Madame Roland was very far from having assumed at that period the important position that she afterwards held. As yet she had never fretted and fumed her hour upon the political stage. In fact, she was not yet a minister. I did not pay more attention to her than one commonly pays to a woman. She appeared to be about thirty years of age, of fresh complexion—heat of the blood, if one may say so. Her mouth was large, but filled with irreproachable teeth; her hands were large and muscular, but well-shaped; her nose was _retroussé_; her figure was good—small waist and well-filled hips, but, on the whole, having a decidedly voluptuous tendency. Thus was Madame Roland, in the evening of the 15th of July, 1791. Just as I was observing her, I heard some one call M. Duplay. Duplay turned round. It was M. Laclos who called him. He held a pen in his hand, and had a sheet of paper on his table. M. Brissot was sitting beside him. “My dear Duplay,” said he, “I was about to write the petition for which all are going to vote, but my writing is too much like that of the secretary of the Duc d’Orleans. There is nothing wrong in the matter, I assure you. Here is M. Brissot, a member of the National Assembly, and he would not be likely to work against his colleagues. We must have some one whose handwriting is unknown. Your young man can write, I suppose?” “Rather, I should say,” replied M. Duplay; “he is a scholar.” “Well,” said Laclos, mildly, “be kind enough to call him hither, and tell him what we require. You will dictate, Brissot, will you not?” Feeling sure that the conversation concerned me, I approached. They told me what was required. It would give me an active participation in what was going on, so I was quite willing. M. Brissot dictated. As it was not permitted to make a copy of the petition, I can only give it from memory. It was well and strongly worded; it had, metamorphically speaking, two heads; the one reproached the Assembly with timidity, and the other accused them of having not dared to usurp the King’s so-called prerogative, and asserted, at the same time, that the King’s supposed deprivation of his regal rights by the Assembly was, in reality, a sham. As I was writing these words, Brissot still dictating, Laclos arousing himself, placed his hand on Brissot’s arm, and said, “Citizen Brissot, I doubt whether the friends of the Constitution, who compose the greater number of our club, will sign, unless you make a slight alteration in the words, but which will not alter the meaning.” “What alteration?” demanded Brissot. “Were I in your place, I would insert, after ‘_his original dignity_,’ these words, ‘_by constitutional means_.’” Brissot reflected a moment, and then, with a shrug of his shoulders he said, “I see no objection.” Then he continued dictating to me. “_By constitutional means._”