al Assembly." She and her
husband were heartily and zealously for the republic, but they were
moderate, and entirely opposed to those brutal men who were in favor of
filling Paris and France with blood. Madame Roland writes, later:
"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." Madame Roland now struggled to overthrow the
Jacobins--but was only overthrown herself. She was at this time
celebrated for her wit and beauty. A writer of that time says of her:

"I met Madame Roland several times in former days: her eyes, her figure,
and hair, were of remarkable beauty; her delicate complexion had a
freshness and color which, joined to her reserved yet ingenuous
appearance, imparted a singular air of youth. Wit, good sense, propriety
of expression, keen reasoning, _naive_ grace, all flowed without effort
from her roseate lips."

During the horrible massacres of September Roland acted with great
heroism. While the streets of Paris ran with human blood, he wrote to
the mayor, demanding him to interfere in behalf of the sufferers. Marat
denounced him as a traitor, and from that moment his life was in danger.
Madame Roland was charged with instigating the unpopular acts of her
husband by the radicals, and she was in equal danger with her husband.
After the execution of the king, Roland became discouraged, and
convinced that he could do no more for France, and he retired with his
wife to the country. Here they lived in constant danger of arrest.
Roland finding the danger so great, made good his escape, but she was
arrested a short time after. She had retired to rest at night, when
suddenly her doors were burst open and the house filled with a hundred
armed men. She was instantly parted from her child and sent off to
Paris. One of the men who had her in charge, cried out, "Do you wish the
window of the carriage to be closed?" "No, gentlemen," she replied,
"innocence, however oppressed, will never assume the appearance of
guilt. I fear the eyes of no one, and will not hide myself."

She was shut up in prison at once. She asked for books--for Plutarch,
and Thompson's Seasons. On the 24th of June she was liberated, and then
suddenly rearrested. This deception was more than crue