He rang the bell, and shook with a fury that seemed to animate all he did.
In a moment all was silence.
His mouth, like the top of a cyclops, opened, and a voice, which could have thundered down the noise had it continued, pronounced these words, “It is Marat’s turn to speak!”
Let us say a word or two about Marat before we proceed any further.
Marat was born in 1744, at Neuchatêl. He was, at the period of which I speak, forty-six years of age. His mother, nervous and romantic, was ambitious enough to try and make her son a second Rousseau. His father, a Protestant clergyman, well read and hard-working, taught his son the elements of science, and all the other branches of knowledge that he was acquainted with, so that the young man resembled a dictionary full of errors, and without even method or form.
His grandfather nicknamed him Mara—the “t” is an addition of his father’s, or his own. He had been a teacher of languages in England, and understood English pretty well. He also dabbled a little in physiology and chemistry, but in a slight degree. In ’89 he became veterinary surgeon to the Comte D’Artois.
On the 14th of July, the day of the taking the Bastille, he found himself on the Pont Neuf, and escaping being crushed to death by a detachment of hussars. Marat ordered them, in the name of the people, to throw down their arms—so he said, at least, but no one believed it.
Marat was not brave. He hid himself all day for the flight. He said that the satellites of Lafayette and De Bailly were looking for him, whereas, in fact, they never thought of him. In the evening, he crept out like a beast of prey; his eye, yellow as that of an owl, seemed better adapted for seeing in the dark than in the daylight. He lived, creeping from hiding-place to hiding-place, never seeing the light of day, and writing continually, imparting to his compositions all the bitterness and acerbity of his forced mode of life. From time to time he would exalt and provoke himself to blood. They say that blood was his ordinary drink—that he imbibed it when he was thirsty. His physician shook his head, and said, “Marat writes red.” His friends the journalists lifted him up to laugh at him. They called him the divine Marat. The people took a leaf out of their book, and called him a god. Let Marat do what he liked, the people applauded. Marat did more than lead them—he gave them room for amusement.
Amid the murmur of applause which greeted him—applause which had been, in conjunction with silence, denied to Robespierre the evening before—Danton, opening the door of the rostrum, said, “It is Marat’s turn to speak!”