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.” Marat now became supreme. “Rise, sovereign people!” he cried; “no man dare oppose you.” There was never given a more fearful impetus to murder than these words. What it pleased men to call a Committee of Public Safety was now organized, and its operation was the killing of every human being who could by any means be made to appear not utterly to sympathise with the seething mob. The Convention existed, but its power was completely at an end. Its votes were laughed at. Queen Guillotine was the one power left in France. Every day the foreign arms directed against France obtained successes. Meanwhile, the land was like a vessel without a rudder. No man was strong enough to control the mob. Indeed, it was only when Napoleon Bonaparte rose, that internal peace was established. It is not to be wondered at that he came to be looked up to as a demigod. Twenty thousand Royalist volunteers were now in arms against Marat, in one department of France alone. Marat was at this time King of Paris. Robespierre was waiting. Danton was threatening and trembling at the same time. Another week, and the foul Marat would have conquered both, and been proclaimed, by the voice of the streets, President of the Republic. But his hideous career was to be arrested by the feeble hand of a girl—Charlotte Corday.