Amongst them, the figure of the poet André Chénier will probably be remembered the longest. His only crime lay in his beautiful verses, in his life and character, all of which were a reproach to the wolves of the Revolution. The night following his execution a cart loaded with twenty-five headless corpses left the Place du Trône and wended its way to this deserted quarry, into which for six weeks had been tumbled pell mell, stripped of their clothing by the men in charge of the work, the victims of these last days of the Terror. This fosse remained open from day to day awaiting further executions and no day passed without its additions to the mournful assemblage. Here André Chénier was buried unknown to his family who sought for his grave, for the work was done in secret and these grave diggers never spoke of their task as to do so would have insured their joining the silent throng. The secret was discovered by a poor workwoman, Mlle. Paris, who followed the cart containing the body of her father, and each week she would repair thither to pray on the brink of his grave. The days of Robespierre accomplished and the Terror ended, the plot was bought by an inhabitant of the Faubourg de Picpus and enclosed in walls, after which it was blessed by a rebellious priest, rebellious against the Commune, in hiding in Paris. In 1802, when Mme. de Montagu Noailles returned to France, her first care was to discover the grave of her mother guillotined in 1794. Her search was fruitless until she heard by accident of this workwoman, and so in the end succeeded in buying this sacred plot of ground. The ancestor of Prince Salm Krybourg, who now owns the spot, was the last victim of the guillotine and sleeps here with all the others. None have the privilege of sepulchre in the outer enclosure unless they be of blood kin to those who suffered in the Terror and were buried in this fosse. If there be any aristocracy in death it is here in this cemetery of the Picpus. As I turn for a last glimpse, the spring sunshine is filtering down through the thickness of the trees caressing the grass within, and the tombs without, in a tender sort of way, as though to make up to the dead, in some small degree, for all the horrors which had been hurled upon them when alive. So we leave them under the benediction of spring and follow our sad faced guide who utters no word or sound, but stands with bowed head and crossed hands at the great gateway until we pass outward and away.