While at Luzarches, Sophie received a domiciliary visit from the local revolutionary committee. She received them with a smiling face, though she must have been quaking with fear, since her intimacy with the Prince de Condé and other distinguished _émigrés_ was sufficient to have sent her to the guillotine a dozen times over. “I have always been a very active citizen,” said she; “I know the Rights of Man by heart” (a remark which was certainly true), “and I have sung twenty years at the Opéra-National for the pleasure of the Sovereign People.” The committee, however, were not satisfied with these assurances and insisted on ransacking the house, in quest of compromising correspondence and so forth. Presently they came across a bust of Gluck and paused before it. “It is Marat,” said Sophie, in a tone of the deepest veneration. The worthy _sans-culottes_ uncovered, and convinced that they had just been contemplating the august features of the father of the people, whose sanguinary career the knife of Charlotte Corday had recently brought to an abrupt termination, retired, with many apologies for having doubted the patriotism of the Citoyenne Arnould.[64] Sophie remained at Luzarches for seven years, “_tout à fait en paysanne_.” She wore _sabots_, she planted cabbages, she gathered peas and apples, and she reared, or tried to rear, poultry. Her daughter Alexandrine lived with her for a couple of years, and then took advantage of the new law of divorce to get rid of the estimable Murville and replace him by the son of the local postmaster, “a stout boy, who was quite unsuitable for her.” Sophie, though, as we have seen, by no means strait-laced herself, strongly disapproved of her daughter’s conduct, and made it the occasion of one of her most celebrated _bons mots_. “Divorce,” she gravely observed, “is the sacrament of adultery.”