nothing could shake the stoical resolution of the young prisoner: the two women on their knees, the weeping wife, the agonized mother reminding him that his child would be an orphan, the stranger urging the utmost willingness to risk her life in his service, — all was unavailing. The sentiments of honour and of duty were stronger in the soul of this man than love of life, than love for a tender and exquisitely beautiful woman, than the impulses of paternal affection. The time accorded to my mother for her visit was passed in useless remonstrances. She had, at length, to be carried out of the ehamber. Louise conducted her into the street, where our friend M. Guy de Chaumont Quitry awaited her with an anxiety that may be easily imagined.
FAMILY MEMOIRS.21
' All is lost,' said my mother; ' he will not save himself.'
This answer, worthy of the friend of such a man, appears to me almost as sublime as the conduct to which it referred.
And of all this the world has hitherto known nothing. Supernatural virtue passed unobserved in a time when the sons of France were as lavish of their heroism as they had been of their genius fifty years before.
My mother saw her husband but once more after this scene. By means of money she procured permission to bid him the last adieu, when condemned, and in the Coneiergerie.
This solemn interview was disturbed by so singular a circumstance, that I have felt some hesitation before concluding to recount it. It will appear like an invention of the tragi-comic genius of Shakspeare, but it is strictly true. In all scenes and circumstances, reality is more strange than fiction.
My mother, Delphine de Sabran, was one of the most lovely women of those times. The devotion she displayed to her father-in-law, assures to her a glorious place in the annals of a revolution in which the heroism of the women has often atoned for the ferocity and fanaticism of the men.
She met my father for the last time, with composure, embraced him in silence, and sat with him for three hours. During this time not a word of reproach was spoken. The, perhaps, too elevated sentiment which had cost him his life was forgiven ; not a regret was breathed outwardly : it was felt that the
22FAMILY MEMOIRS.
unhappy victim had need of all his powers to prepare for the sacrifice. But few words passed between the condemned man and his wife. At length my name was pronounced ; this was too much—my father entreated pardon — and my mother did not name me again.
In these heroic times death became an exhibition in which the victims felt their honour staked not to betray fear before their executioners. My poor mother respected in her husband, so young, so handsome, so full of mind, and formerly so happy, the necessity he felt for preserving all his courage for the trial of the morrow. The last proof that can be given of an elevated character appeared then a primary duty, even in the eyes of a naturally timid woman : so true it is that the sublime is always within the reach of characters that are sincere ! No woman could be more sincere than my mother; and no person could display more energy in trying circumstances. Midnight was drawing nigh, and fearing that her fortitude would support her no longer, she rose to retire.
Their interview had taken ]:>laee in a room which served as a hall of entrance to several apartments of the prison: it was spacious, and lighted by a single candle. Suddenly, one of the doors, hitherto unnoticed, opened. A man with a dark lantern in his hand, and grotesquely clad, issued from it. He was a prisoner proceeding to visit another in a different apartment. His costume was ludicrous in the extreme, and his visage was highly rouged. This ridiculous apparition appeared before the two young people in the moment of their darkest despair. Without thinking that the object of the rouge was — not to beautify a withered face — but, probably, to prevent a man
FAMILY MEMOIRS.
23
of proud spirit from appearing pale before the scaffold of the morrow, they involuntarily burst into a loud and frightful fit of laughter : a nervous electricity triumphed for one moment over the bitterest anguish of the soul. The effort they had so long made to conceal from each other their feelings, had irritated the fibres of the brain: they were thus suddenly overcome by a sense of the ridiculous, the only emotion doubtless for which they were unprepared; and in spite of their efforts, or rather in consequence of their efforts to remain calm, their laughter became inordinate, and speedily degenerated into frightful spasms. The guards, whose revolutionary experience had enlightened them on the nature of this phenomenon, had pity on my mother — greater pity than, on a similar occasion, four years before, the less experienced populace of Paris had for the daughter of M. Ber-thier. The unhappy wife was carried away in convulsions : such was the last interview of this young couple, and such were the recitals that nursed my infancy. My mother had commanded these subjects never to be named to me, but the common people love to recount the catastrophes they have survived. The servants scarcely spoke to me of any thing but the misfortunes of my parents ; and never shall I forget the consecµient impression of terror which I experienced in my earliest intercourse with the world.
My first sentiment was that of a fear of life, a sentiment which must be more or less participated in by all, for all have their measure of woes to fill up. It was doubtless this sentiment which taught me to comprehend the Christian religion, before even I had been instructed in it. I felt from my infancy that my lot had been cast in a place of exile.
24
FAMILY MEMOIRS.
To return to my father : — After he had regained his composure, he occupied himself with preparing for the stern trial that impended, and towards morning wrote to his wife a letter admirable for the fortitude which it displays. It has been preserved in the Memoirs of the Times, together with that of my grandfather's to this same son ; whose death is to be attributed, first, to a sense of duty, which would not permit him to remain a refugee at the Court of Berlin ; secondly, to the part he took in the defence of his parent; and, thirdly, to his refusal to save himself at the risk of the life of a young and unknown female.
If his enemies could not speak of his memory without respect, what must have been the sentiments of his friends !
M. Girard, his old tutor, preserved for him the ten-derest affection. On being suddenly apprised of his fate, he was seized with an apoplectic fit, and died almost immediately.
My father had a simplicity of manners and a modesty which disarmed envy, at a time when it reigned without control, and which account for the admiration his merits inspired.
He must doubtless have thought more than once during his last night, of the predictions of his friends at Berlin ; but I do not believe that he even then repented of the part he had taken. He was one of those with whom life, however bright its hopes, appears little compared with the testimony of a pure conscience. That land is not to be despaired of which produces men in whose hearts the sense of duty is stronger than the sentiments of affection.
