Roland was in a place of safety; her daughter under safe guardianship; her fugitive friends were at Caen, assembling partisans, and she fancied that political events were tending towards amelioration. Resigned for the present, she was almost happy. She saw a few friends; Bose brought her flowers from the Jardin des Plantes; and her occupations filled up the intervals of the day. Seeing no speedy termination to her imprisonment, it became eligible to choose an occupation that would carry her forward from day to day, imparting interest to their course. She began her own memoirs; at first she almost forgot sorrow as she wrote; but the horrors that were happening, the massacres, guillotinings, and sufferings of her country grew thick and dark around, and often she interrupted herself, in pictures of domestic peace, to lament the fate of lost friends, and the ghastly ruin that overwhelmed all France. Nor could she always keep calm the tenour of her personal cares and feelings. Separated from her child and all she loved best, hearing only of distress and tyranny, she was sometimes overpowered by grief. In spite of the kindness of the gaoler and his wife, she saw and heard too much of vice and misery, such as is ever found within a prison, more especially at a period when so many innocent were victims, not to be frequently dispirited. The brutality of a prison visitor in authority disturbed the little peace she had acquired. He saw with anger the comforts of her room; and, saying that equality must be maintained, ordered that she should be transferred to a cell. A hard lesson on equality was this to the republican heroine; equality between the guilty and the innocent, which mingled in revolting association the victim of injustice with the votaries of vice.