aning; then the Rolands became the butt of many
violent and unreasonable outbursts. With the resignation of Roland on
January 22, 1792, the day of the execution of the king, the fate of
the Girondists was sealed. This time the minister was not asked to
reconsider; in fact, his exposure of the pilfering then going on among
the officials made him one of the most unpopular men in Paris. Upon
their return to private life, Mme. Roland was accused of forming the
plot to destroy the republic. When an armed force arrived one morning
at half-past five o'clock to arrest her husband, she resisted them,
herself going to the convention to expose the iniquity of such a
proceeding. Failing in this, she returned to her husband, to find him
safe with a friend. Being again arrested, she met the ordeal with her
accustomed courage; and when the officers offered to pull down the
blinds of the carriage, to shield her from the gaze of the unfriendly
public, she said: "No, gentlemen! innocence, however oppressed, should
not assume the attitude of guilt. I fear the eyes of no one, and do
not wish to escape even those of my enemies." "You have much more
character than many men," they replied; "you can calmly await
justice," "Justice!" she cried; "if it existed, I should not be
in your power! I would go to the scaffold as calmly as if sent by
iniquitous men. I fear only guilt, and despise injustice and death!"

She has been deeply criticised for her letters written to her friend
Buzot while she was in prison; yet it should be remembered that there
was not the slightest chance of their meeting again, and, besides,
the letters reveal the terrible struggle through which she had passed.
While in prison, her beauty, grace, and fearlessness won and humanized
nearly all who came under her spell. She was once unexpectedly
set at liberty, but only to be sentenced to the lowest of
prisons--Sainte-Pelagie. There, in the space of about one month,
her memoirs, now among the French classics, were written. At the
Conciergerie, where the lowest criminals and the filthiest paupers
were crowded into cells with the highest of the nobility, and where
the cowardly Mme. du Barry spent her last hours, Mme. Roland, by her
quiet dignity and patient serenity, commanded silence and respect, and
calmness and peace replaced angry and pitiful wrangling. The prisoners
clung to her, crying and kissing her hand, while she spoke words of
advice and consolation to the doomed women