Those who had been unable to find lodgings had encamped there, or on the Boulevards. Being anxious to see historical localities, I asked M. Drouet to take me to the Hotel de Ville. We went up to the Rue St. Antoine, M. Drouet showing me the steps on which they had slain De Launay, the lantern on which they had hung Foulon, and the corner of the quay where they had killed Flesselles. Everywhere—on the boulevards, in the places, in the churches, on the bridges—all was gaiety; every one was shaking hands with everybody; strangers in a moment became old friends. A shout of “Vive le Roi!” surrounded you with friends—a shout of “Vive la nation!” with brothers. After dinner, we proceeded to the Jacobin Club. It was crowded, like all the rest—if possible, more so. “Look, look!” said M. Jean Baptiste, the moment it was possible to see. “Look! Where?” said I. “There—on the President’s chair, between two candles! Do you see any one?” “Oh, M. Drouet!” said I, trembling. “Well, what do you say?” asked he. “I say that it is not a man whom you point out to me.” “What is he, then?” “A monster!” “Good! Look at him for some length of time, and you will get accustomed to his face, all hideous as it is.” That man was M. Danton. He rang the bell, and shook with a fury that seemed to animate all he did. In a moment all was silence. His mouth, like the top of a cyclops, opened, and a voice, which could have thundered down the noise had it continued, pronounced these words, “It is Marat’s turn to speak!” Let us say a word or two about Marat before we proceed any further. Marat was born in 1744, at Neuchatêl. He was, at the period of which I speak, forty-six years of age. His mother, nervous and romantic, was ambitious enough to try and make her son a second Rousseau. His father, a Protestant clergyman, well read and hard-working, taught his son the elements of science, and all the other branches of knowledge that he was acquainted with, so that the young man resembled a dictionary full of errors, and without even method or form. His grandfather nicknamed him Mara—the “t” is an addition of his father’s, or his own. He had been a teacher of languages in England, and understood English pretty well. He also dabbled a little in physiology and chemistry, but in a slight degree. In ’89 he became veterinary surgeon to the Comte D’Artois. On the 14th of July, the day of the taking the Bastille, he found himself on the Pont Neuf, and escaping being crushed to death by a detachment of hussars. Marat ordered them, in the name of the people, to throw down their arms—so he said, at least, but no one believed it.