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FAMILY MEMOIRS.
something more than a woman,) and said to her, " What a sweet babe you have in your arms!" " Take it," replied the parent, who understood her by one word and glance; " you can return it to me at the foot of the steps."
The electricity of maternal feeling had thrilled through these two hearts. It communicated itself also to the crowd. My mother took the child, pressed it to her bosom, and held it as an ægis in her arms.
Man, as the child of nature, resumed lùs superiority over man brutalised under the influence of social evils. The "civilised" barbarians were vanquished by two mothers. She, who was mine, descended, thus rescued, into the court of the Palais de Justice, un-saluted by even an abusive word. She returned the infant to her who had lent it: they parted without interchanging a syllable : the place was not favourable to thanks or explanations, and they never saw each other afterwards; but assuredly the souls of these mothers will meet in another world.
The young woman thus miraculously saved, could not save her father. He died, and to crown the glory of his life, the veteran soldier had the courage to die a Christian. A letter to his son attests this humble sacrifice, the most difficult of all, in an age of practical crimes and philosophical virtues. In proceeding to the scaffold he embraced the crucifix. This religious courage ennobled his death, as much as his military courage ennobled his life; but it gave great offence to the Brutus's of Paris.
During the trial of General Custine, my father had published a sober but manly defence of the former's political and military conduct. This defence, which
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had been plaearded on the walls of Paris, only served to bring upon the author the hatred of Robespierre. He was imprisoned soon after the death of his father. At this period the Reign of Terror was making rapid progress : to suffer arrest was to receive sentence ; the process of trial had become a mere form.
My mother had obtained permission to see her husband daily. Ascertaining that his death was determined, she put in requisition every means that might enable him to escape. By aid of large bribes and larger promises, she Avon over even the daughter of the o`aoler to second her design.
My father was not tall. He was slightly and elegantly made. It was arranged therefore that he should put on the clothes of his wife in the prison, that she should dress herself in those of the gaoler's daughter, and while the latter was to reach the street by another stair, the prisoner and his wife were to pass out together by the ordinary passage, which the two women had been, purposely, in the habit of doing very frequently.
Every thing was duly arranged, and a day fixed, for the execution of this plan. On that day my mother, full of hope that it was her last visit, repaired to the prison, though only on the previous evening the convention had published a decree against all who should aid or connive at the escape of a political prisoner.
This monstrous law was purposely placed before the eyes of the prisoners. My mother, on arriving at the appointed hour, found Louise, the young woman whose good will as well as interested services she had enlisted, in tears, on the prison stairs. Upon
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enquiring the eause, she learnt, to her inexpressible surprise, that it was owing to her husband having peremptorily refused to entertain any farther the projected plan of escape. My mother, fearing they had been betrayed, turned, without reply, to gain her husband's apartment. Louise followed her, and apprised her, in a low voice, that he had read the law. She immediately guessed the rest. She knew his inflexible character, and his high and delicate sense of honour: despair almost deprived her of all physical power. " Come with me," she said to Louise, " you will have more influence with him than I; for it is in order to avoid exposing your life that he is about to sacrifice his own."
They both entered together, and a scene commenced which may be better imagined than described. Never but on one single occasion did my mother summon sufficient fortitude to describe it to me. Suffice to say, that 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.
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" All is lost," said my mother; " he will not save himself."
" I was sure he would not," replied M. de Quitry.
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
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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.