But now, on the 8th of November, ‘clad in white,’ says Riouffe, ’with her long black hair hanging down to her girdle,’ she is gone to the Judgment Bar.  She returned with a quick step; lifted her finger, to signify to us that she was doomed:  her eyes seemed to have been wet.  Fouquier-Tinville’s questions had been ‘brutal;’ offended female honour flung them back on him, with scorn, not without tears.  And now, short preparation soon done, she shall go her last road.  There went with her a certain Lamarche, ‘Director of Assignat printing;’ whose dejection she endeavoured to cheer.  Arrived at the foot of the scaffold, she asked for pen and paper, “to write the strange thoughts that were rising in her;” (Memoires de Madame Roland introd., i. 68.) a remarkable request; which was refused.  Looking at the Statue of Liberty which stands there, she says bitterly:  “O Liberty, what things are done in thy name!” For Lamarche’s sake, she will die first; shew him how easy it is to die:  “Contrary to the order” said Samson.—­“Pshaw, you cannot refuse the last request of a Lady;” and Samson yielded.

Noble white Vision, with its high queenly face, its soft proud eyes, long black hair flowing down to the girdle; and as brave a heart as ever beat in woman’s bosom!  Like a white Grecian Statue, serenely complete, she shines in that black wreck of things;—­long memorable.  Honour to great Nature who, in Paris City, in the Era of Noble-Sentiment and Pompadourism, can make a Jeanne Phlipon, and nourish her to clear perennial Womanhood, though but on Logics, Encyclopedies, and the Gospel according to Jean-Jacques!  Biography will long remember that trait of asking for a pen “to write the strange thoughts that were rising in her.”  It is as a little light-beam, shedding softness, and a kind of sacredness, over all that preceded:  so in her too there was an Unnameable; she too was a Daughter of the Infinite; there were mysteries which Philosophism had not dreamt of!—­She left long written counsels to her little Girl; she said her Husband would not survive her.

Still crueller was the fate of poor Bailly, First National President, First Mayor of Paris:  doomed now for Royalism, Fayettism; for that Red-Flag Business of the Champ-de-Mars;—­one may say in general, for leaving his Astronomy to meddle with Revolution.  It is the 10th of November 1793, a cold bitter drizzling rain, as poor Bailly is led through the streets; howling Populace covering him with curses, with mud; waving over his face a burning or smoking mockery of a Red Flag.  Silent, unpitied, sits the innocent old man.  Slow faring through the sleety drizzle, they have got to the Champ-de-Mars:  Not there! vociferates the cursing Populace; Such blood ought not to stain an Altar of the Fatherland; not there; but on that dungheap by the River-side!  So vociferates the cursing Populace; Officiality gives ear to them.  The Guillotine is taken down, though with hands numbed by the sleety drizzle; is carried to the River-side, is there set up again, with slow numbness; pulse after pulse still counting itself out in the old man’s weary heart.  For hours long; amid curses and bitter frost-rain!  “Bailly, thou tremblest,” said one.  “Mon ami, it is for cold,” said Bailly, “c’est de froid.”  Crueller end had no mortal. (Vie de Bailly in Memoires, i., p. 29.)