The next day, November 8th, was her trial. When she came out from her cell to await for her summons to the court, Comte Beugnot joined her. “She was clad carefully in white muslin, trimmed with blonde and fastened by a girdle of black velvet.” He says: “Her face seemed to me more animated than usual. Its color was exquisite and she had a smile on her lips. With one hand she held up the train of her gown; the other she had abandoned to a crowd of prisoners who pressed near to kiss it. Those who understood the fate which awaited her sobbed about her and commended her to God.... Madame responded to all with affectionate kindness. She did not promise to return, she did not say she was going to her death, but her last words to them were touching counsels. She begged them to have peace, courage, hope, to practise those virtues which are fitting for misfortune. An old jailer, called Fontenay, whose good heart had resisted the practice of his cruel trade for thirty years, came to open the gate for her, weeping. I did my errand with her in the passage. She answered me in a few words and in a firm tone. She had commenced a sentence when two jailers from the interior called her to the tribunal. At this cry, terrible for another than her, she stopped and, pressing my hand, said: ‘Good-by, sir, let us make peace, it is time.’ Raising her eyes, she saw that I was struggling violently to keep back my tears. She seemed moved and added but two words, ‘Have courage.’” The accusation waited her. It was a charge of having “wickedly and designedly participated in a conspiracy against the unity and indivisibility of the Republic, against the liberty and surety of the French people, by collecting at her home the principal leaders of this conspiracy, and carrying on a correspondence with them tending to facilitate their murderous projects.” She was not allowed to read her defence, and the judgment was pronounced at once. She was convicted of being one of the authors, or accomplices, in a “horrible conspiracy against the unity and indivisibility of the Republic, the liberty and surety of the French people,” and was sentenced to be punished by death. When she came out from the tribunal the cart awaited her in the prison court. Standing on the Pont au Change and looking down the Seine, is one of those fascinating river views of Paris where a wealth of associations disputes with endless charm the attention of the loiterer. The left of the view is filled by the Norman Towers of the Conciergerie, the façades of the prison, the irregular fronts of the houses facing on the Quai de l’Horloge, and ends in an old house of Henry IV.’s time. It is the house where Manon Phlipon passed her girlhood. When the cart drove across the Pont au Change, Madame Roland had before her the window from which, as a girl, she had leaned at sunset, and “with a heart filled with inexpressible joy, happy to exist, had offered to the Supreme Being a pure and worthy homage.”