It was the turn of Chauveau de la Garde, the advocate instructed
to defend her. But what defence was possible? And Chauveau had
been intimidated. He had received a note from the jury ordering
him to remain silent, another from the President bidding him
declare her mad.

Yet Chauveau took a middle course. His brief speech is admirable;
it satisfied his self-respect, without derogating from his
client. It uttered the whole truth.

"The prisoner," he said, "confesses with calm the horrible crime
she has committed; she confesses with calm its premeditation; she
confesses its most dreadful details; in short, she confesses
everything, and does riot seek to justify herself. That, citizens
of the jury, is her whole defence. This imperturbable calm, this
utter abnegation of self, which displays no remorse even in the
very presence of death, are contrary to nature. They can only be
explained by the excitement of political fanaticism which armed
her hand. It is for you, citizens of the jury, to judge what
weight that moral consideration should have in the scales of
justice."

The jury voted her guilty, and Tinville rose to demand the full
sentence of the law.

It was the end. She was removed to the Conciergerie, the
antechamber of the guillotine. A constitutional priest was sent
to her, but she dismissed him with thanks, not requiring his
ministrations. She preferred the painter Hauer, who had received