ced some of the more timid Girondists to vote for
their savage measures. Of the frightful state of affairs at Paris,
Madame Roland thus writes to a friend: "We are under the knife of
Robespierre and Marat. These men agitate the people, and endeavor to
turn them against the Assembly and Council; they have a little army,
which they pay with money stolen from the Tuileries." Again she
writes, "Danton leads all; Robespierre is his puppet; Marat holds his
torch and dagger; this ferocious tribune reigns, and we are his slaves
until the moment when we shall become his victims. You are aware of my
enthusiasm for the revolution; well, I am ashamed of it; it is
deformed by monsters, and become hideous. It is degrading to remain,
but we are not allowed to quit Paris; they shut us up to murder us
when occasion serves."

At length, disheartened by his unavailing efforts to stem the tide of
anarchy, Roland again resigned his office; and, satisfied that
remaining at Paris could be of no advantage to their country, he and
his wife began their preparations for retiring to the country. Her
illness caused a delay, and they were yet in Paris when the final
overthrow of the Girondists left them no hope for safety but in
flight. An order was issued by the Convention for the arrest of
Roland: his wife resolved to appeal in person to the Assembly in his
behalf. Veiled and alone, she hurried to the place of meeting. She was
not admitted: she sent in a letter, soliciting to be heard; but it
received no attention. Sadly she left the national palace, sought out
her husband, related to him her want of success, and then returned to
make another effort to be heard. The Convention was no longer sitting.
She returned home: her husband was in a place of security; and,
indifferent to her own fate, she resolved to await whatever might
happen.

At a late hour of the night she retired to rest, but was soon roused
by her servant, who announced to her that a party of soldiers had
come to arrest her. The sanguinary shouts of the mob saluted her as
she passed through the streets. "Shall I close the windows?" said an
officer who rode with her in the carriage. "No," replied she;
"innocence, however oppressed, will never assume the appearance of
guilt. I fear the eyes of no one, and will not hide myself." "You have
more firmness than most men," said the officer.

Her plans for prison life were at once arranged: she asked and
obtained a few books, Plutarch bein