tumbrils): ‘An irreproachable republican,’ he argued, ‘never fears death but cannot bear the suspicion of crime, and for a month Miranda has been suspected.’
Fouquier-Tinville rose and, in the precise, reedy voice which had condemned so many to the blade, accused Miranda of negligence in the war, and of being Dumouriez’s chief co-conspirator. Meanwhile Marat’s rabid newspaper,
L’Ami du Peuple
, had charged Miranda with looting Ambères after its capture. A procession of hostile witnesses was led by General La Hove and General Eustace. It was alleged that Miranda had a son and a brother-in-law in Maastricht, hence his discontinuance of the siege. A sergeant testified that the Dutch considered him ‘better than a Dutchman’. The national gendarmerie, whose excesses he had tried to contain at Antwerp, accused him of a succession of crimes.
When it was Miranda’s turn to speak he calmly recalled that, far from being Dumouriez’s accomplice, he had been his accuser. He had withdrawn from Maastricht because he was out-numbered, and not on ground of his choosing: ‘You cannot win when you don’t have the advantage of the ground.’ Outraged, General Eustace demanded to speak again, saying that it had been his honour ‘to detest Miranda’. Remarkably, the acid, razor-sharp Fouquier-Tinville cut him down, saying he could not call an openly prejudiced witness. The defencewitnesses were called. One revealed that at the time the King’s head was struck off by the guillotine Miranda had declared to his soldiers, ‘This is a great blow for the politics of France.’ The American revolutionary Thomas Paine himself came from London to argue with passion that Miranda would never have betrayed France, ‘because the cause of the French Revolution is intimately tied to the favourite cause of his heart, the independence of Spanish America’.
Summing up, Chaveau-Lagarde claimed that no defence was necessary, because Miranda had already defended himself so eloquently; he should be ‘listened to with all the dignity that became true republicans and with the full confidence the court deserves’. As the judges withdrew and the prisoners were led away, sobbing could be heard from among the crowds of onlookers. When the judges had filed back, Miranda was declared innocent. The court erupted in applause, in which even Fouquier-Tinville joined. Miranda rose to declare passionately that ‘this brilliant act of justice must restore the respect of my fellow citizens for me, whose loss would have been more painful for me even than death’. On 16 May he was released and carried through crowds in the streets. He was one of the very few to stare the Terror in the face, to come under the shadow of the guillotine, and yet to escape.
Now calm and commonsense deserted him. Believing himself immune from further persecution, he withdrew triumphantly to a luxurious château in Menilmontant to rest, and to defend his reputation against the unceasing vituperation of Marat’s newspaper. The Montagnards were still raining attacks upon him as ‘an intriguer, a creator of faction’ who, it was alleged, had bribed the jurors to let him go. His wisest course of action would have been to leave at once for England.
In 1793, Paché, former minister of war and an implacable foe, was appointed Mayor of Paris. Three days later Miranda’s château was surrounded by guards, and Paché placed him under house arrest. This did not stop Miranda receiving friends and female company alike. When a large number of sealed boxes arrived, the police suspected them of containing arms and ammunition; they were crammed with books. A servant loyal to his enemies was planted in the household; Miranda knew this, but pretended otherwise.
On 9 July he was arrested again and conducted to the prison of La Force, from which very few ever emerged free. Robespierre himself now demanded the guillotine for Miranda’s alleged connivance in a royalist plot. On 13 July he
Fouquier-Tinville rose and, in the precise, reedy voice which had condemned so many to the blade, accused Miranda of negligence in the war, and of being Dumouriez’s chief co-conspirator. Meanwhile Marat’s rabid newspaper,
L’Ami du Peuple
, had charged Miranda with looting Ambères after its capture. A procession of hostile witnesses was led by General La Hove and General Eustace. It was alleged that Miranda had a son and a brother-in-law in Maastricht, hence his discontinuance of the siege. A sergeant testified that the Dutch considered him ‘better than a Dutchman’. The national gendarmerie, whose excesses he had tried to contain at Antwerp, accused him of a succession of crimes.
When it was Miranda’s turn to speak he calmly recalled that, far from being Dumouriez’s accomplice, he had been his accuser. He had withdrawn from Maastricht because he was out-numbered, and not on ground of his choosing: ‘You cannot win when you don’t have the advantage of the ground.’ Outraged, General Eustace demanded to speak again, saying that it had been his honour ‘to detest Miranda’. Remarkably, the acid, razor-sharp Fouquier-Tinville cut him down, saying he could not call an openly prejudiced witness. The defencewitnesses were called. One revealed that at the time the King’s head was struck off by the guillotine Miranda had declared to his soldiers, ‘This is a great blow for the politics of France.’ The American revolutionary Thomas Paine himself came from London to argue with passion that Miranda would never have betrayed France, ‘because the cause of the French Revolution is intimately tied to the favourite cause of his heart, the independence of Spanish America’.
Summing up, Chaveau-Lagarde claimed that no defence was necessary, because Miranda had already defended himself so eloquently; he should be ‘listened to with all the dignity that became true republicans and with the full confidence the court deserves’. As the judges withdrew and the prisoners were led away, sobbing could be heard from among the crowds of onlookers. When the judges had filed back, Miranda was declared innocent. The court erupted in applause, in which even Fouquier-Tinville joined. Miranda rose to declare passionately that ‘this brilliant act of justice must restore the respect of my fellow citizens for me, whose loss would have been more painful for me even than death’. On 16 May he was released and carried through crowds in the streets. He was one of the very few to stare the Terror in the face, to come under the shadow of the guillotine, and yet to escape.
Now calm and commonsense deserted him. Believing himself immune from further persecution, he withdrew triumphantly to a luxurious château in Menilmontant to rest, and to defend his reputation against the unceasing vituperation of Marat’s newspaper. The Montagnards were still raining attacks upon him as ‘an intriguer, a creator of faction’ who, it was alleged, had bribed the jurors to let him go. His wisest course of action would have been to leave at once for England.
In 1793, Paché, former minister of war and an implacable foe, was appointed Mayor of Paris. Three days later Miranda’s château was surrounded by guards, and Paché placed him under house arrest. This did not stop Miranda receiving friends and female company alike. When a large number of sealed boxes arrived, the police suspected them of containing arms and ammunition; they were crammed with books. A servant loyal to his enemies was planted in the household; Miranda knew this, but pretended otherwise.
On 9 July he was arrested again and conducted to the prison of La Force, from which very few ever emerged free. Robespierre himself now demanded the guillotine for Miranda’s alleged connivance in a royalist plot. On 13 July he
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