to say easy and Brummellean-polite.  Through street after street; slowly, amid execrations;—­past the Palais Egalite whilom Palais-Royal!  The cruel Populace stopped him there, some minutes:  Dame de Buffon, it is said, looked out on him, in Jezebel head-tire; along the ashlar Wall, there ran these words in huge tricolor print, republic one and indivisible; liberty, Equality, fraternity or death:  National Property.  Philippe’s eyes flashed hellfire, one instant; but the next instant it was gone, and he sat impassive, Brummellean-polite.  On the scaffold, Samson was for drawing of his boots:  “tush,” said Philippe, “they will come better off after; let us have done, depechons-nous!”

So Philippe was not without virtue, then?  God forbid that there should be any living man without it!  He had the virtue to keep living for five-and-forty years;—­other virtues perhaps more than we know of.  Probably no mortal ever had such things recorded of him:  such facts, and also such lies.  For he was a Jacobin Prince of the Blood; consider what a combination!  Also, unlike any Nero, any Borgia, he lived in the Age of Pamphlets.  Enough for us:  Chaos has reabsorbed him; may it late or never bear his like again!—­Brave young Orleans Egalite, deprived of all, only not deprived of himself, is gone to Coire in the Grisons, under the name of Corby, to teach Mathematics.  The Egalite Family is at the darkest depths of the Nadir.

A far nobler Victim follows; one who will claim remembrance from several centuries:  Jeanne-Marie Phlipon, the Wife of Roland.  Queenly, sublime in her uncomplaining sorrow, seemed she to Riouffe in her Prison.  ’Something more than is usually found in the looks of women painted itself,’ says Riouffe, (Memoires, Sur les Prisons, i., pp. 55-7.) ’in those large black eyes of hers, full of expression and sweetness.  She spoke to me often, at the Grate:  we were all attentive round her, in a sort of admiration and astonishment; she expressed herself with a purity, with a harmony and prosody that made her language like music, of which the ear could never have enough.  Her conversation was serious, not cold; coming from the mouth of a beautiful woman, it was frank and courageous as that of a great men.’  ’And yet her maid said:  “Before you, she collects her strength; but in her own room, she will sit three hours sometimes, leaning on the window, and weeping."’ She had been in Prison, liberated once, but recaptured the same hour, ever since the first of June:  in agitation and uncertainty; which has gradually settled down into the last stern certainty, that of death.  In the Abbaye Prison, she occupied Charlotte Corday’s apartment.  Here in the Conciergerie, she speaks with Riouffe, with Ex-Minister Claviere; calls the beheaded Twenty-two “Nos amis, our Friends,”—­whom we are soon to follow.  During these five months, those Memoirs of hers were written, which all the world still reads.