Is
it not she, too, who will write at the beginning of her Memoirs: "I
have observed that in all classes, ambition is generally fatal; for the
few happy ones whom it exalts, it makes a multitude of victims." Why
did she not more frequently remind herself of the sentiment so just and
well expressed in a letter dated in 1790: "Women are not made to share
in all the occupations of men: they are altogether bound to domestic
cares and virtues, and they cannot turn away from them without
destroying their happiness." But, alas! passion does not reason.
Farewell common sense, wisdom, and experience, when ambition and love
have taken possession of a woman's heart. Returning to Paris, December
15, 1791, the Rolands established themselves in the rue de la Harpe,
and plunged head-long into politics. The wife redoubled her activity,
eloquence, and passion. The husband, instead of attending quietly to
the management of his retiring pension, was named a member of the
Jacobin corresponding committee at the beginning of 1792, a
revolutionary centre of which Brissot was the leader. At this period,
we are informed by Madame Roland, the intimidated court imagined that
the nomination of a {70} minister chosen from among the patriots of the
Assembly would cause it to regain a little popularity. Brissot
proposed Roland, who, on March 24, 1792, accepted the portfolio of the
Interior.

Madame, behold yourself, then, the wife of a minister, and in fact more
of a minister than your husband. Your ambitious projects, which have
been treated as chimerical, are now realized. You have a cortege like
Marie Antoinette. Men seek the favor of a smile, a word, from you.
They court, they solicit, they fear you. The monarchy, which you
detest, is at last obliged to reckon with you and your friends. Your
beauty, your talent, and your eloquence are boasted of. Your name is
in every mouth. You are powerful, you are celebrated. Well! you will
find out for yourself what bitterness there is at the bottom of this
cup of pride which has tempted your lips so long. You will learn at
your own expense that renown does not produce happiness, and that, for
a woman, twilight is better than the full glare of day. Yes, you will
long for the obscurity which weighed upon you. You will long for the
house of your father, the engraver, on the Quai des Orfevres. You will
dream of the sunsets which affected you, and of the monotonous but
peaceful succession of