"That he should dare to come to the Convention in such a garb!" "Since he came one day crowned with laurels, he might be expected to appear in a dressing-gown." "With his face of copper, and teeth of verdigris." "His dressing-gown seems new." "What is it made of?" "A kind of rep." "Striped?" "Just see the lapels!" "They are made of fur." "Tiger-skin?" "No, ermine." "Imitation." "He has stockings on." "Remarkable!" "And shoes with buckles." "Silver buckles!" "Camboulas' sabots will not soon forgive him that." On the opposite benches they pretended not to see Marat, but continued to talk of other matters. Santhonax accosted Dussaulx. "Have you heard, Dussaulx?" "What?" "The ci-devant Count de Brienne." "The one who was at La Force with the ci-devant Duke de Villeroy?" "Yes." "I knew them both. What about them?" "You know they were so frightened that they saluted all the red caps of the turnkeys, and one day refused to take a hand at _piquet_ because a pack of cards with kings and queens was offered them." "Well?" "They were guillotined yesterday." "Both of them?" "Yes." "Well, how did they behave in prison?" "Like cowards!" "And what sort of a figure did they cut on the scaffold?" "Intrepid." Whereupon Dussaulx exclaimed,-- "It's easier to die than to live." Barère had begun to read a report on the subject of the Vendée. Nine hundred men from Morbihan had started with cannon to relieve Nantes. Redon was threatened by the peasants, and Paimboeuf had been attacked. A fleet was cruising in the vicinity of Maindrin to prevent invasions. From Ingrande to Maure the entire left bank of the Loire bristled with Royalist batteries. Three thousand peasants had taken possession of Pornic. They cried: "Vive les Anglais!" Barère read a letter from Santerre to the Convention ending with the following words: "Seven thousand peasants attacked Vannes. We repulsed them, and they retreated, leaving four cannon in our hands." "And how many prisoners?" interrupted a voice. Barère went on,-- "Postscript. We have no prisoners, because we have ceased to take them."[1] Marat, as usual, stood motionless, paying no attention to what was going on, apparently absorbed in deep preoccupation. He held a paper in his hand, crumpling it between his fingers. Had it been unfolded, certain words in the handwriting of Momoro, in answer, no doubt, to some question of Marat, might have been read:--