Danton. The other bites—that is you, Marat.
Rob. All three bite.
Marat. Ah, Robespierre! Ah, Danton! You will not listen to me! Well, you are lost; I tell you so. You do things which shut every door against you—except that of the tomb.
Danton. That is our grandeur.
Marat. Danton, beware! Ah, you shrug your shoulders! Sometimes a shrug of the shoulders makes the head fall. And as for thee, Robespierre, go on, powder thyself, dress thy hair, brush thy clothes, play the coxcomb. Fine as thou art, thou wilt be dragged at the tails of four horses!
Rob. Echo of Coblentz!
Danton. I am the echo of nothing—I am the cry of the whole, Robespierre.
Marat. Ah, you are young, you! How old art thou, Danton? Four-and-thirty. How many are your years, Robespierre? Thirty-three. Well, I—I have lived always. I am the old human suffering—I have lived six thousand years.
Danton. That is true. For six thousand years Cain has been preserved in hatred like the toad in a rock; the rock breaks, Cain springs out among men, and is called Marat.