In the presence of these monstrous catastrophes which both devastate and revivify civilization, one hesitates to sit in judgment on the details. To blame or to praise men on account of the result is very much like praising or criticising the ciphers on account of the sum total. The inevitable is sure to happen; if the wind is to blow, it will blow, but the eternal serenity remains untouched by these blasts. Like the starlit sky above the tempest, truth and justice sit enthroned above all revolutions. XII. Such was this immeasurable Convention, like an intrenched encampment of the human race attacked simultaneously by all the powers of darkness; the camp-fires of an army of ideas besieged by its foes, an immense bivouac of human intellect on the slope of a precipice. Nothing in history can be compared to this Assembly, which contained within itself senate and people, conclave and street-crossing, Areopagus and public square, tribunal and accused. The Convention always yielded to the wind; but this wind came from the mouth of the people, and it was the breath of God. And to-day, after the lapse of eighty years, every time the Convention presents itself to the mind of any man whomsoever, whether philosopher or historian, he cannot but pause and meditate; since no man can be indifferent to that grand procession of shadows. [Illustration 069] II. MARAT IN THE GREEN-ROOM. On the day following the interview in the Rue du Paon, Marat, according to the intention which he had announced to Simonne Évrard, went to the Convention. There chanced to be present a certain marquis, Louis de Montaut, an admirer of Marat,--the same who afterwards presented to the Convention a decimal clock surmounted by a bust of Marat. Just as Marat entered, Chabot approached Montant. "Ci-devant--" he said. Montaut looked up. "Why do you call me ci-devant?" "Because that's what you are." "I?" "Of course, since you were once a marquis." "Never!" "Nonsense!" "My father was a soldier; my grandfather was a weaver." "What folly is this, Montaut?" "My name is not Montaut." "What is it, then?" "My name is Maribon." "Very well," declared Chabot; "it is all one to me." And he added, between his teeth,-- "Every man, nowadays, pretends that he is no marquis." Marat stopped in the left-hand corridor and looked at Montaut and Chabot. Whenever he came in, a murmur would pass through the crowd, but always at a respectful distance; it was quiet in his immediate vicinity. Marat paid no attention whatever. He scorned the croaking of the frogs. In this dim shadow obscuring the lower benches, Conpé de l'Oise, Prunelle, Villars,--a bishop who afterwards became a member of the French Academy,--Boutroue, Petit, Plaichard, Bonet, Thibaudeau, Valdruche, pointed him out to one another. "Look! There is Marat!" "He is not ill, then?" "Probably he is, since he is here in a dressing-gown." "In a dressing-gown?" "Certainly." "What liberties he allows himself!"