“Ah, good!” said Camille. “Go on, Marat!”
“Lafayette has caused to be made in the Faubourg St. Antoine ten thousand snuff-boxes, all of which are embellished with his portrait as General of the National Guard. Lafayette aspires to the dictatorship.”
“Of tobacco merchants?” queried Camille Desmoulins.
Marat’s yellow skin assumed a green tinge, and perspired with rage.
“He has some scheme beneath that,” continued he; “so I pray all good citizens in whose hands these snuff-boxes may fall, to destroy them.”
“In order to discover the names of his accomplices?” asked Camille.
“There are many of them. I told you that twenty thousand pieces of cord would suffice, but bring thirty or forty thousand, and you will not have enough.”
The applause drowned the voice of Marat, but eventually their breath failed them, and they could hear Camille Desmoulins, who, like a swimmer who had dived, again remounted to the surface.
“Always tragic, friend Ma-Marat—always tragic! hypertragic, in fact.”
“And these cords,” continued Marat—“take care, Camille Desmoulins, that one of them is not first tried on you.”