added here that she developed into a sweet and noble woman, such as would have gladdened her mother's heart, that she married the son of the worthy Champagneux, and returned ultimately to the solitary vineyards of La Platière.
Could Madame Roland have foreseen this, perhaps it would have assuaged some of the anguish which she devoured in silence. Serene though she was in the presence of others, the woman who attended her told one of the prisoner's friends that she mustered up all her courage before them, but that, when alone, she would sometimes stand leaning against the bars of her window and weep for hours together.
The idea of suicide was abandoned at the instance of Bosc. He succeeded in convincing his friend that she owed it to herself and her cause to die grandly in the face of all, leaving an example such as must inevitably make its mark on the public.
The year 1793 was on the wane. In the distant Gironde, where the sunny vintage was over, Buzot, still hidden in cellars or caves, was indulging—what survived all shocks of fate with the men of that generation—the passion of writing Memoirs. In pleasure-loving Paris, where the theatres had never been more crowded with elegantly-clad women, hair mostly dressed à la Titus, the remnant of the Girondins lingered in close confinement, awaiting their trial.
Much they still hoped of this trial; Madame Roland, also, who was to be called as a witness, indulged in favourable anticipations. In these swift, impressionable times, how might not opinion be turned by the suasive tongues of the eloquent Gironde? She herself would strike sympathy from the stoniest hearts by the fervour of her appeal.
