ing place. Her only reply to their threats was, “I scorn to tell a falsehood. I know his plans, but I neither ought nor choose to tell them.”
When in June, 1793, she was, as she expected to be, arrested, her domestics clung weeping around her, "These people love you,” observed one of the officers sent to convey her to prison. She turned her proud, calm face toward him: “I never had those about me who did not,” was her reply. The maddened, ignorant mob hooted, and shouted derisively around the carriage in which she was seated. "Shall we close the blinds of the carriage?” asked one of the officials, politely wishing to spare her feelings.
"No, gentlemen,” she said calmly; “I do not fear the eyes of the populace. Innocence should never assume the guise of crime.”
“Madame,” said the officer, “you have more strength of mind than many men; you wait patiently for justice.”
