“Why—why—why—don’t you send a mod-mod-model to the Assembly?” said the young man, in front of the rostrum, with a terrible and painful stutter in his speech. “I am framing it,” said Marat, “while you make love, Camille, I think.” “Dream, you mean!” said the same satirical voice. “Silence! silence!” cried the audience. “Yes; I am preparing a scheme for our Constitution.” “Tell—tell it us, great—great legislator!” said Camille, totally disregarding the cries for silence. “I say that the form of government should be monarchical,” continued Marat; “that Monarchy is the guiding-star of France, and that the person of the King should be sacred, only to be approached through the medium of his ministers.” “Ah, aristocrat!” cried Camille. “M. Danton,” cried Marat, furiously, “it is my turn to speak, and I demand silence!” “Silence! silence!” again cried the crowd. “Citizen Camille,” said Danton, in a voice as satirical as that of the man whom he reproved, “I call you to order!” “Then ask the speaker,” said the imperturbable Camille, “to give us part of his plans for the legislation.” “Firstly,” cried Marat, “I demand that the blasphemer’s tongue be cut out!” “Well, cut my to-to-to-tongue out! I blas-blas-blaspheme! I say Marat is a fool!” And, suiting the action to the words, he protruded his tongue at Marat, and made a grimace. Some of the audience could not avoid laughing. Marat was mad with rage. “I again say,” said he, “in my project for our Constitution, that the city is burdened with two hundred thousand poor people. I argue the right of the poor to share.” “Good!” said Camille. “We are ready; let us plun-plun-plunder!” “Yes, plunder!” cried Marat, rapidly becoming more and more excited. “When one has nothing, he has a right to take the superfluities of the rich—rather than starve, he has the right to take and devour their palpitating flesh! Let man commit what outrage he likes on his fellow-men—it is no worse than a wolf killing a sheep!” “Marat has asked for me to be called to order: I ask that he may be called to reason.” “Why should I have pity on men?” yelled Marat. “Firstly, pity is only a folly, acquired in society. In nature, neither man nor inferior animals know pity. Does Bailly, who tracks me, or Lafayette, who hunts me down, or the National Guards, who seek to slay me, know pity?” “Who prevents your eating them?” said Camille. “No, no!” said Marat, sneering at Camille in his turn. “No, I will not eat them; I will leave Lafayette to the women, and will cry unto them, ‘Make him an Abelard!’ I will leave Bailly to the people, and will cry unto them, ‘Hang him, as you have hanged Foulon, as you have hanged Flesselles!’ I will ask for the heads of the National Guards—I will ask for the heads of the aristocrats—I will ask, not for six hundred heads as I did yesterday, but for nineteen thousand four hundred!” “Make it twen-twenty thousand, round numbers!”