Scarcely had the words been pronounced, when Marat was seen mounting the steps leading to the rostrum, in which he appeared, with a lurid smile on his coarse mouth, seeming to embody, at one, and the same time, three distinct genera: the man, the frog, and the serpent.
That Thing, dressed in almost rags, with dishevelled hair, squinting eyes, broad nose, and hideous appearance, was the Friend of the People! They had concluded by giving Marat the name of his journal.
At last, his hideous head appearing over the ledge of the rostrum, radiant with pride, and held, as it were, defiantly back to hide a neck covered with ulcers, all cried out, “Speak, Marat, speak!”
“Yes,” replied Marat, with a deep voice, “I am going to.”
All was hushed, as if by magic. Danton covered his face with his hands, and listened with a smile of scorn, while a young man placed himself in front of the rostrum, his arms crossed over his breast, in the attitude of a gladiator, defying his enemy.
“Look—look!” said Drouet.
“At whom? Marat? I can see him.”
“No, no! that young man in front of the rostrum.”
“Who is he?”