawn. It is three o'clock. The _cortège_ is followed by a curious and gaping crowd. Passers-by stop and ask, "What is it?" "Robespierre, who is wounded. They are taking him to the Convention." Then the inquirers' faces light up with joy. "It is all over, then! ... The tyrant is going to die! ... There will be no more scaffold!" And the passers-by joined the crowd. But at the Convention the order had been given that the "monster" was not to be received. Even a captive and almost a corpse, they will not allow Robespierre again to cross the threshold, once he has been banished from their midst. The Incorruptible, as an outlaw, belongs to justice only. So the wounded man is taken up and laid at the foot of the grand staircase leading to the Committee of Public Safety. There, on the very spot where, two days before, Robespierre, returning from the Conciergerie, hurled defiance at Billaud-Varennes, he now lies on a litter, vanquished, ruined, gasping out his life! A peremptory order is given, and flies from mouth to mouth. Robespierre is to be transported to the Committee's waiting-room. Saint-Just walks in front now, with Dumas, President of the Revolutionary Tribunal, who has been discovered hidden in a corner of the Hôtel de Ville, and several others whose arrest and arrival is also announced. The litter is carried into the room. Robespierre still unconscious is lifted out and laid on a table, and his head is pillowed on a deal box, containing samples of munition bread. His shirt, loosened at the neck, and leaving the throat bare, is covered with blood which still flows freely from the mutilated jaw. The sky-blue coat is soiled and torn, the nankeen breeches, the white stockings, washed and ironed by Cornélie Duplay, are now all stained and disfigured. The Incorruptible is a mutilated mass, but a living mass, still breathing and still suffering. Robespierre has opened his eyes; he raises his right hand, groping instinctively for his handkerchief, wishing to wipe his mouth. His trembling fingers come in contact with a white leather pistol-case, which he lifts to his lips to staunch the blood. By an irony of fate the case bears the inscription--"_The Great Monarch; Lecourt, manufacturer to the King_."