TRIAL AND EXECUTION OF MADAME ROLAND.
1793
Examination of Madame Roland.--Her esteem for the Girondists.--Eloquent
defence of Madame Roland.--Madame Roland's reasons for not
escaping.--Madame Roland's opinion of the Girondists.--Madame Roland's
opinion of the Revolution.--Madame Roland's estimate of her
husband.--Madame Roland's correspondence with Duperret.--Effects of
prejudices and violent animosities.--Madame Roland avows her
opinions.--Madame Roland's apostrophe to Liberty.--Repeated
examinations.--Madame Roland's self-possession.--Madame Roland's
enthusiasm.--Her influence upon the prisoners.--Madame Roland's
addresses to the prisoners.--Effects of her eloquence.--Madame Roland's
musical voice.--Her friendship for the Girondists.--Charming character
of Madame Roland.--She is loved and esteemed.--Madame Roland's
advocate.--Her appearance at the tribunal.--Demand of the
president.--Madame Roland's refusal.--The sentence.--Madame Roland's
dignity and calmness.--She returns to her cell.--Madame Roland's
requiem.--She attires herself for the bridal of death.--The passage to
the guillotine.--Horrible pastime.--Madame Roland's appearance in the
cart.--She addresses the mob.--Powerful emotions of Madame Roland.--Work
of the executioners.--Scene at the scaffold.--Execution of the old
man.--Situation of the guillotine.--Death of Madame Roland.--Wonderful
attachment.--Grief of M. Roland.--Death of M. Roland.--Subsequent life
of Eudora.
The day after Madame Roland was placed in the Conciergerie, she was
visited by one of the notorious officers of the revolutionary party,
and very closely questioned concerning the friendship she had
entertained for the Girondists. She frankly avowed the elevated
affection and esteem with which she cherished their memory, but she
declared that she and they were the cordial friends of republican
liberty; that they wished to preserve, not to destroy, the
Constitution. The examination was vexatious and intolerant in the
extreme. It lasted for three hours, and consisted in an incessant
torrent of criminations, to which she was hardly permitted to offer
one word in reply. This examination taught her the nature of the
accusations which would be brought against her. She sat down in her
cell that very night, and, with a rapid pen, sketched that defense
which has been pronounced one of the most eloquent and touching
monuments of the Revolution. It so beautifully illustrates the heroism
of her character, the serenity of her spirit, and the beauty and
energy of her mental operations, that it will ever be read with the
liveliest interest.
"I am accused," she writes, "of being the accomplice of men
called conspirators. My intimacy with a few of these gentlemen is
of much older date than the occurrences in consequence of which
they are now deemed rebels. Our correspondence, since they left
Paris, has been entirely foreign to public affairs. Properly
speaking, I have been engaged in no political correspondence
whatever, and in that respect I might confine myself to a simple
denial. I certainly can not be called upon to give an account of
my particular affections. I have, however, the right to be proud
of these friendships. I glory in them. I wish to conceal nothing.
I acknowledge that, with expressions of regret at my confinement,
I received an intimation that Duperret had two letters for me,
whether written by one or by two of my friends, before or after
their leaving Paris, I can not say. Duperret had delivered them
into other hands, and they never came to mine. Another time I
received a pressing invitation to break my chains, and an offer
of services, to assist me in effecting my escape in any way I
might think proper, and to convey me whithersoever I might
afterward wish to go. I was dissuaded from listening to such
proposals by duty and by honor: by duty, that I might not
endanger the safety of those to whose care I was confided; and by
honor, because I preferred the risk of an unjust trial to
exposing myself to the suspicion of guilt by a flight unworthy of
me. When I consented to my arrest, it was not with the intention
of afterward making my escape. Without doubt, if all means of
communication had not been cut off, or if I had not been
prevented by confinement, I should have endeavored to learn what
had become of my friends. I know of no law by which my doing so
is forbidden. In what age or in what nation was it ever
considered a crime to be faithful to those sentiments of esteem
and brotherly affection which bind man to man?
"I do not pretend to judge of the measures of those who have been
proscribed, but I will never believe in the evil intentions of
men of whose probity and patriotism I am thoroughly convinced. If
they erred, it was unintentionally. They fall without being
abased, and I regard them as being unfortunate without being
liable to blame. I am perfectly easy as to their glory, and
willingly consent to participate in the honor of being oppressed
by their enemies. They are accused of having conspired against
their country, but I know that they were firm friends of the
Republic. They were, however, humane men, and were persuaded that
good laws were necessary to procure the Republic the good will of
persons who doubted whether the Republic could be maintained. It
is more difficult to conciliate than to kill. The history of
every age proves that it requires great talents to lead men to
virtue by wise institutions, while force suffices to oppress them
by terror, or to annihilate them by death. I have often heard
them assert that abundance, as well as happiness, can only
proceed from an equitable, protecting, and beneficent government.
The omnipotence of the bayonet may produce fear, but not bread. I
have seen them animated by the most lively enthusiasm for the
good of the people, disdaining to flatter them, and resolved
rather to fall victims to their delusion than to be the means of
keeping it up. I confess that these principles and this conduct
appeared to me totally different from the sentiments and
proceedings of tyrants, or ambitious men, who seek to please the
people to effect their subjugation. It inspired me with the
highest esteem for those generous men. This error, if an error it
be, will accompany me to the grave, whither I shall be proud of
following those whom I was not permitted to accompany.
"My defense is more important for those who wish for the truth
than it is for myself. Calm and contented in the consciousness of
having done my duty, I look forward to futurity with perfect
peace of mind. My serious turn and studious habits have preserved
me alike from the follies of dissipation and from the bustle of
intrigue. A friend to liberty, on which reflection had taught me
to set a just value, I beheld the Revolution with delight,
persuaded it was destined to put an end to the arbitrary power I
detested, and to the abuses I had so often lamented, when
reflecting with pity upon the indigent classes of society. I took
an interest in the progress of the Revolution, and spoke with
warmth of public affairs, but I did not pass the bounds
prescribed by my sex. Some small talents, a considerable share of
philosophy, a degree of courage more uncommon, and which did not
permit me to weaken my husband's energy in dangerous times--such,
perhaps, are the qualities which those who know me may have
indiscreetly extolled, and which may have made me enemies among
those to whom I am unknown. M. Roland sometimes employed me as a
secretary, and the famous letter to the king, for instance, is
copied entirely in my hand-writing. This would be an excellent
item to add to my indictment, if the _Austrians_ were trying me,
and if they should have thought fit to extend a minister's
responsibility to his wife. But M. Roland long ago manifested his
knowledge of, and his attachment to, the great principles of
political economy. The proof is to be found in his numerous works
published during the last fifteen years. His learning and his
probity are all his own. He stood in no need of a wife to make
him an able minister. Never were secret councils held at his
house. His colleagues and a few friends met once a week at his
table, and there conversed, in a public manner, on matters in
which every body was concerned. His writings, which breathe
throughout a love of order and peace, and which enforce the best
principles of public prosperity and morals, will forever attest
his wisdom. His accounts prove his integrity.
"As to the offense imputed to me, I observe that I never was
intimate with Duperret. I saw him occasionally at the time of M.
Roland's administration. He never came to our house during the
six months that my husband was no longer in office. The same
remark will apply to other members, our friends, which surely
does not accord with the plots and conspiracies laid to our
charge. It is evident, by my first letter to Duperret, I only
wrote to him because I knew not to whom else to address myself,
and because I imagined he would readily consent to oblige me. My
correspondence with him could not, then, be concerted. It could
not be the consequence of any previous intimacy, and could have
only one object in view. It gave me afterward an opportunity of
receiving accounts from those who had just absented themselves,
and with whom I was connected by the ties of friendship,
independently of all political considerations. The latter were
totally out of the question in the kind of correspondence I kept
up with them during the early part of their absence. No written
memorial bears witness against me in that respect. Those adduced
only lead to the belief that I partook of the opinions and
sentiments of the persons called conspirators. This deduction is
well founded. I confess it without reserve. I am proud of the
conformity. But I never manifested my opinion in a way which can
be construed into a crime, or which tended to occasion any
disturbance. Now, to become an accomplice in any plan whatever,
it is necessary to give advice, or to furnish means of execution.
I have done neither. There is no law to condemn me.
"I know that, in revolutions, law as well as justice is often
forgotten, and the proof of it is that I am here. I owe my trial
to nothing but the prejudices and violent animosities which arise
in times of great agitation, and which are generally directed
against those who have been placed in conspicuous situations, or
are known to possess any energy or spirit. It would have been
easy for my courage to put me out of the reach of the sentence
which I foresaw would be pronounced against me. But I thought it
rather became me to undergo that sentence. I thought that I owed
the example to my country. I thought that if I were to be
condemned, it must be right to leave to tyranny all the odium of
sacrificing a woman, whose crime is that of possessing some
small talent, which she never misapplied, a zealous desire to
promote the welfare of mankind, and courage enough to acknowledge
her friends when in misfortune, and to do homage to virtue at the
risk of life. Minds which have any claim to greatness are capable
of divesting themselves of selfish considerations. They feel that
they belong to the whole human race. Their views are directed to
posterity. I am the wife of a virtuous man exposed to
persecution. I was the friend of men who have been proscribed and
immolated by delusion, and the hatred of jealous mediocrity. It
is necessary that I should perish in my turn, because it is a
rule with tyranny to sacrifice those whom it has grievously
oppressed, and to annihilate the very witnesses of its misdeeds.
I have this double claim to death at your hands, and I expect it.
When innocence walks to the scaffold at the command of error and
perversity, every step she takes is an advance toward glory. May
I be the last victim sacrificed to the furious spirit of party. I
shall leave with joy this unfortunate earth, which swallows up
the friends of virtue and drinks the blood of the just.
"Truth! friendship! my country! sacred objects, sentiments dear
to my heart, accept my last sacrifice. My life was devoted to
you, and you will render my death easy and glorious.
"Just Heaven! enlighten this unfortunate people for whom I
desired liberty. Liberty! it is for noble minds, who despise
death, and who know how, upon occasion, to give it to themselves.
It is not for weak beings, who enter into a composition with
guilt, and cover selfishness and cowardice with the name of
prudence. It is not for corrupt wretches, who rise from the bed
of debauchery, or from the mire of indigence, to feast their eyes
upon the blood that streams from the scaffold. It is the portion
of a people who delight in humanity, practice justice, despise
their flatterers, and respect the truth. While you are not such a
people, O my fellow-citizens! you will talk in vain of liberty.
Instead of liberty you will have licentiousness, to which you
will all fall victims in your turn. You will ask for bread; dead
bodies will be given you, and you at last will bow down your own
necks to the yoke.
"I have neither concealed my sentiments nor my opinions. I know
that a Roman lady was sent to the scaffold for lamenting the
death of her son. I know that, in times of delusion and party
rage, he who dares avow himself the friend of the condemned or
of the proscribed exposes himself to their fate. But I have no
fear of death. I never feared any thing but guilt, and I will not
purchase life at the expense of a base subterfuge. Woe to the
times! woe to the people among whom doing homage to disregarded
truth can be attended with danger; and happy is he who, in such
circumstances, is bold enough to brave it.
"It is now your part to see whether it answer your purpose to
condemn me without proof upon mere matter of opinion, and without
the support or justification of any law."
Having concluded this magnanimous defense, which she wrote in one
evening with the rapidity which characterized all her mental
operations, she retired to rest, and slept with the serenity of a
child. She was called upon several times by committees sent from the
revolutionary tribunal for examination. They were resolved to take her
life, but were anxious to do it, if possible, under the forms of law.
She passed through all their examinations with the most perfect
composure and the most dignified self-possession. Her enemies could
not withhold their expressions of admiration as they saw her in her
sepulchral cell of stone and of iron, cheerful, fascinating, and
perfectly at ease. She knew that she was to be led from that cell to a
violent death, and yet no faltering of soul could be detected. Her
spirit had apparently achieved a perfect victory over all earthly
ills.
The upper part of the door of her cell was an iron grating. The
surrounding cells were filled with the most illustrious ladies and
gentlemen of France. As the hour of death drew near, her courage and
animation seemed to increase. Her features glowed with enthusiasm; her
thoughts and expressions were refulgent with sublimity, and her whole
aspect assumed the impress of one appointed to fill some great and
lofty destiny. She remained but a few days in the Conciergerie before
she was led to the scaffold. During those few days, by her example and
her encouraging words, she spread among the numerous prisoners there
an enthusiasm and a spirit of heroism which elevated, above the fear
of the scaffold, even the most timid and depressed. This glow of
feeling and exhilaration gave a new impress of sweetness and
fascination to her beauty. The length of her captivity, the calmness
with which she contemplated the certain approach of death, gave to her
voice that depth of tone and slight tremulousness of utterance which
sent her eloquent words home with thrilling power to every heart.
Those who were walking in the corridor, or who were the occupants of
adjoining cells, often called for her to speak to them words of
encouragement and consolation.
Standing upon a stool at the door of her own cell, she grasped with
her hands the iron grating which separated her from her audience. This
was her tribune. The melodious accents of her voice floated along the
labyrinthine avenues of those dismal dungeons, penetrating cell after
cell, and arousing energy in hearts which had been abandoned to
despair. It was, indeed, a strange scene which was thus witnessed in
these sepulchral caverns. The silence, as of the grave, reigned there,
while the clear and musical tones of Madame Roland, as of an angel of
consolation, vibrated through the rusty bars, and along the dark, damp
cloisters. One who was at that time an inmate of the prison, and
survived those dreadful scenes, has described, in glowing terms, the
almost miraculous effects of her soul-moving eloquence. She was
already past the prime of life, but she was still fascinating.
Combined with the most wonderful power of expression, she possessed a
voice so exquisitely musical, that, long after her lips were silenced
in death, its tones vibrated in lingering strains in the souls of
those by whom they had ever been heard. The prisoners listened with
the most profound attention to her glowing words, and regarded her
almost as a celestial spirit, who had come to animate them to heroic
deeds. She often spoke of the Girondists who had already perished upon
the guillotine. With perfect fearlessness she avowed her friendship
for them, and ever spoke of them as _our friends_. She, however, was
careful never to utter a word which would bring tears into the eye.
She wished to avoid herself all the weakness of tender emotions, and
to lure the thoughts of her companions away from every contemplation
which could enervate their energies.
Occasionally, in the solitude of her cell, as the image of her husband
and of her child rose before her, and her imagination dwelt upon her
desolated home and her blighted hopes--her husband denounced and
pursued by lawless violence, and her child soon to be an
orphan--woman's tenderness would triumph over the heroine's stoicism.
Burying, for a moment, her face in her hands, she would burst into a
flood of tears. Immediately struggling to regain composure, she would
brush her tears away, and dress her countenance in its accustomed
smiles. She remained in the Conciergerie but one week, and during that
time so endeared herself to all as to become the prominent object of
attention and love. Her case is one of the most extraordinary the
history of the world has presented, in which the very highest degree
of heroism is combined with the most resistless charms of feminine
loveliness. An unfeminine woman can never be _loved_ by men. She may
be respected for her talents, she may be honored for her philanthropy,
but she can not win the warmer emotions of the heart. But Madame
Roland, with an energy of will, an infallibility of purpose, a
firmness of stoical endurance which no mortal man has ever exceeded,
combined that gentleness, and tenderness, and affection--that
instinctive sense of the proprieties of her sex--which gathered around
her a love as pure and as enthusiastic as woman ever excited. And
while her friends, many of whom were the most illustrious men in
France, had enthroned her as an idol in their hearts, the breath of
slander never ventured to intimate that she was guilty even of an
impropriety.
The day before her trial, her advocate, Chauveau de la Garde, visited
her to consult respecting her defense. She, well aware that no one
could speak a word in her favor but at the peril of his own life, and
also fully conscious that her doom was already sealed, drew a ring
from her finger, and said to him,
"To-morrow I shall be no more. I know the fate which awaits me. Your
kind assistance can not avail aught for me, and would but endanger
you. I pray you, therefore, not to come to the tribunal, but to accept
of this last testimony of my regard."
The next day she was led to her trial. She attired herself in a white
robe, as a symbol of her innocence, and her long dark hair fell in
thick curls on her neck and shoulders. She emerged from her dungeon a
vision of unusual loveliness. The prisoners who were walking in the
corridors gathered around her, and with smiles and words of
encouragement she infused energy into their hearts. Calm and
invincible she met her judges. She was accused of the crimes of being
the wife of M. Roland and the friend of his friends. Proudly she
acknowledged herself guilty of both those charges. Whenever she
attempted to utter a word in her defense, she was brow-beaten by the
judges, and silenced by the clamors of the mob which filled the
tribunal. The mob now ruled with undisputed sway in both legislative
and executive halls. The serenity of her eye was untroubled, and the
composure of her disciplined spirit unmoved, save by the exaltation of
enthusiasm, as she noted the progress of the trial, which was bearing
her rapidly and resistlessly to the scaffold. It was, however,
difficult to bring any accusation against her by which, under the form
of law, she could be condemned. France, even in its darkest hour, was
rather ashamed to behead a woman, upon whom the eyes of all Europe
were fixed, simply for being the _wife of her husband and the friend
of his friends_. At last the president demanded of her that she should
reveal her husband's asylum. She proudly replied,
"I do not know of any law by which I can be obliged to violate the
strongest feelings of nature." This was sufficient, and she was
immediately condemned. Her sentence was thus expressed:
"The public accuser has drawn up the present indictment against
Jane Mary Phlippon, the wife of Roland, late Minister of the
Interior for having wickedly and designedly aided and assisted
in the conspiracy which existed against the unity and
indivisibility of the Republic, against the liberty and safety of
the French people, by assembling, at her house, in secret
council, the principal chiefs of that conspiracy, and by keeping
up a correspondence tending to facilitate their treasonable
designs. The tribunal, having heard the public accuser deliver
his reasons concerning the application of the law, condemns Jane
Mary Phlippon, wife of Roland, to the punishment of death."
She listened calmly to her sentence, and then, rising, bowed with
dignity to her judges, and, smiling, said,
"I thank you, gentlemen, for thinking me worthy of sharing the fate of
the great men whom you have assassinated. I shall endeavor to imitate
their firmness on the scaffold."
With the buoyant step of a child, and with a rapidity which almost
betokened joy, she passed beneath the narrow portal, and descended to
her cell, from which she was to be led, with the morning light, to a
bloody death. The prisoners had assembled to greet her on her return,
and anxiously gathered around her. She looked upon them with a smile
of perfect tranquillity, and, drawing her hand across her neck, made
a sign expressive of her doom. But a few hours elapsed between her
sentence and her execution. She retired to her cell, wrote a few words
of parting to her friends, played, upon a harp which had found its way
into the prison, her requiem, in tones so wild and mournful, that,
floating, in the dark hours of the night, through those sepulchral
caverns, they fell like unearthly music upon the despairing souls
there incarcerated.
The morning of the 10th of November, 1793, dawned gloomily upon Paris.
It was one of the darkest days of that reign of terror which, for so
long a period, enveloped France in its somber shades. The ponderous
gates of the court-yard of the Conciergerie opened that morning to a
long procession of carts loaded with victims for the guillotine.
Madame Roland had contemplated her fate too long, and had disciplined
her spirit too severely, to fail of fortitude in this last hour of
trial. She came from her cell scrupulously attired for the bridal of
death. A serene smile was upon her cheek, and the glow of joyous
animation lighted up her features as she waved an adieu to the weeping
prisoners who gathered around her. The last cart was assigned to
Madame Roland. She entered it with a step as light and elastic as if
it were a carriage for a pleasant morning's drive. By her side stood
an infirm old man, M. La Marche. He was pale and trembling, and his
fainting heart, in view of the approaching terror, almost ceased to
beat. She sustained him by her arm, and addressed to him words of
consolation and encouragement, in cheerful accents and with a
benignant smile. The poor old man felt that God had sent an angel to
strengthen him in the dark hour of death. As the cart heavily rumbled
along the pavement, drawing nearer and nearer to the guillotine, two
or three times, by her cheerful words, she even caused a smile faintly
to play upon his pallid lips.
The guillotine was now the principal instrument of amusement for the
populace of Paris. It was so elevated that all could have a good view
of the spectacle it presented. To witness the conduct of nobles and of
ladies, of boys and of girls, while passing through the horrors of a
sanguinary death, was far more exciting than the unreal and bombastic
tragedies of the theater, or the conflicts of the cock-pit and the
bear garden. A countless throng flooded the streets, men, women, and
children, shouting, laughing, execrating. The celebrity of Madame
Roland, her extraordinary grace and beauty, and her aspect, not only
of heroic fearlessness, but of joyous exhilaration, made her the
prominent object of the public gaze. A white robe gracefully enveloped
her perfect form, and her black and glossy hair, which for some reason
the executioners had neglected to cut, fell in rich profusion to her
waist. A keen November blast swept the streets, under the influence of
which, and the excitement of the scene, her animated countenance
glowed with all the ruddy bloom of youth. She stood firmly in the
cart, looking with a serene eye upon the crowds which lined the
streets, and listening with unruffled serenity to the clamor which
filled the air. A large crowd surrounded the cart in which Madame
Roland stood, shouting, "To the guillotine! to the guillotine!" She
looked kindly upon them, and, bending over the railing of the cart,
said to them, in tones as placid as if she were addressing her own
child, "My friends, I _am_ going to the guillotine. In a few moments I
shall be there. They who send me thither will ere long follow me. I go
innocent. They will come stained with blood. You who now applaud our
execution will then applaud theirs with equal zeal."
Madame Roland had continued writing her memoirs until the hour in
which she left her cell for the scaffold. When the cart had almost
arrived at the foot of the guillotine, her spirit was so deeply moved
by the tragic scene--such emotions came rushing in upon her soul from
departing time and opening eternity, that she could not repress the
desire to pen down her glowing thoughts. She entreated an officer to
furnish her for a moment with pen and paper. The request was refused.
It is much to be regretted that we are thus deprived of that unwritten
chapter of her life. It can not be doubted that the words she would
then have written would have long vibrated upon the ear of a listening
world. Soul-utterances will force their way over mountains, and
valleys, and oceans. Despotism can not arrest them. Time can not
enfeeble them.
The long procession arrived at the guillotine, and the bloody work
commenced. The victims were dragged from the carts, and the ax rose
and fell with unceasing rapidity. Head after head fell into the
basket, and the pile of bleeding trunks rapidly increased in size. The
executioners approached the cart where Madame Roland stood by the side
of her fainting companion. With an animated countenance and a
cheerful smile, she was all engrossed in endeavoring to infuse
fortitude into his soul. The executioner grasped her by the arm.
"Stay," said she, slightly resisting his grasp; "I have one favor to
ask, and that is not for myself. I beseech you grant it me." Then
turning to the old man, she said, "Do you precede me to the scaffold.
To see my blood flow would make you suffer the bitterness of death
twice over. I must spare you the pain of witnessing my execution." The
stern officer gave a surly refusal, replying, "My orders are to take
you first." With that winning smile and that fascinating grace which
were almost resistless, she rejoined, "You can not, surely, refuse a
woman her last request." The hard-hearted executor of the law was
brought within the influence of her enchantment. He paused, looked at
her for a moment in slight bewilderment, and yielded. The poor old
man, more dead than alive, was conducted upon the scaffold and placed
beneath the fatal ax. Madame Roland, without the slightest change of
color, or the apparent tremor of a nerve, saw the ponderous
instrument, with its glittering edge, glide upon its deadly mission,
and the decapitated trunk of her friend was thrown aside to give
place for her. With a placid countenance and a buoyant step, she
ascended the platform. The guillotine was erected upon the vacant spot
between the gardens of the Tuileries and the Elysian Fields, then
known as the Place de la Revolution. This spot is now called the Place
de la Concorde. It is unsurpassed by any other place in Europe. Two
marble fountains now embellish the spot. The blood-stained guillotine,
from which crimson rivulets were ever flowing, then occupied the space
upon which one of these fountains has been erected; and a clay statue
to Liberty reared its hypocritical front where the Egyptian obelisk
now rises. Madame Roland stood for a moment upon the elevated
platform, looked calmly around upon the vast concourse, and then
bowing before the colossal statue, exclaimed, "O Liberty! Liberty! how
many crimes are committed in thy name." She surrendered herself to the
executioner, and was bound to the plank. The plank fell to its
horizontal position, bringing her head under the fatal ax. The
glittering steel glided through the groove, and the head of Madame
Roland was severed from her body.
[Illustration: EXECUTION OF MADAME ROLAND.]
Thus died Madame Roland, in the thirty-ninth year of her age. Her
death oppressed all who had known her with the deepest grief. Her
intimate friend Buzot, who was then a fugitive, on hearing the
tidings, was thrown into a state of perfect delirium, from which he
did not recover for many days. Her faithful female servant was so
overwhelmed with grief, that she presented herself before the
tribunal, and implored them to let her die upon the same scaffold
where her beloved mistress had perished. The tribunal, amazed at such
transports of attachment, declared that she was mad, and ordered her
to be removed from their presence. A man-servant made the same
application, and was sent to the guillotine.
The grief of M. Roland, when apprised of the event, was unbounded. For
a time he entirely lost his senses. Life to him was no longer
endurable. He knew not of any consolations of religion. Philosophy
could only nerve him to stoicism. Privately he left, by night, the
kind friends who had hospitably concealed him for six months, and
wandered to such a distance from his asylum as to secure his
protectors from any danger on his account. Through the long hours of
the winter's night he continued his dreary walk, till the first gray
of the morning appeared in the east. Drawing a long stiletto from the
inside of his walking-stick, he placed the head of it against the
trunk of a tree, and threw himself upon the sharp weapon. The point
pierced his heart, and he fell lifeless upon the frozen ground. Some
peasants passing by discovered his body. A piece of paper was pinned
to the breast of his coat, upon which there were written these words:
"Whoever thou art that findest these remains, respect them as those of
a virtuous man. After hearing of my wife's death, I would not stay
another day in a world so stained with crime."
The daughter of Madame Roland succeeded in escaping the fury of the
tyrants of the Revolution. She lived surrounded by kind protectors,
and in subsequent years was married to M. Champeneaux, the son of one
of her mother's intimate friends.
Such was the wonderful career of Madame Roland. It is a history full
of instruction, and ever reminds us that truth is stranger than
fiction.
THE END.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors, and to
ensure consistent spelling and punctuation in this etext; otherwise,
every effort has been made to remain true to the original book.
2. The sidenotes used in this text were originally published as
banners in the page headers, and have been collected at the beginning
of each chapter for the reader's convenience.