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Madame Roland who had now been imprisoned through five long months, was the next celebrated victim demanded by the people. She had conquered her weariness by writing her life.
At one time, she sought to avoid death by poison; but the memory of her child prevailed, and she lived on to the end.
When the Girondists fell, she knew all hope of life for herself was at an end. She was then removed to the prison whence Marie Antoinette went to the scaffold—nay, she was imprisoned in the adjoining cell; and here she passed her days, watching the fragment of sky she could see through the bars of her prison, or admiring the little bunches of flowers the gaoler’s good-hearted wife sent to her dungeon almost daily.
She was tried for being the wife of Roland, and the friend of the Girondists. She was proud of the accusation, declared herself to be so, and she heard her condemnation to death with a calm bearing and a smiling face.
“I thank you,” she said, “that you think me worthy to share the fate of great and good men.”
That same day she was placed in the last of a number of carts, her only companion being an old man. Her beauty was more than radiant, seated so near trembling age.
She wore a white dress, and her long black hair streamed down her back.
Near the scaffold had been erected a colossal statue of Liberty. When she ascended the scaffold, she bowed to the statue, and cried, “Oh Liberty, how much crime is committed in your name!”
But she had shown her woman’s tenderness at the foot of the scaffold. She said to her companion, “Go first, that you may not see me die. Let me save you that pain.”
She died quite fearlessly.
The next day, some peasants, driving home their flocks, found the dead body of a man, a sword-stick blade through his heart. The position of the remains proved suicide, effected by putting the sword-handle against a tree, when the sufferer flung himself upon the point. A paper found upon the dead man contained these words:—
“Whoever thou art that findest these remains, respect them as those of a virtuous man. After my wife’s death, I will not remain another day upon this earth, so stained with crimes.”
“Whoever thou art that findest these remains, respect them as those of a virtuous man. After my wife’s death, I will not remain another day upon this earth, so stained with crimes.”
This was Madame Roland’s husband.
Very different from this honest woman’s death was that of Madame Dubarry, mistress of Louis XV. Her crime was the concealment of a treasure. As a King’s favorite, she had amassed enormous wealth. Strangely enough, it was a favorite of her own—a negro boy she had adopted—that denounced her. She was condemned, and she went shrieking to the scaffold—the only instance of this kind amongst all the women who died during the Reign of Terror.
Her beauty was her crime.
“Life!” she cried. “Life for repentance—for devotion to the Republic! All my treasures for a little life!”
The knife only cut short these ignoble cries.
The next thing done was the abolition of the name of the days of the weeks and months of the year, because they were idolatrous.
Finally, the Catholic faith was abolished, the church bells were cast into money, the worship of the Goddess of Reason,was proclaimed. The proclamation was carried into effect at the Cathedral. An actress, one Mdlle. Maillard, beautiful, talented, and a favorite of the late Queen’s, was compelled to play the part of the goddess.
She was borne into the church (the only one now open in all Paris) upon a kind of litter, covered with oak branches, and followed by girls dressed in white, singing jubilant songs. About the altar were the opera choristers and others. The actress was now placed upon the altar, and she was worshipped by those present. The Bishop had been compelled to appear, and he sat motionless with fear, tears of shame coursing down his face.
The burial places of the Kings were now invaded. The remains of a thousand years of kings were torn from the vaults of St. Denis, and cast into the country ditches. Nothing was spared—anything which suggested royalty, was destroyed.
Meanwhile, Carrier, at Nantes, surpassed in outrage all that had gone before him. It was charitable to suppose he was sheer mad.
Men, women, children, and especially priests, were shot down by Carrier’s orders. He said trial was useless. His rivals had abandoned the guillotine for the butchery of the soldier’s lead. Carrier improved upon this. He said he hated blood, so he positively sank hundreds, thousands of accused, in huge barges. They were carried down to the bottom, and there to this day they remain.
Carrier was the deputy sent by the Convention, of which Robespierre was now King.
These massacres lasted months. Some complaints were sent to Paris. Carrier seized two hundred of the principal merchants of the place, cast them into prison, tortured them, and then drowned the men.
At last, his madness becoming apparent, he was recalled. Robespierre did not demand his punishment; and this omission of justice was one of the accusations brought against Robespierre athistrial.
A woman began the attack upon Robespierre. She was Rose Lacombe, beautiful, eloquent, revolutionary; but pitying and hating blood. She was seized with love for a young prisoner, tried to save him, failed, and she devoted herself to Robespierre’s death.
Robespierre, to retain his popularity, determined to sacrifice Danton, Camille Desmoulins, and others. They fell—all of them.
As these victims, on their way to execution, passed Duplay’s house, the shutters of which were closed, the crowd burst into a roar of applause. Robespierre watching, trembled.
A very short span, and his time was to come.
Herault de Sechelles was the first to alight from the cart. He turned to embrace Danton, when the executioner pulled him away.
“Brute!” said Danton; “but you cannot prevent our lips touching in the basket.”
Camille Desmoulins was the last but one of the four. He was quite resigned. He looked at the knife, then turning to the people, he said, “Look on at the end of the first apostle of liberty! He who murders me will not survive me long!”
“Send this lock of hair to my mother,” he said to the executioner.
They were his last words.
Danton ascended last. He never looked more haughty and defiant. For one moment he broke down. “Wife!” he screamed.
Then he added, “Come, come, Danton; no weakness. Executioner, show my head to the people; it is worth looking at!”
The executioner caught the head as it was falling, and carried it round the scaffold.
The mob applauded. Such is the end of favorites.
Eight thousand people were awaiting death in the prisons of Paris alone, within a month of Danton’s death.
Robespierre was delicate and decent in his power and supreme cruelty, but he capped all his compeers. Men and women were not shot or drowned in Paris, but the guillotine worked unceasingly.
Certain children had, in 1791, taken part in receiving the Prussian General at Verdun. They were all brought to Paris, and guillotined.
The nuns of Montmartre were carried, abbess, young girls, and old women, all to the scaffold—for praying! Asthe Girondists sang their hymns, so these poor women sang theirs. The last death ended the last note of this hymn.
It was thus Robespierre—now alone of all those with whom he first came into power—and his satellites maintained their power.
One, and only one, grown-up scion of royalty remained—Madame Elizabeth.
It was then more than a year since the King died. She and the Princess remained together—deprived even of cards, because of the kings and queens in the pack.
As for the Dauphin, he was confined in a room the bed of which he never left. His bread was thrown to him. No one ever spoke to him, and his clothes had not been changed for nearly twelve months. His window would not open. He was allowed no books, paper, or playthings; in a word, he was brutalized at six years of age. His limbs stiffened, and he became an idiot, in which state he died.
The aunt and sister could hear nothing about the child. They were treated tolerably well, but during Lent they were only given fat meat to eat. This their consciences would not allow them to touch, and for forty days they only ate bread.
The summons came suddenly at night-time. The little Princess, the only one of the five prisoners of the Temple who survived the Reign of Terror, wept, clung to her aunt—but lost her.
Her defence was very simple:—“I am tried because I am the King’s sister. You call him a tyrant. Had he been, you would not have been where you are; I not be where I am!”
The people demanded her life, and they obtained it.
The very women who generally yelled around the carts were dumb, as this serene, angelic woman was carried through the streets. She died so peacefully, that many envied her.