If there is one more moving spot than another in the Paris of to-day it is the Carmelite Convent near the Palace of the Luxembourg. Behind the old monastic buildings, almost deserted now, lies one of those unexpected gardens which make Paris wonderful in surprises. Surrounding houses shut out the roar from the stone-paved street. In a central pool a lone duckling, surviving from Easter Day, swims briskly as playful goldfish nip the webs of his busy feet. It is all as peaceful and as remote from scenes of either pain or joy as a _château_ garden in the provinces. Yet here at the garden entrance of the building one hundred and twenty parish priests were hacked down in cold blood at the command of a coward who urged on his ruffians through a grated window. The stains are still red in a tiny room above where the swords of some of the assassins dripped blood against the plastered wall, and down in the crypt are piled the skulls of the slaughtered, here crushed by a heavy blow, there pierced by a bayonet thrust or a pistol bullet. During this time when the mutual suspicion of the moderate Girondists on the one hand and of the radical group, Robespierre, Marat and Danton and their friends, on the other, brought about the arrest of no fewer than three hundred thousand suspects, all sorts of places were pressed into service as prisons, even buildings so unsuitable as the College of the Four Nations (the Institute) and the Palace of the Luxembourg. In the latter was detained Josephine, who was afterwards to marry Napoleon. Five months after his capture the king was tried by the Convention, which had succeeded the Legislature and had formally declared the Republic, and twenty-four hours after his conviction “Citizen Capet” was beheaded on the same charge that had brought thousands of his subjects to the scaffold, that of having “conspired against the Republic.” He died bravely, his last words silenced by an intentional ruffle of drums. The queen was removed from the Temple to the Conciergerie where she was kept in close confinement, never without guards in her room, until she went through a form of trial which sent her to execution in the October after Louis’ death. Her courage, so often tested, was superb, and her composure failed her only when a woman standing on the steps of Saint Roch to watch the tumbrils pass, spat upon her. Mme. Elizabeth was guillotined a few days later. The dauphin probably died in the Temple of ill-treatment, though tales persisted of an escape to the provinces and even to America. The little princess was the only member of the pathetic group to live through this time of horror. She married the duke of Angoulême.