Marat was not brave. He hid himself all day for the flight. He said that the satellites of Lafayette and De Bailly were looking for him, whereas, in fact, they never thought of him. In the evening, he crept out like a beast of prey; his eye, yellow as that of an owl, seemed better adapted for seeing in the dark than in the daylight. He lived, creeping from hiding-place to hiding-place, never seeing the light of day, and writing continually, imparting to his compositions all the bitterness and acerbity of his forced mode of life. From time to time he would exalt and provoke himself to blood. They say that blood was his ordinary drink—that he imbibed it when he was thirsty. His physician shook his head, and said, “Marat writes red.” His friends the journalists lifted him up to laugh at him. They called him the divine Marat. The people took a leaf out of their book, and called him a god. Let Marat do what he liked, the people applauded. Marat did more than lead them—he gave them room for amusement. Amid the murmur of applause which greeted him—applause which had been, in conjunction with silence, denied to Robespierre the evening before—Danton, opening the door of the rostrum, said, “It is Marat’s turn to speak!” Scarcely had the words been pronounced, when Marat was seen mounting the steps leading to the rostrum, in which he appeared, with a lurid smile on his coarse mouth, seeming to embody, at one, and the same time, three distinct genera: the man, the frog, and the serpent. That _Thing_, dressed in almost rags, with dishevelled hair, squinting eyes, broad nose, and hideous appearance, was _the Friend of the People_! They had concluded by giving Marat the name of his journal. At last, his hideous head appearing over the ledge of the rostrum, radiant with pride, and held, as it were, defiantly back to hide a neck covered with ulcers, all cried out, “Speak, Marat, speak!” “Yes,” replied Marat, with a deep voice, “I am going to.” All was hushed, as if by magic. Danton covered his face with his hands, and listened with a smile of scorn, while a young man placed himself in front of the rostrum, his arms crossed over his breast, in the attitude of a gladiator, defying his enemy. “Look—look!” said Drouet. “At whom? Marat? I can see him.” “No, no! that young man in front of the rostrum.” “Who is he?” “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.”