CHAPTER V.

CHAINED to the wall of a dungeon in the dark and dismal prison of La Force, at once to prevent his escape, and to frustrate his desperate and repeated attempts at self-destruction, the bold and determined Sansargent had all this time been lying in anxious expectation of his final doom. Since his capture and imprisonment on the eventful night of the sixth, he had submitted to his fate with a surly and dogged resolution, without any audible remonstrance, or visible sign of pain; but he gnashed his teeth in silence, and brooded over his hard destiny in the solitude of the dreary night. We have already mentioned the fact of the insurrection having been completely put down on the morning of the sixth, and the King having greeted his subjects on the seventh with an ordinance, which exceeded in severity any of those

issued by the exiled Charles the tenth, proclaiming Paris in a state of siege, and instituting martial law. The printing offices were entered by agents of the police; the journals were stopped, and the presses sealed up; and, in the mean time, the courts-martial proceeded without delay to award such punishments as might be found just or expedient to the unfortunate prisoners, who were brought up in rapid succession for trial.

One or two of the accused had already been acquitted, on account of such a deficiency of evidence, that even military tribunals could not condemn them in the face of it; and one unlucky operative, who had been seen piling the stones of a barricade, had been sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment with hard labour, when Sansargent was brought into court, and placed for trial at the bar. Whatever course might have been pursued by others, he, at least, seemed resolved that no humble plea, no unworthy evasion, no paltry denial, no vain defence, should escape him. He maintained a sullen silence towards all the interrogatories of the court, and as witness after witness came forward to swear that they had seen him heading the charges on the soldiery, cutting

down the troops with his sabre, or discharging at them fire-arms, he only frowned an indignant menace, as a fit reply. The auditors in the court seemed to sympathize with the stern republican, and cheered him. The court was ordered to be cleared, but in vain-it was found that it would be dangerous to attempt it, and the trial was hastened to an end. After listening to a long detail of accusations, some true, some false, and all exaggerated, against the prisoner at the bar, the court, without further deliberation, pronounced at once the sentence of death upon him; and desiring the guards to conduct him back to his prison, and put him under strict surveillance till the time of his execution, adjourned the sitting, and went to talk over their day's sport at the dinnertable.

But the bread and water, which was to be that day the fare of Sansargent, relished as it was with the prospect of the guillotine at a distance, and the savage and rude treatment of the gaoler, brought no comfortable reflections to his mind. He did not flinch from death, because he was afraid to die. Few Frenchmen are afraid of death. The absence of that fear is quite charac

teristic of the nation, and the coolness with which even a young girl in Paris lights a charcoal pan, in order to "asphyxia" herself, is unrivalled in any other country in the world. Sansargent, of all others, was not likely to be afraid of death: and yet, for a day or two after his condemnation, a ray of hope clung to him, and he seemed to expect that either another and a successful revolt would end in opening all the gaols, and delivering him, or that his sentence would be revised by the court, and reversed, or at least mitigated. He had confidence, also, in the exertions of his friends; he had reason to think Louis Boivin had escaped capture, and he was sure that he would do all in his power to procure his release; and, perhaps, he calculated not a little on the influence and good will of Lord Fletcher. But when day after day passed away without bringing any intimation of a change, when his hardy limbs began to grow stiff and cramped with the weight of his irons, and his spirits were worn out and dejected by the monotony and tedium of his solitary confinement, then, indeed, he found it necessary to summon up all his courage, to stand firm against his hard lot, and he envied the fate of Boucher, who had

fallen in the street, by a ball from the guns of

the enemy.

One night, before the double irons were put upon him, Sansargent had nearly escaped from his cell. Having contrived to secrete the broken end of an old iron hoop, of about four inches' length, he had, by the help of a nail, and by long perseverance, worked its edges into teeth, like a saw: and with this, having placed his bedstead upright against the wall, he had mounted to the ceiling, and actually cut away a square in the strong timber panelling, big enough to admit the passage of his body. Owing to the indifferent nature of his tool, he was necessarily employed several nights in cutting his way through, and to conceal his operations, as the walls and ceiling of his cell were entirely whitewashed, he had pasted regularly a strip of white paper over the crease which he had made, and he had made the paste with a portion of the bread and water which constituted his daily fare. On the night that he had completed his labours, he had, by exerting immense agility and muscular strength, raised himself through the aperture which he had cut, and he found himself beneath the roof of