At the same epoch, Madame Roland had given way, in order to save Robespierre’s life, to one of those impulses which reveal a courageous friendship, and leave their traces even in the memory of the ungrateful.  After the massacre of the Champ-de-Mars, accused of having conspired with the originators of the petition of forfeiture, and threatened with vengeance by the National Guard, Robespierre was obliged to conceal himself.  Madame Roland, accompanied by her husband, went at 11 o’clock at night to his retreat in the Marais, to offer him a safer asylum in their own house.  He had already quitted his domicile.  Madame Roland then went to their common friend Buzot, and entreated him to go to the Feuillants, where he still retained influence, and with all speed to exculpate Robespierre before any act of accusation was issued against him.

Buzot hesitated for a moment, then replied,—­“I will do all in my power to save this unfortunate young man, although I am far from partaking the opinion of many respecting him.  He thinks too much of himself to love liberty; but he serves it, and that is enough for me.  I shall be there to defend him.”  Thus, three of Robespierre’s subsequent victims combined that night, and unknown to him, for the safety of the man by whom they were eventually to die.  Destiny is a mystery whence spring the most remarkable coincidences, and which tend no less to offer snares to men through their virtues than their crimes.  Death is everywhere:  but, whatever the fate may be, virtue alone never repents.  Beneath the dungeons of the Conciergerie Madame Roland remembered that night with satisfaction.  If Robespierre recalled it in his power, this memory must have fallen colder on his heart than the axe of the headsman.

BOOK IX.

I.

After the dispersion of the Constituent Assembly, the mission of M. and Madame Roland having terminated, they quitted Paris.  This woman, who had just left the centre of faction and business, returned to La Platiere to resume the cares of her rustic household and the pruning of her vines.  But she had quaffed of the intoxicating cup of the Revolution.  The movement in which she had participated for a moment impelled her still, though at a distance.  She carried on a correspondence with Robespierre and Buzot; political and formal with Robespierre, pathetic and tender with Buzot.  Her mind, her soul, her heart, all recalled it.  Then took place between herself and her husband a deliberation, apparently impartial, in order to decide whether they should bury themselves in the country, or should return to Paris.  But the ambition of the one, and the ardent desire of the other, had decided, unknown to, and before, either.  The most trifling pretext was sufficient for their impatience.  In the month of December they were again installed in Paris.