“Camille Desmoulins, the man of the thirteenth of July; the man of the Café de Foy; the man of the green cockade!”
“Silence! silence!” cried out several voices.
Marat, hearing a whisper, had turned his evil eyes on us.
We became as still as mice.
“Great treason!” cried Marat; “but that is not wonderful—they would not follow my advice; and I tell you that until the heads of some of the National Assembly ornament pikestaffs, things will go wrong. Do as I tell you, and the Constitution will be perfect.”
“Why—why—why—don’t you send a mod-mod-model to the Assembly?” said the young man, in front of the rostrum, with a terrible and painful stutter in his speech.
“I am framing it,” said Marat, “while you make love, Camille, I think.”
“Dream, you mean!” said the same satirical voice.
“Silence! silence!” cried the audience.
“Yes; I am preparing a scheme for our Constitution.”