“Monsieur Dauphin,” said the chairman, “I have the honor to remind you that Danton belongs to history.”
“To the Pantheon of history, monsieur; that is the proper expression.”
“Well, history, or the Pantheon of history, as you please; but Danton is irrelevant here.”
“Permit me, Mr. Chairman,” said Sallenauve, “though the question does not seem to have much purpose on the bearing of this meeting, I cannot forego the opportunity thus given me to give proof of the impartiality and independence with which I can judge that great memory, the fame of which still echoes in this town.”
“Hear! hear!” cried the assembly, almost unanimously.
“I am firmly convinced,” resumed Sallenauve, “that if Danton had been born in a calm and peaceful epoch like our own, he would have shown himself, what in fact he was, a good father, a good husband, a warm and faithful friend, a man of kindly temper, who, by the force of his great talents, would have risen to some eminent place in the State and in society.”
“Yes, yes! bravo! very good!”
“Born, on the contrary, in troublesome times, and amid the storm of unchained passions, Danton was better constituted than others to kindle the flame of that atmosphere of fire. Danton was the torch that fired; his scarlet glare lent itself only too readily to scenes of blood and horror which I must not recall. But, they said, the national independence was at stake, traitors and dissemblers must be awed,—in a word, a cruel and awful sacrifice was necessary for the public weal. Messieurs, I do not accept that theory. To kill, without the necessity demonstrated a score of times of legitimate defence, to kill women, children, prisoners, unarmed men, was a crime,—a crime, look at it how you will, that was execrable; those who ordered it, those who consented to it, those who executed it are, to my mind, deserving of the same reprobation.”
I wish I could give you an idea, madame, of the tone and expression of Sallenauve as he uttered this anathema. You know how his face is transfigured when an ardent thought comes into his mind. The assemblage was mute and gloomy. Evidently he had wounded their sensibilities; but, under the curb of his powerful hand, it dared not throw up its head.
“But,” he continued, “to all consummated and irreparable crimes there are two issues,—repentance and expiation. His repentance Danton did not utter,—he was too proud a man,—but he acted it. He was the first, to the sound of that axe falling without pity and without respite,—the first, at the risk of his own head being the next victim,—to call for a ‘committee of mercy.’ It was the sure, the infallible means of bringing him to expiation; and you all know whether, when that day of expiation came, he quailed before it. Passing through death,—won by his courageous effort to stop the effusion of blood,—it may be truly said that the face and the memory of Danton have washed off the bloody stain which September put upon them. Committed, at the age of thirty-five, to the judgment of posterity, Danton has left us the memory of a great intellect, a strong and powerful character, noble private qualities, more than one generous action,—all derived from his own being; whereas the bloody errors he committed were the contagion of his epoch. In a word, with men of his quality, unjust would be the justice which does not temper itself with mercy. And here, messieurs, you have in your midst—better than you, better than I, better than all orators and historians—a woman who has weighed and understood Danton, and who says to the pitiless, with the impulse of her charity, ‘He has gone to God; let us pray for him.’”