Part 7 (1/2)
These words were a talisman. The doors were thrown open, and she entered the pet.i.tioners' hall. ”I wish to see one of the messengers of the House,” she said to one of the inner sentinels.
”Wait till one comes out,” was the gruff reply.
She waited for a quarter of an hour in burning impatience. Her ear was almost stunned with the deafening clamor of debate, of applause, of execrations, which now in dying murmurs, and again in thundering reverberations, awakening responsive echoes along the thronged streets, swelled upon the night air. Of all human sounds, the uproar of a countless mult.i.tude of maddened human voices is the most awful.
At last she caught a glimpse of the messenger who had summoned her to appear before the bar of the a.s.sembly in reply to the accusations of Viard, informed him of their peril, and implored him to hand her letter to the president. The messenger, M. Roze, took the paper, and, elbowing his way through the throng, disappeared. An hour elapsed, which seemed an age. The tumult within continued unabated. At length M. Roze reappeared.
”Well!” said Madame Roland, eagerly, ”what has been done with my letter?”
”I have given it to the president,” was the reply, ”but nothing has been done with it as yet. Indescribable confusion prevails. The mob demand the accusation of the Girondists. I have just a.s.sisted one to escape by a private way. Others are endeavoring, concealed by the tumult, to effect their escape. There is no knowing what is to happen.”
”Alas!” Madame Roland replied, ”my letter will not be read. Do send some deputy to me, with whom I can speak a few words.”
”Whom shall I send?”
”Indeed I have but little acquaintance with any, and but little esteem for any, except those who are proscribed. Tell Vergniaud that I am inquiring for him.”
Vergniaud, notwithstanding the terrific agitations of the hour, immediately attended the summons of Madame Roland. She implored him to try to get her admission to the bar, that she might speak in defense of her husband and her friends.
”In the present state of the a.s.sembly,” said Vergniaud, ”it would be impossible, and if possible, of no avail. The Convention has lost all power. It has become but the weapon of the rabble. Your words can do no good.”
”They may do much good,” replied Madame Roland. ”I can venture to say that which you could not say without exposing yourself to accusation.
I fear nothing. If I can not save Roland, I will utter with energy truths which may be useful to the Republic. An example of courage may shame the nation.”
”Think how unavailing the attempt,” replied Vergniaud. ”Your letter can not possibly be read for two or three hours. A crowd of pet.i.tioners throng the bar. Noise, and confusion, and violence fill the House.”
Madame Roland paused for a moment, and replied, ”I must then hasten home, and ascertain what has become of my husband. I will immediately return. Tell our friends so.”
Vergniaud sadly pressed her hand, as if for a last farewell, and returned, invigorated by her courage, to encounter the storm which was hailed upon him in the a.s.sembly. She hastened to her dwelling, and found that her husband had succeeded in eluding the surveillance of his guards, and, escaping by a back pa.s.sage, had taken refuge in the house of a friend. After a short search she found him in his asylum, and, too deeply moved to weep, threw herself into his arms, informed him of what she had done, rejoiced at his safety, and heroically returned to the Convention, resolved, if possible, to obtain admission there. It was now near midnight. The streets were brilliant with illuminations; but Madame Roland knew not of which party these illuminations celebrated the triumph.
On her arrival at the court of the Tuileries, which had so recently been thronged by a mob of forty thousand men, she found it silent and deserted. The sitting was ended. The members, accompanied by the populace with whom they had fraternized, were traversing the streets.
A few sentinels stood s.h.i.+vering in the cold and drizzling rain around the doors of the national palace. A group of rough-looking men were gathered before a cannon. Madame Roland approached them.
”Citizens,” inquired she, ”has every thing gone well to-night?”
”Oh! wonderfully well,” was the reply. ”The deputies and the people embraced, and sung the Ma.r.s.eilles Hymn, there, under the tree of liberty.”
”And what has become of the twenty-two Girondists?”
”They are all to be arrested.”
Madame Roland was almost stunned by the blow. Hastily crossing the court, she arrived at her hackney-coach. A very pretty dog, which had lost its master, followed her. ”Is the poor little creature yours?”
inquired the coachman. The tones of kindness with which he spoke called up the first tears which had moistened the eyes of Madame Roland that eventful night.
”I should like him for my little boy,” said the coachman.
Madame Roland, gratified to have, at such an hour, for a driver, a father and a man of feeling, said, ”Put him into the coach, and I will take care of him for you. Drive immediately to the galleries of the Louvre.” Madame Roland caressed the affectionate animal, and, weary of the pa.s.sions of man, longed for retirement from the world, and to seclude herself with those animals who would repay kindness with grat.i.tude. She sank back in her seat, exclaiming, ”O that we could escape from France, and find a home in the law-governed republic of America.”
Alighting at the Louvre, she called upon a friend, with whom she wished to consult upon the means of effecting M. Roland's escape from the city. He had just gone to bed, but arose, conversed about various plans, and made an appointment to meet her at seven o'clock the next morning. Entirely unmindful of herself, she thought only of the rescue of her friends. Exhausted with excitement and toil, she returned to her desolated home, bent over the sleeping form of her child, and gave vent to a mother's gus.h.i.+ng love in a flood of tears. Recovering her fort.i.tude, she sat down and wrote to M. Roland a minute account of all her proceedings. It would have periled his safety had she attempted to share his asylum. The gray of a dull and somber 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. Blood had been flowing too freely in Paris, the guillotine had been too active in its operations, for Madame Roland to entertain any doubts whither the path she now trod was tending.