loved Buzot. He
adored in her his inspiration and his idol. Perchance they never
disclosed to each other in words a sentiment which would have been the
less sacred to them from the hour in which it had become guilty. But
what they concealed from one another they have involuntarily revealed at
their death. There are in the last days and last hours of this man and
this woman, sighs, gestures, and words, which allow the secret preserved
during life to escape in the presence of death; but the secret thus
disclosed keeps its mystery. Posterity may have the right to detect,
but none to accuse, this sentiment.

Roland, an estimable but morose old man, had the exactions of weakness
without having its gratitude or indulgence towards his partner. She
remained faithful to him, more from respect to herself than from
affection to him. They loved the same cause--Liberty; but Roland's
fanaticism was as cold as pride, whilst his wife's was as glowing as
love. She sacrificed herself daily at the shrine of her husband's
reputation, and scarcely perceived her own self-devotion. He read in her
heart that she bore the yoke with pride, and yet the yoke galled her.
She paints Buzot with complacency, and as the ideal of domestic
happiness. "Sensible, ardent, melancholy," she writes, "a passionate
admirer of nature, he seems born to give and share happiness. This man
would forget the universe in the sweetness of private virtues. Capable
of sublime impulses and unvarying affections, the vulgar, who like to
depreciate what it cannot equal, accuse him of being a dreamer. Of sweet
countenance, elegant figure, there is always in his attire that care,
neatness, and propriety, which announce respect of self as well as of
others. Whilst the dregs of the nation elevate the flatterers and
corrupters of the people to station--whilst cut-throats swear, drink,
and clothe themselves in rags, in order to fraternise with the populace,
Buzot possesses the morality of Socrates, and maintains the decorum of
Scipio: so they pull down his house and banish him, as they did
Aristides. I am astonished they have not issued a decree that his name
should be forgotten." The man of whom she speaks in such terms from the
depths of her dungeon, on the evening before her death, exiled,
wandering, concealed in the caves of St. Emilion, fell as though struck
by lightning, and remained several days in a state of phrenzy, on
learning the death of Madame Roland.

Danton, whose