A fortnight ago, Danton, the incomparable fiend, let loose his assassins upon the priests of God.

Now Paris is made a theatre where the people whom Louis and his nobles would have died to save have turned every street into a stable of carnage, every prison and hospital into a vast charnel-house.

One last revolting thing alone remains to be done--the murder of the King; then this France that we have loved will have no name and no place in our generation.

She will rise again, but we shall not see her, for our eyes have been blinded with blood, for ever darkened by disaster.

Like a mistress upon whom we have lavished the days of our youth and the strength of our days, she has deceived us; she has stricken us while we slept.