In the year 1754 there was living in an obscure workshop in Paris, an
engraver by the name of Gratien Phlippon. He had married a very
beautiful woman, whose placid temperament and cheerful content
contrasted strikingly with the restlessness of her husband. The
comfortable yet humble apartments of the engraver were over the shop
where he plied his daily toil. He was much dissatisfied with his lowly
condition in life, and that his family, in the enjoyment of frugal
competence alone, were debarred from those luxuries which were
profusely showered upon others. Bitterly and unceasingly he murmured
that his lot had been cast in the ranks of obscurity and of unsparing
labour, while others, by a more fortunate, although no better merited
destiny, were born to ease and affluence, and honour and luxury.
Phlippon was a philosopher. Submission was a virtue he had never
learned, and never wished to learn.
Madame Phlippon was just the reverse of her husband. She was a woman
in whom faith, and trust, and submission predominated. She surrendered
her will, without questioning, to all the teachings of the Church. She
was placid, contented and cheerful, and undoubtedly sincere in her
piety. In every event of life she recognised the overruling hand of
Providence, and feeling that the comparatively humble lot assigned
her was in accordance with the will of God, she indulged in no
repinings.
Of eight children born to these parents, one only, Jeanne Manon, or
Jane Mary, survived the hour of birth. Her father first received her
to his arms in 1754, and she became the object of his painful and most
passionate adoration. Both parents lived in her and for her. She was
their earthly all. Even in her infantile years she gave indication of
a most brilliant intellect--and her father repined that she should be
doomed to a life of obscurity and toil, while the garden of the
Tuileries and the Elysian Fields were thronged with children, neither
so beautiful nor so intelligent, who were reveling in boundless
wealth, and living in a world of luxury and splendour which, to
Phlippon's imagination, seemed more alluring than any idea he could
form of heaven.
By nature Jane was endowed with a soul of unusual delicacy. From early
childhood, all that is beautiful or sublime in nature, in literature,
in character, had charms to rivet her entranced attention. She loved
to sit alone at her chamber window in the evening of a summer's day,
to gaze upon the gorgeous hues of sunset. Books of poetry and
descriptions of heroic character and achievements were her especial
delight. "Plutarch's Lives," that book which, more than any other,
appears to be the incentive of early genius, was hid beneath her
pillow, and read and re-read. Those illustrious heroes of antiquity
became the companions of her solitude and of her hourly thoughts. She
adored them and loved them as her own most intimate personal friends.
Her character became insensibly moulded to their forms, and she was
inspired with restless enthusiasm to imitate their deeds. When but
twelve years of age her father found her, one day, weeping that she
was not born a Roman maiden.
It was, perhaps, the absence of playmates, and the habitual converse
with mature minds which, at so early an age, inspired Jane with that
insatiate thirst for knowledge which she ever manifested. Books were
her only resource in every unoccupied hour. From her walks with her
father, and her domestic employments with her mother, she turned to
her little library and to her chamber window, and lost herself in the
limitless realms of thought.
In a bright summer's afternoon she might be seen sauntering along the
boulevards, led by her father's hand, gazing upon that scene of gaiety
with which the eye is never wearied. A gilded coach, drawn by the most
beautiful horses in the richest trappings, sweeps along the streets--a
gorgeous vision. Phlippon takes his little daughter in his arms to
show her the sight, and, as she gazes in infantile wonder and delight,
the discontented father says:
"Look at that lord and lady, and child, lolling so voluptuously in
their coach. They have no right there. Why must I and my child walk on
this hot pavement, while they repose on velvet cushions and revel in
all luxury? A time will come when the people will awake to the
consciousness of their wrongs, and their tyrants will tremble before
them."
He continues his walk in moody silence, brooding over his sense of
injustice. They return to their home.
Jane wishes that her father kept a carriage, and liveried servants and
outriders. She thinks of politics, and of the tyranny of kings and
nobles, and of the unjust inequalities of man. She retires to the
solitude of her loved chamber window, and reads of Aristides the Just,
of Themistocles with his Spartan virtues, of Brutus, and of the mother
of the Gracchi. Greece and Rome rise before her in all their ancient
renown. She despises the frivolity of Paris and her youthful bosom
throbs with the desire of being noble in spirit and of achieving great
exploits. Thus, when other children of her age were playing with their
dolls, she was dreaming of the prostration of nobles and of the
overthrow of thrones.
The education of young ladies, at that time in France, was conducted
almost exclusively by nuns in convents. The idea of the silence and
solitude of the cloister inspired the highly imaginative girl. Her
mother's spirit of religion was exerting a powerful influence over
her, and one evening she fell at her mother's feet and, bursting into
tears, besought that she might be sent to a convent to prepare to
receive her first Christian communion in a suitable frame of mind.
The convent of the sisterhood of the Congregation in Paris was
selected for Jane. She subsequently wrote:
While pressing my dear mother in my arms, at the moment of
parting with her for the first time in my life, I thought my
heart would break; but I was acting in obedience to the voice of
God, and I passed the threshold of the cloister, tearfully
offering up to him the greatest sacrifice I was capable of
making. This was on the 7th of May, 1765, when I was eleven
years and two months old. The first night I spent in the convent
was a night of agitation. I was no longer under the paternal
roof. I was at a distance from that kind mother, who was
doubtless thinking of me with affectionate emotion. A dim light
diffused through the room in which I had been put to bed with
four children of my own age. I stole softly from my couch and
drew near the window, the light of the moon enabling me to
distinguish the garden, which it overlooked. The deepest silence
prevailed around, and I listened to it, if I may use the
expression, with a sort of respect. Lofty trees cast their
gigantic shadows along the ground, and promised a secure asylum
to meditation. I lifted up my eyes to the heavens; they were
unclouded and serene. I imagined that I felt the presence of the
Deity smiling upon my sacrifice, and already offering me a
reward in the hope of a celestial abode. Tears of delight flowed
down my cheeks. I repeated my vows with holy ecstasy, and went
to bed again to taste the slumber of God's chosen children.
Two years after this she was taken to pass a week at the luxurious
abodes of Maria Antoinette. Versailles was in itself a city of palaces
and of courtiers, where all that could dazzle the eye in regal pomp
and voluptuousness was concentred. Most girls of her age would have
been enchanted and bewildered by this display. Jane was permitted to
witness, and partially to share, all the pomp of luxuriously spread
tables and presentations, and court balls, and illuminations and the
gilded equipages of ambassadors and princes, but this maiden, just
emerging from the period of childhood and the seclusion of the
cloister, undazzled by all this brilliance, looked sadly on the scene.
The servility of the courtiers excited her contempt. She contrasted
the boundless profusion and extravagance which filled these palaces
with the absence of comfort in the dwellings of the over-taxed poor,
and pondered deeply the value of that despotism which starved the
millions to pander to the dissolute indulgence of the few. Her
personal pride was also severely stung by perceiving that her own
attractions, mental and physical, were entirely overlooked by the
crowds which were bowing before power. Disgusted with the frivolity of
the living, she sought solace in companionship with the illustrious
dead. She chose the gardens for her resort, and, lingered around the
statues which embellished scenes of almost fairy enchantment.
"How do you enjoy your visit, my daughter?" inquired her mother.
"I shall be glad when it is ended," was the characteristic reply,
"else, in a few more days, I shall so detest all the persons I see
that I shall not know what to do with my hatred."
"Why, what harm have these persons done you, my child?"
"They make me feel injustice and look upon absurdity," replied this
philosopher of thirteen.
Soon after this Jane entered her fourteenth year and her mother,
conscious of the importance to her child of a knowledge of domestic
duties, took her to the market to obtain meat and vegetables, and
occasionally placed upon her the responsibility of the family
purchases. The unaffected dignity with which the imaginative girl
yielded herself to these most prosaic avocations was such, that when
she entered the market, the fruit women hastened to serve her. It is
quite remarkable that Jane, apparently, never turned with repugnance
from these humble avocations of domestic life. It speaks most highly
in behalf of the sound judgment of her mother, that she was enabled
thus successfully to allure her daughter from her realms of romance to
those unattractive practical duties which our daily necessities
demand. At one hour this ardent maiden might have been seen in her
little chamber absorbed in studies of deepest research. The highest
themes which can elevate the mind of man claimed her delighted
reveries. The next hour she might be seen in the kitchen, under the
guidance of her mother, receiving from her judicious lips lessons
upon frugality, and industry, and economy. The white apron was bound
around her waist, and her hands, which, but a few moments before, were
busy with the circles of the celestial globe, were now occupied in
preparing vegetables for dinner. There was thus united in the
character of Jane the appreciation of all that is beautiful and
sublime in the world of fact and the world of imagination, and also
domestic skill and practical common sense. She was thus prepared to
fascinate by the graces of a refined and polished mind, and to create
for herself, in the midst of all vicissitudes, a region of loveliness
in which her spirit could ever dwell; and, at the same time she
possessed that sagacity and tact, and those habits of usefulness,
which prepared her to meet calmly all the changes of fortune, and over
them all to triumph. With that self-appreciation which with her was
frankness rather than vanity she subsequently writes:
This mixture of serious studies, agreeable relaxations and
domestic cares, was rendered pleasant by my mother's good
management, and fitted me for everything. It seemed to forebode
the vicissitudes of future life, and enabled me to bear them. In
every place I am at home. I can prepare my own dinner with as
much address as Philopoemen cut wood; but no one seeing me thus
engaged would think it an office in which I ought to be
employed.
As years passed on through the friendship of a family of noble rank,
Jane was often introduced to the great world. The family became much
interested in the fascinating young lady, and her brilliant talents
and accomplishments secured her invitations to many social interviews.
This slight acquaintance with the nobility of France did not, however,
elevate them in her esteem. She found the conversation of the old
marquises and antiquated dowagers who frequented the saloon of Madame
De Boismorel more insipid and illiterate than that of the tradespeople
who visited her father's shop, and upon whom these nobles looked down
with contempt. Jane was also disgusted with the many indications she
saw, not only of indolence, but of dissipation and utter want of
principle. Her good sense enabled her to move among these people as a
studious observer of human nature, neither adopting their costume nor
imitating their manners. She was very unostentatious and simple in her
dress, and never, in the slightest degree, affected the mannerism of
mindless and artless fashion.
Madame De Boismorel, at one time eulogising her taste in these
respects, remarked:
"You do not love feathers, do you, Miss Phlippon? How very different
you are from the giddy-headed girls around us!"
"I never wear feathers," Jane replied, "because I do not think that
they would correspond with the condition in life of an artist's
daughter who is going about on foot."
"But were you in a different situation in life, would you then wear
feathers?"
"I do not know what I should do in that case. I attach very slight
importance to such trifles. I merely consider what is suitable for
myself, and should be very sorry to judge of others by the superficial
information afforded by their dress."
M. Phlippon now began to advance rapidly in a career of dissipation.
Jane did everything in her power to lure him to love his home. All her
efforts were unavailing. Her situation was now painful in the
extreme. Her mother, who had been the guardian angel of her life, was
sleeping in the grave. The father was daily becoming more neglectful
and unkind to his daughter. Under these circumstances, Jane, by the
advice of friends, had resort to a legal process, by which there was
secured to her, from the wreck of her mother's fortune, an annual
income of about one hundred dollars.
In these gloomy hours which clouded the morning of her day, Jane found
an unfailing resource and solace in her love of literature. With pen
in hand, extracting beautiful passages and expanding suggested
thoughts, she forgot her griefs and beguiled many hours, which would
otherwise have been burdened with wretchedness.
Maria Antoinette, woe-worn and weary, in tones of despair uttered the
exclamation:
"Oh! what a resource amid the casualties of life must there be in a
highly cultivated mind."
The maiden could utter the same exclamation in accents of joy.
* * * * *
When Jane was in the convent, she became acquainted with a young lady
from Amiens, Sophia Cannet. They formed for each other a strong
attachment and commenced a correspondence which continued for many
years. There was a gentleman in Amiens by the name of Roland de la
Platiere, born of an opulent family, and holding the quite important
office of inspector of manufactures. His time was mainly occupied in
travelling and study. Being deeply interested in all subjects relating
to political economy, he had devoted much attention to that science,
and had written several treatises upon commerce, mechanics and
agriculture which had given him, in the literary and scientific
world, no little celebrity. He frequently visited the father of
Sophia. She often spoke to him of her friend Jane, showed him her
portrait, and read to him extracts from her glowing letters. The calm
philosopher became very much interested in the enthusiastic maiden,
and entreated Sophia to give him a letter of introduction to her, upon
one of his annual visits to Paris. Sophia had also often written to
Jane of her father's friend, whom she regarded with so much reverence.
Jane, the enthusiastic, romantic Jane, saw in the serene philosopher
one of the sages of antiquity, and almost literally bowed and
worshipped. All the sentiments of M. Roland were in accordance with
the most cherished emotions which glowed in her mind. She found what
she had ever been seeking, but had never found before, a truly
sympathetic soul. She looked up to M. Roland as to a superior
being--to an oracle, by whose decisions she could judge whether her
own opinions were right or wrong. It is true that M. Roland never
entered those airy realms of beauty and regions of romance where Jane
loved, at times, to revel. And perhaps Jane venerated him still more
for his more stern and unimaginative philosophy. But his meditative
wisdom, his abstraction from the frivolous pursuits of life, his high
ambition, his elevated pleasures, his consciousness of superiority
over the mass of his fellowmen, and his sleepless desire to be a
benefactor of humanity, were all traits of character which
resistlessly attracted the admiration of Jane. She adored him as a
disciple adores his master. She listened eagerly to all his words, and
loved communion with his thoughts. M. Roland was by no means
insensible to this homage, and he was charmed with her society
because she was so delighted with his own conversation. Several years
after their acquaintance began M. Roland made an avowal of his
attachment. Jane knew very well the pride of the Roland family, and
that her worldly circumstances were such that the connection would not
seem an advantageous one. She also was too proud to enter into a
family who might feel dishonoured by the alliance. She, therefore,
frankly told him that she felt much honoured by his addresses, and
that she esteemed him more highly than any other man she had met. Her
father was a ruined man, however, and by his increasing debts and his
errors still deeper disgrace might be entailed upon all connected with
him, and she could not think of allowing M. Roland to make his
generosity to her a source of future mortification to himself.
The more she manifested this elevation of soul, in which Jane was
perfectly sincere, the more earnestly did M. Roland persist in his
plea. At last Jane, influenced by his entreaties, consented that he
should make proposals to her father. He wrote to M. Phlippon. In reply
he received an insulting letter, containing a blunt refusal. M.
Phlippon declared that he had no idea of having for a son-in-law a man
of such rigid principles, who would ever be reproaching him for all
his little errors. He also told his daughter that she would find in a
man of such austere virtue not a companion and an equal, but a tyrant.
Jane laid this refusal of her father deeply to heart, and resolved
that if she could not marry the man of her choice, she would marry no
one else. She wrote to M. Roland, requesting him to abandon his
design, and not to expose himself to any further affronts. She then
requested permission of her father to retire to a convent.
The scanty income she had saved from her mother's property rendered it
necessary for her to live with the utmost frugality. She determined to
regulate her expenses in accordance with this small sum. Potatoes,
rice, and beans, with a little salt, and occasionally the luxury of a
little butter, were her only food. She allowed herself to leave the
convent but twice a week: once, to call for an hour upon a relative,
and once to visit her father, and look after his linen. She had a
little room under the roof in the attic, where the pattering of the
rain upon the tiles soothed and lulled her to sleep by night. She
carefully secluded herself from association with the other inmates of
the convent, receiving only a visit of an hour each evening from the
much-loved Sister Agatha. Her time she devoted, with unremitting
diligence to those literary avocations in which she found so much
delight.
The quiet and seclusion of this life had many charms for Jane. Indeed,
a person with such resource for enjoyment within herself could never
be very weary. Several months thus glided away in tranquillity. She
occasionally walked in the garden, at hours when no one else was
there. The resignation, which she had so long cultivated; the peaceful
conscience she enjoyed, in view of duty performed; the elevation of
spirit which enabled her to rise superior to misfortune; the
methodical arrangement of time, which assigned to each hour its
appropriate duty; the habit of close application, which riveted her
attention to her studies; the highly cultivated taste and buoyantly
winged imagination, which opened before her all the fairy realms of
fancy, were treasures which gilded her cell and enriched her heart.
In the course of five or six months M. Roland again visited Paris, and
called at the convent to see Jane. He saw her pale and pensive face
behind a grating, and the sight of one who had suffered so much from
her faithful love for him, and the sound of her voice, which ever
possessed a peculiar charm, revived in his mind those impressions
which had been somewhat fading away. He again renewed his offer and
entreated her to allow the marriage ceremony at once to be performed.
Jane, without much delay, yielded to his appeals. They were married in
the winter of 1780. Jane was then twenty-five years of age. Her
husband was twenty years her senior.
The first year of their marriage life they passed in Paris. It was to
Madame Roland a year of great enjoyment. Her husband was publishing a
work upon the arts, and she, with all the energy of her enthusiastic
mind, entered into all his literary enterprises. With great care and
accuracy she prepared his manuscripts for the press and corrected the
proofs. She lived in the study with him, became the companion of all
his thoughts, and his assistant in all labours. The only recreations
in which she indulged, during the winter, were to attend a course of
lectures upon natural history and botany. M. Roland had hired ready
furnished lodgings. She, well instructed by her mother in domestic
duties, observing that all kinds of cooking did not agree with him,
took pleasure in preparing his food with her own hands. Her husband
engrossed her whole time, and, being naturally rather austere and
imperious, he secluded her from the society of others and monopolised
all her capabilities of friendly feeling.
At the close of the year the couple went to Amiens and soon after was
born a daughter, her only child, whom she nurtured with the most
assiduous care. Her literary labours were, however, unremitted, and
she still lived in the study with her books and her pen. M. Roland was
writing several articles for an encyclopaedia. She aided most
efficiently in collecting the materials and arranging the matter.
Indeed, she wielded a far more vigorous pen than he did. Her
copiousness of language, her facility of expression and the play of
her fancy, gave her the command of a very fascinating style; and M.
Roland obtained the credit for many passages rich in diction and
beautiful in imagery for which he was indebted to the glowing
imagination of his wife. Frequent sickness of her husband alarmed her
for his life. The tenderness with which she watched over him
strengthened the tie which united them. He could not but love a young
and beautiful wife so devoted to him. She could not but love one upon
whom she was conferring such rich blessings. Their little daughter,
Eudora, was a source of great delight to the fond parents, and Madame
Roland took the deepest interest in the developments of her mind. The
office of M. Roland was highly lucrative, and his literary projects
successful. They remained in Amiens four years.
Later they retired to La Platiere, the paternal estate of M. Roland,
situated at the base of the mountains near Lyons in the valley of the
Saone. It is a region solitary and wild, with rivulets meandering down
from the mountains, fringed with willows and poplars, and threading
their way through narrow, yet smooth and fertile meadows luxuriant
with vineyards. A large, square stone house, with regular windows and
a roof nearly flat, of red tiles constituted the comfortable, spacious
and substantial mansion.
Her mode of life during the five calm and sunny years at La Platiere
must have been exceedingly attractive. She rose with the sun, devoted
sundry attentions to her husband and child, and personally
superintended the arrangements for breakfast, taking an affectionate
pleasure in preparing her husband's frugal food with her own hands.
That social meal being passed, M. Roland entered the library for his
intellectual toil, taking with him for his silent companion the
idolised little Eudora. She amused herself with her pencil or reading
or other studies, which her father and mother superintended. Madame
Roland, in the meantime devoted herself, with most systematic energy,
to her domestic concerns. She was a perfect housekeeper and each
morning all the interests of her family, from the cellar to the
garret, passed under her eye. She superintended the preservation of
the fruit, the sorting of the linen, and those other details of
domestic life which engross the attention of a good housewife. The
systematic division of time, which seemed to be an instinctive
principle of her nature, enabled her to accomplish all this in two
hours. She had faithful and devoted servants to do the work. The
superintendence was all that was required. This genius to superintend
and be the head, while others contribute the hands, is not the most
common of human endowments. Madame Roland, having thus attended to her
domestic concerns, laid aside those cares for the remainder of the
day, and entered the study to join her husband in his labours there.
At the close of the literary labours of the morning Madame Roland met
her guests at the dinner table. The labour of the day was then over.
The repast was prolonged with social converse. After dinner they
walked in the garden, sauntered through the vineyard and looked at the
innumerable objects of interest which are ever to be found in the yard
of a spacious farm. Madame Roland frequently retired to the library to
write letters to her friends or to superintend the lessons of Eudora.
Occasionally, of a fine day, she would walk for several miles, calling
at the cottages of the peasantry, whom she greatly endeared to her by
her unvarying kindness. In the evening, after tea, they again resorted
to the library. Guests of distinguished name and influence were
frequently with them, and the hours glided swiftly, cheered by the
brilliance of philosophy and genius. The journals of the day were
read, Madame Roland being usually called upon as reader. When not thus
reading, she usually sat at her work-table, employing her fingers with
her needle, while she took part in the conversation.
"This kind of life," says Madame Roland, "would be very austere, were
not my husband a man of great merit, whom I love with my whole heart.
I congratulate myself on enjoying it; and I exert my best endeavours
to make it last."
Again she draws the captivating picture of rural pleasures:
"I am preserving pears which will be delicious. We are drying raisins
and prunes. We overlook the servants busy in the vineyard; repose in
the shady groves, and on the green meadows; gather walnuts from the
trees; and having collected our stock of fruit for the winter, spread
it to dry. After breakfast this morning we are all going in a body to
gather almonds. Throw off, then, dear friend, your fetters for a
while, and come and join us in our retreat. You will find here true
friendship and real simplicity of heart."
* * * * *
Madame Roland was thus living at La Platiere, in the enjoyment of all
that this world can give of peace and happiness, when the first
portentious mutterings of the French Revolution fell upon her ears.
She eagerly caught the sounds, and, believing them the precursor of
blessings, rejoiced in the assurance that the hour was approaching
when long-oppressed humanity would reassert its rights and achieve its
triumph. Little did she dream of the woes which in surging billows
were to roll over her country and which were to engulf her and all
whom she loved in their tide. Her faith in human nature was so strong
that she could foresee no obstacles and no dangers in the way of
immediate disfranchisement from all laws and usages which her judgment
disapproved. Her whole soul was aroused and she devoted all her
affections and every energy of her mind to the welfare of the human
race.
Louis XVI. and Maria Antoinette had but recently inherited the throne
of the Bourbons. Louis was benevolent, but destitute of the decision
of character requisite to hold the reins of government in a stormy
period. Maria Antoinette had neither culture of mind nor knowledge of
the world. She was an amiable but spoiled child, with native nobleness
of character, but with those defects which are the natural consequence
of the frivolous education she had received. She thought never of duty
and responsibility; always and only of pleasure. It was her
misfortune rather than her fault that the idea never entered her mind
that kings and queens had aught else to do than to indulge in luxury.
It would be hardly possible to conceive of two characters less
qualified to occupy the throne in stormy times than were Louis and
Maria. The people were slowly, but with resistless power, rising
against the abuses of the aristocracy and the monarchy. Louis, a man
of unblemished kindness, was made the scapegoat for the sins of
oppressive, profligate princes, who for centuries had trodden with
iron hoofs upon the necks of their subjects. The accumulated hate of
ages was poured upon his head.
The National Assembly consisted of the nobility, the higher clergy,
and representatives, chosen by the people, from all parts of France.
M. Roland, who was quite an idol with the populace of Lyons and its
vicinity, was chosen representative to the Assembly from the city of
Lyons. In that busy city the revolutionary movement had begun with
great power, and the name of Roland was the rallying point of the
people now struggling to escape from oppression. M. Roland spent some
time in the city, drawn thither by the intense interest of the times,
and in the salon of Madame Roland meetings were every evening held by
the most influential men of the revolutionary party. Her ardour
stimulated their zeal, and her well-stored mind and fascinating
eloquence guided their councils.
In this rising conflict between plebeian and patrician, between
democrat and aristocrat, the position in which M. Roland and wife were
placed, as most conspicuous and influential members of the
revolutionary party, arrayed against them, with daily increasing
animosity, the aristocratic community of Lyons. Each day their names
were pronounced by the advocates of reform with more enthusiasm and by
their opponents with deepening hostility. The applause and the censure
alike invigorated Madame Roland, and her whole soul became absorbed in
the idea of popular liberty. This object became her passion, and she
devoted herself to it with the concentration of every energy of mind
and heart.
On the 20th of February, 1791, Madame Roland accompanied her husband
to Paris, as he took his seat in the National Assembly. Her persuasive
influence was dictating those measures which were driving the ancient
nobility of France from their chateaux, and her vigorous mind was
guiding those blows before which the throne of the Bourbons trembled.
The unblemished and incorruptible integrity of M. Roland, his
simplicity of manners and ability, invested him immediately with much
authority among his associates. The brilliance of his wife also
reflected much lustre upon his name. Madame Roland with her growing
zeal, had just written a pamphlet upon the new order of things, in
language so powerful and impressive that more than sixty thousand
copies had been sold--an enormous number, considering the comparative
fewness of readers at that time. She, of course, was received with the
most flattering attention, and great deference was paid to her
opinions. She attended daily the sittings of the Assembly, and
listened with the deepest interest to the debates.
All her tastes were with the ancient nobility and their defenders. All
her principles were with the people. And as she contrasted the
unrefined exterior and clumsy speech of the democratic leaders with
the courtly bearing and elegant diction of those who rallied around
the throne, she was aroused to a more vehement desire for the
elevation of those with whom she had cast in her lot. The conflict
with the nobles was of short continuance. The energy of rising
democracy soon vanquished them.
The most moderate party was called the Girondist. It was so called
because their most prominent leaders were from the department of the
Gironde. They would deprive the King of many of his prerogatives, but
not of his crown. They would take from him his despotic power, but not
his life. They would raise the mass of the people to the enjoyment of
liberty, but to liberty controlled by vigorous law. Opposed to them
were the Jacobins--far more radical in their reform. They would break
down all privileged orders, confiscate the property of the nobles and
place prince and beggar on the footing of equality. These were the two
great parties into which revolutionary France was divided and the
conflict between them was the most fierce and implacable earth has
ever witnessed.
M. Roland and wife gathered around them every evening many of the most
influential members of the Assembly. They attached themselves with all
their zeal and energy to the Girondists. Four evenings of every week
the leaders of this party met in the salon of Madame Roland, to
deliberate respecting their measures.
The powerful influence which Madame Roland was thus exerting could not
be concealed. She appeared to have no ambition for personal renown.
She sought only to elevate the position and expand the celebrity of
her husband. It was whispered from ear to ear, and now and then openly
asserted in the Assembly, that the bold and decisive measures of the
Girondists received their impulse from the lovely wife of M. Roland.
She also furnished many very able articles for a widely circulated
journal, established by the Girondists for the advocacy of their
political views.
The spirit of the revolution was advancing with giant strides, and the
throne was reeling beneath the blows of the people. Massacres were
rife all over the kingdom. The sky was nightly illumined by
conflagrations. Nobles were abandoning their estates and escaping from
perils and death to refuge in the little army of emigrants at
Coblentz. The King, insulted and a prisoner, reigned but in name. He
hoped, by the appointment of a Republican ministry to pacify the
democratic spirit.
He yielded to the pressure, dismissed his ministers, and surrendered
himself to the Girondists for the appointment of a new ministry. The
Girondists called upon M. Roland to take the important post of
Minister of the Interior. It was a perilous position to fill, but what
danger will not ambition face? In the present posture of affairs the
Minister of the Interior was the monarch of France. M. Roland smiled
nervously at the power which, thus unsolicited, was passing into his
hands. Madame Roland, whose all-absorbing passion it now was to
elevate her husband to the highest summits of greatness, was gratified
in view of the honour and agitated in view of the peril; but, to her
exalted spirit, the greater the danger, the more heroic the act.
"The burden is heavy," she said; "but Roland has a great consciousness
of his own powers, and would derive fresh strength from the feeling of
being useful to liberty and his country."
In March, 1792, he entered upon his arduous and exalted office. When
M. Roland made his first appearance at court instead of arraying
himself in the court dress, he affected in his costume the simplicity
of his principles. He had not forgotten the impression produced in
France by Franklin, as in republican simplicity he moved among the
glittering throng at Versailles. He accordingly presented himself at
the Tuileries in a plain black coat, with a round hat, and dusty shoes
fastened with ribbons instead of buckles. The courtiers were
indignant. The King was highly displeased at what he considered an act
of disrespect. The master of ceremonies was in consternation, and
exclaimed with a look of horror to General Damuriez:
"My dear sir, he has not even buckles on his shoes!"
"Mercy upon us!" exclaimed the old general, with the most laughable
expression of affected gravity, "we shall then all go to ruin
together!"
M. Roland after his first interview with the monarch assured his wife
that the community had formed a totally erroneous estimate of the
King; that he was a hearty supporter of the Constitution which had
been forced upon him. The prompt reply of Madame Roland displayed even
more than her characteristic sagacity:
"If Louis is sincerely a friend of the Constitution, he must be
virtuous beyond the common race of mortals. Mistrust your own virtue,
M. Roland. You are only an honest countryman wandering amid a crowd of
courtiers. They speak our language; we do not know theirs. No! Louis
cannot love the chains that fetter him. He may feign to caress them.
He thinks only of how he can spurn them. No man likes his humiliation.
Trust in human nature; that never deceives. Distrust courts. Your
virtue is too elevated to see the snares which courtiers spread
beneath your feet."
From all the spacious apartments of the mansion alloted as the
residence of the Minister of the Interior Madame Roland selected a
small and retired parlour, which she had furnished with every
attraction as a library and a study. This was her much-loved retreat,
and here M. Roland, in the presence of his wife, was accustomed to see
his friends in all their confidential intercourse. But the position of
the Girondists began to be more and more perilous. The army of
emigrant nobles at Coblentz, within the dominions of the King of
Prussia, was rapidly increasing in numbers. There were hundreds of
thousands in France, the most illustrious in rank and opulence, who
would join such an army. The people all believed that Louis wished to
escape from Paris and head that army. On the other hand, they saw
another party, the Jacobin, noisy, turbulent, sanguinary and
threatening with destruction all connected in any way with the
execrated throne. M. Roland was urged to present to the throne a most
earnest letter of expostulation and advice. Madame Roland sat down at
her desk and wrote the letter for her husband. It was expressed in
that glowing style so eminently at her command. Its eloquence was
inspired by the foresight she had of impending perils. M. Roland,
almost trembling in view of its boldness and its truths, presented the
letter to the King. Its last sentences will give some idea of its
character:
Love, serve the Revolution, and the people will love it and
serve it in you. Ratify the measures to extirpate their
fanaticism. Paris trembles in view of its danger. Surround its
walls with an army of defence. Delay longer, and you will be
deemed a conspirator and an accomplice. Just Heaven! hast thou
stricken kings with blindness? I know that truth is rarely
welcomed at the foot of thrones. I know, too, that the
withholding of truth from kings renders revolutions so often
necessary. As a citizen, a minister, I owe truth to the King,
and nothing shall prevent me from making it reach his ear.
This celebrated letter was presented to the King on the 11th of June,
1792. On the same day M. Roland received a letter from the King
informing him that he was dismissed from office.
"Here am I, dismissed from office," was M. Roland's exclamation to his
wife on his return home.
"Present your letter to the Assembly, that the nation may see for what
counsel you have been dismissed," replied the undaunted wife.
M. Roland did so. He was received as a martyr to patriotism. The
letter was read amid the loudest applause. It was ordered to be
printed and circulated by tens of thousands through the kingdom; and
there came rolling back upon the metropolis the echo of the most
tumultuous indignation and applause. The famous letter was read by all
France--nay, more, by all Europe. Roland was a hero. Upon this wave of
enthusiastic popularity Madame Roland and her husband retired from the
magnificent palace where they had dwelt for so short a time and
selected for their retreat very humble apartments in an apparently
obscure street.
But M. Roland and wife were more powerful now than ever before. The
letter had placed them in the front ranks of the friends of reform,
and enshrined them in the hearts of the ever fickle populace. Even the
Jacobins were compelled to swell the universal voice of commendation.
M. Roland's apartments were ever thronged. All important plans were
discussed and shaped by him and his wife before they were presented to
the Assembly.
The outcry against M. Roland's dismissal was falling in thunder tones
on the ear of the King. This act had fanned those flames of
revolutionary frenzy which were now glaring in every part of France.
The people, intoxicated and maddened by the discovery of their power,
were now arrayed, with irresistible thirstings for destruction and
blood, against the King, the court, and the nobility. There was no
hope for Louis but in the recall of M. Roland. The Jacobins were upon
him in locust legions. M. Roland alone could bring the Girondists, as
a shield, between the throne and the mob. He was recalled, and again
moved in calm triumph from his obscure chambers to the palace of the
minister. If Madame Roland's letter dismissed him from office, her
letter also restored him again with an enormous accumulation of power.
Madame Roland was far more conscious of the peril than her husband.
With intense emotion, but calmly and firmly, she looked upon the
gathering storm. The peculiarity of her character, and her great moral
courage, was illustrated by the mode of life she vigorously adopted.
She was entirely undazzled, and resolved that, consecrating all her
energies to the demands of the tempestuous times, she would waste no
time in fashionable parties and heartless visits. Selecting for her
own use one of the smallest parlours, she furnished it as her library.
Here she lived engrossed in study, busy with her pen, and taking an
unseen but most active part in all those measures which were literally
agitating the whole civilised world. Her little library was the
sanctuary for all confidential conversation upon matters of state.
Here her husband met his political friends to mature their measures.
She wrote many of his proclamations, his letters, his state papers,
and with all the glowing fervour of an enthusiastic woman.
She writes:
Without me my husband would have been quite as good a minister,
for his knowledge, his activity, his integrity were all his own;
but with me he attracted more attention, because I infused into
his writings that mixture of spirit and gentleness, of
authoritative reason and seducing sentiment, which is, perhaps,
only to be found in the language of a woman who has a clear head
and a feeling heart.
Anarchy now reigned throughout France. The King and the royal family
were imprisoned in the Temple. The Girondists in the National
Convention, and M. Roland at the head of the ministry, were struggling
to restore the dominion of law, and, if possible, to save the life of
the King. The Jacobins, who, unable to resist the popularity of M.
Roland, had, for a time, cooperated with the Girondists, now began to
separate themselves again more widely from them. They flattered the
mob. They encouraged every possible demonstration of lawless violence.
In tones daily increasing in boldness and efficiency, they declared
the Girondists to be the friends of the monarch, and the enemies of
popular liberty.
Madame Roland, in the name of her husband, drew up for the Convention
the plan of a republic as a substitute for the throne. From childhood
she had yearned for a republic. Now the throne and hereditary rank
were virtually abolished, and all France clamoured for a republic. Her
husband was nominally Minister of the Interior, but his power was
gone. The mob of Paris had usurped the place of King, and
Constitution and law. The Jacobins were attaining the decided
ascendency. The guillotine was daily crimsoned with the blood of the
noblest citizens of France. The streets and the prisons were polluted
with the massacre of the innocent.
M. Roland was almost frantic in view of these horrors which he had no
power to quell. The mob, headed by the Jacobins, had now the complete
ascendency, and he was minister but in name. He urged the adoption of
immediate and energetic measures to arrest these execrable deeds of
lawless violence. Many of the Girondists in the Assembly gave vehement
utterance to their execration of the massacres. Others were
intimidated by the weapons which the Jacobins were now so effectually
wielding. Madame Roland distinctly saw and deeply felt the peril to
which she and her friends were exposed. She knew, and they all knew,
that defeat was death.
The question between the Girondist and the Jacobin was: "Who shall lie
down on the guillotine?" For some time the issue of the struggle was
uncertain. The Jacobins summoned their allies, the mob. They
surrounded the doors and the windows of the Assembly, and with their
howlings sustained their friends. The Girondists found themselves, at
the close of the struggle, defeated, yet not so decidedly but that
they still clung to hope.
M. Roland, who had not yet entirely lost, with the people, that
popularity which swept him again into the office of Minister of the
Interior, now presented to the Assembly his resignation of power which
was merely nominal. Great efforts had for some time been made by his
adversaries, to turn the tide of popular hatred against him, and
especially against his wife. Madame Roland might have fled from these
perils, and have retired with her husband to tranquillity and safety,
but she urged M. Roland to remain at his post and resolved to remain
herself and meet her destiny, whatever it might be.
The Jacobins now made a direct and infamous attempt to turn the rage
of the populace against Madame Roland. She was summoned to present
herself before the Convention, to confront her accuser, and defend
herself from the scaffold. Her gentle yet imperial spirit was
undaunted by the magnitude of the peril. Her name had often been
mentioned in the Assembly as the inspiring genius of the most
influential party which had risen up amid the storms of the
Revolution. Her talents, her accomplishments, her fascinating
eloquence, had spread her renown widely through Europe.
The aspect of a woman combining in her person and mind all the
attractions of nature and genius, entering this vast assembly of
irritated men to speak in defence of her life, at once hushed the
clamour of hoarse voices and subdued the rage of angry disputants.
Silence filled the hall. Every eye was fixed upon her. She stood
before the bar.
"What is your name?" inquired the president.
She paused for a moment, and then in clear and liquid tones answered:
"Roland! A name of which I am proud, for it is that of a good and an
honourable man."
"Do you know Achille Viard?" the president inquired.
"I have once, and but once, seen him."
"What has passed between you?"
"Twice he has written to me, soliciting an interview. Once I saw him.
After a short conversation, I perceived that he was a spy, and
dismissed him with the contempt he deserved."
Briefly, in tremulous tones of voice, but with a spirit of firmness
which no terrors could daunt, she entered upon her defence. It was the
first time that a woman's voice had been heard in the midst of the
clamour of these enraged combatants. The Assembly, unused to such a
scene, were fascinated by her attractive eloquence. Madame Roland was
acquitted by acclamation. Upon the spot the president proposed that
the marked respect of the Convention be conferred upon Madame Roland.
With enthusiasm the resolution was carried. As she retired from the
hall, her bosom glowing with the excitement of the triumph she had
won, her ear was greeted with the enthusiastic applause of the whole
Assembly. The eyes of all France had been attracted to her as she thus
defended herself and her friends, and confounded her enemies.
The most distressing embarrassments now surrounded M. Roland. He could
not abandon power without abandoning himself and his supporters in the
Assembly to the guillotine; and while continuing in power, he was
compelled to witness deeds of atrocity from which not only his soul
revolted, but to which it was necessary for him apparently to give his
sanction. Thus situated, he sent in his final resignation and retired
to humble lodgings in one of the obscure streets of Paris. Here,
anxiously watching the progress of events, he began to make
preparations to leave the mob-enthralled metropolis and seek a retreat
in the calm seclusion of La Platiere. Neither the sacredness of law
nor the weapons of their friends could longer afford them any
protection. The danger became so imminent that the friends of Madame
Roland brought her the dress of a peasant girl, and entreated her to
put it on, as a disguise and escape by night, that her husband might
follow after her, unencumbered by his family; but she proudly repelled
that which she deemed a cowardly artifice. She threw the dress aside,
exclaiming:
"I am ashamed to resort to any such expedient. I will neither disguise
myself, nor make any attempt at secret escape. My enemies may find me
always in my place. If I am assassinated it shall be in my own home. I
owe my country an example of firmness, and I will give it."
The gray of a dull and sombre morning was just beginning to appear as
Madame Roland threw herself upon a bed for a few moments of repose.
Overwhelmed by sorrow and fatigue, she had just fallen asleep, when a
band of armed men rudely broke into her house, and demanded to be
conducted to her apartment. She knew too well the object of the
summons. The order for her arrest was presented her. She calmly read
it, and requested permission to write to a friend. The request was
granted. When the note was finished, the officer informed her that it
would be necessary for him to be made acquainted with its contents.
She quietly tore it into fragments and cast it into the fire. Then,
imprinting her last kiss upon the cheek of her unconscious child, with
the composure which such a catastrophe would naturally produce in so
heroic a mind, she left her home for the prison. As she was led from
the house a vast crowd collected around the door, who, believing her
to be a traitor to her country, and in league with her enemies,
shouted, "A la guillotine!" Unmoved by their cries, she looked calmly
without gesture or reply. One of the officers, to relieve her from the
insults to which she was exposed, asked her if she wished to have the
windows of the carriage closed.
"No!" she replied, "I do not fear the looks of honest men, and I brave
those of my enemies."
"You have very great resolution," was the reply, "thus calmly to await
justice."
"Justice!" she exclaimed; "were justice done I should not be here. But
I shall go to the scaffold as fearlessly as I now proceed to the
prison."
At ten o'clock that evening, her cell being prepared, she entered it
for the first time. It was a cold, bare room, with walls blackened by
the dust and damp of ages. There was a small fireplace in the room,
and a narrow window, with a double iron grating, which admitted but a
dim twilight even at noonday. In one corner there was a pallet of
straw. The chill night air crept in at the unglazed window, and the
dismal tocsin proclaimed that Paris was still the scene of tumult and
of violence. Madame Roland threw herself upon her humble bed, and was
so overpowered by fatigue and exhaustion that she woke not from her
dreamless slumber until twelve o'clock of the next day.
Eudora, who had been left by her mother in the care of weeping
domestics, was taken by a friend and watched over and protected with
maternal care. Though Madame Roland never saw her idolised child
again, her heart was comforted in the prison by the assurance that she
had found a home with those who, for her mother's sake, would love and
cherish her.
When Madame Roland awoke from her long sleep, instead of yielding to
despair and surrendering herself to useless repinings, she
immediately began to arrange her cell as comfortably as possible, and
to look round for such sources of comfort and enjoyment as might yet
be obtained. She obtained the favour of a small table, and then of a
neat white spread to cover it. This she placed near the window to
serve for her writing-desk. To keep this table, which she prized so
highly, unsoiled, she smilingly told her keeper that she should make a
dining-table of her stove. A rusty dining-table indeed it was. Two
hairpins, which she drew from her own clustering ringlets, she drove
into a shelf for pegs to hang her clothes upon. These arrangements she
made as cheerfully as when superintending the disposition of the
gorgeous furniture in the palace over which she had presided. Having
thus provided her study, her next care was to obtain a few books. She
happened to have Thomson's "Seasons," a favourite volume of hers, in
her pocket. Through the jailer's wife she succeeded in obtaining
"Plutarch's Lives" and Sheridan's "Dictionary."
The prison regulations were very severe. The Government allowed twenty
pence per day for the support of each prisoner. Ten pence was to be
paid to the jailer for the furniture he put into the cell; tenpence
only remained for food. The prisoners were, however, allowed to
purchase such food as they pleased from their own purse. Madame
Roland, with that stoicism which enabled her to triumph over all
ordinary ills, resolved to conform to the prison allowance. She took
bread and water alone for breakfast. The dinner was coarse meat and
vegetables. The money she saved by this great frugality she
distributed among the poorer prisoners. The only indulgence she
allowed herself was in the purchase of books and flowers. In reading
and with her pen she beguiled the weary days of her imprisonment. And
though at times her spirit was overwhelmed with anguish at her
desolate home and blighted hopes, she still found solace in the warm
affections which sprang up around her, even in the uncongenial
atmosphere of a prison.
One day some commissioners called at her cell, hoping to extort from
her the secret of her husband's retreat. She looked them calmly in the
face and said:
"Gentlemen, I know perfectly well where my husband is. I scorn to tell
you a lie. I know, also, my own strength. And I assure you that there
is no earthly power which can induce me to betray him."
The commissioners withdrew, admiring her heroism, and convinced that
she was still able to wield an influence which might yet bring the
guillotine upon their own necks. Her doom was sealed. Her heroism was
a crime. She was too illustrious to live.
* * * * *
Madame Roland remained some time in the Abbaye prison. On the
twenty-fourth day of her imprisonment, to her inexpressible
astonishment, an officer entered her cell, and informed her that she
was liberated, as no charge could be found against her. Hardly
crediting her senses--fearing that she should wake up and find her
freedom but a dream--she took a coach and hastened to her own door.
Her eyes were full of tears of joy and her heart almost bursting with
delight, in the anticipation of again pressing her idolised child to
her bosom. Her hand was upon the door latch--she had not yet passed
the threshold--when two men, who had watched at the door of her
dwelling, again seized her in the name of the law. In spite of her
tears and supplications, they conveyed her to the prison of St.
Pelagie. This loathsome receptacle of crime was filled with the
abandoned who had been swept from the streets of Paris. It was,
apparently, a studied humiliation, to compel their victim to associate
with beings from whom her soul shrank with loathing.
Many hours of every day she beguiled in this prison in writing the
memoirs of her own life. It was an eloquent and a touching narrative,
written with the expectation that each sentence might be interrupted
by the entrance of the executioners to conduct her to trial and to the
guillotine. In this unveiling of the heart to the world, one sees a
noble nature animated to benevolence by native generosity. The
consciousness of spiritual elevation constituted her only solace. The
anticipation of a lofty reputation after death was her only heaven. No
one can read the thoughts she penned but with the deepest emotion.
The Girondists who had been in prison were led from their dungeons in
the Conciergerie to their execution on October 31, 1793. Upon that
very day Madame Roland was conveyed from the prison of St. Pelagie to
the same gloomy cells vacated by the death of her friends. She was
cast into a bare and miserable dungeon, in that receptacle of woe,
where there was not even a bed. Another prisoner, moved with
compassion, drew his own pallet into her cell, that she might not be
compelled to throw herself for repose upon the cold, wet stones. The
chill air of winter had now come, and yet no covering was allowed her.
Through the long night she shivered with the cold.
* * * * *
The day after Madame Roland was placed in the Conciergerie, she was
visited by one of the officers of the revolutionary party, and closely
questioned concerning the friendship she had entertained for the
Girondists. She frankly avowed the affection 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 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 defence which has been pronounced one of the most
eloquent and touching monuments of the Revolution. It so beautifully
illustrates the heroism of her character and the beauty and energy of
her mind that it will ever be read with the liveliest interest.
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 loveliness. With an energy of will,
an inflexibility of purpose, a firmness of endurance which no mortal
man has ever exceeded, she combined gentleness and tenderness and
affection.
The day before her trial, her advocate, Chauveau de la Garde, visited
her to consult respecting her defence. She, well aware that no one
could speak a word in her favour 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 cannot 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. Whenever she attempted to utter a word
in her defence, she was browbeaten by the judges, and silenced by the
clamours of the mob which filled the tribunal. 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 endeavour 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
death. The prisoners had assembled to greet her on her return, and
anxiously gathered round 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.
The morning of the 8th 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 sombre shades. The ponderous
gates of the courtyard 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. A serene smile was
upon her cheeks, and the glow of joyous animation lighted up her
features as she waved an adieu to the weeping prisoners who gathered
round 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
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. She stood firmly in the
cart, looking with a serene eye upon the crowds which lined the
streets, and listening to the clamour which filled the air. A crowd
surrounded the cart 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."
The long procession arrived at the guillotine, and the bloody work
began. The victims were dragged from the carts, and the axe rose and
fell with unceasing rapidity. Head after head fell into the basket.
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 endeavouring to infuse fortitude into his
soul. The executioner grasped her by the arm.
"Stay," said she, slightly resisting his grasp; "I have one favour 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 cannot, 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
bewilderment, and yielded. The poor old man, more dead than alive, was
conducted upon the scaffold and placed beneath the fatal axe. Madame
Roland, without the slightest change of colour, 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 steps. She stood for a moment upon the
platform, looked calmly around upon the vast concourse, and then
bowing before a clay statue of Liberty near by exclaimed: "O Liberty!
what 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 axe. The
glittering steel glided through the groove, and the head of Madame
Roland was severed from her body.
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. Privately he left by night, the kind friends who had
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. 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.