Hébert swore, and spat into the fire.
"Now Danton is back, he will not twiddle his thumbs for long," he said; "that is not at all his idea of amusing himself. He is turning things over—chewing the cud. Presently, you will see, the bull will bellow, and the whole herd will trot after him."
"Which way?" asked Marat sarcastically.
"H'm—that is just what I should like to know."
"And our Maximilian?"
"What does he mean? What does he want?" Hébert broke out uneasily, low-voiced. "He is all for mildness and temperance, justice and sobriety; but under it—under it, Marat?"
Marat's pointed brows rose abruptly.
"The devil knows," said he, "but I don't believe Maximilian does."
Robespierre looked up again with calm, dispassionate gaze. His eye dwelt on the two for a moment, and dropped to the page before him. He wrote the words, "Above all things the State"—and deep within him the imperishable ego cried prophetic, "L'État, c'est moi!"
The room began to fill. Men came in, cursing the cold, shaking snow from their coats, stamping icy fragments from their frozen feet. The fire was popular. Hébert and Marat were crowded from the place they had occupied, and a buzz of voices rose from every quarter. Here and there a group declaimed or argued, but for the most part men stood in twos and threes discussing the situation in confidential tones.