While the carts, escorted by gendarmes, were rumbling along on their way to the Place du Trne Renvers, carrying to their death Brotteaux and his "accomplices," variste sat pensive on a bench in the garden of the Tuileries. He was waiting for lodie. The sun, nearing its setting, shot its fiery darts through the leafy chestnuts. At the gate of the garden, Fame on her winged horse blew her everlasting trumpet. The newspaper hawkers were bawling the news of the great victory of Fleurus.
"Yes," thought Gamelin, "victory is ours. We have paid full price for it."
He could see the beaten Generals, disconsolate shades, trailing in the blood-stained dust of yonder Place de la Rvolution where they perished. And he smiled proudly, reflecting that, but for the severities in which he had borne his sha
