While the procession was progressing, that now organized band, the Revolutionary Committee, sent to arrest Madame Roland’s husband.
That evening, Roland, who does not show well in this business, fled into hiding. Madame Roland then determined to go down to the Convention and upbraid it. So far, the French had not begun to behead women. Starting from her home, she was surprised to find the city had been suddenly illuminated. Making her way to the Convention, she found it closed. And she learnt that the moderate party were overthrown, and that they would soon be headless.
She returned home, to await her fate. She did not seek to fly. Roland, poor man, remained in concealment—only, after a time, to be ashamed of his cowardice, and to commit suicide.
She prepared to send away her daughter to trusted friends, made up a packet of clothing to take with her to prison, and waited. At midnight, they came beating at her door, and she had to be awakened; for no fear of death deprived her of that balm of life—sleep.
“How much you are beloved!” said the leader of the sectionaries, seeing the eagerness with which the young daughter kissed her mother.
“Because I love,” she replied, proudly.
Reaching the carriage waiting for her, she was asked if she would have the window closed.
“No,” she replied; “I have done no harm, and I can face my enemies.”
“You are braver than many men waiting the decree of justice.”
“If in France there were justice, I should not be seated with you. I shall go to the scaffold as fearlessly as I go to prison. I despise life.”