CAMILLE [_shouting_]. Good luck to you, Père Duchesne! Don't forget your pipe! HÉRAULT [_softly_]. Camille, my friend, don't show yourself. CAMILLE. Come and see, our old friends, Hérault! Ronsin, the general of the clubs; and Vincent, who wanted your head, Philippeaux; and Hebert, the bully, who had supper every evening at my expense; and the Prussian Cloots, the fair Anacharsis! The last trip of the young Anacharsis! Mankind is in a fine fix now: deprived of its orator! The guillotine is busy today. LUCILE [_to the baby_]. Look, Horace, look at those naughty men! And Commander Hanriot, galloping with his saber! Do you see, darling? PHILIPPEAUX. He's too zealous. He ought to be riding on the cart himself. CAMILLE. It's like a great festival; the people are gay. [_Outside a clarinet is heard playing a grotesque air. The People laugh._] What's that? LUCILE. The little hunchback with the cart, playing his clarinet. CAMILLE. Pleasant idea! [_They all laugh._] Why don't you look, Hérault? Aren't you interested? You seem sad? What are you thinking about? [_The uproar becomes fainter._] HÉRAULT. I was thinking, Camille, that Anacharsis is thirty-eight, and Hebert thirty-five--your age, Philippeaux; and Vincent twenty-seven, six years younger than I--and you, Desmoulins. CAMILLE. True. [_He suddenly becomes serious, leaving the window and coming to the center of the room. He stands still an instant, his chin in his hand._] LUCILE [_still at the window_]. How it rains! Too bad! CAMILLE [_put out_]. Come away from the window, Lucile. You'll catch cold. LUCILE [_closing the window, comes into the room with the baby, singing to herself:_] "Come quick, little shepherdess, gather your sheep: The rain is beginning to fall, And bring them back safe to the sheepfold again; Come quick, or you'll lose them all!" CAMILLE. Lucile, Lucile, how can you sing that song! I never hear it without thinking that the poet who wrote it is now languishing in prison. LUCILE. Fabre? That's so. Our poor Eglantine. They shut him up in the Luxembourg, sick as he was! Oh, well, he'll come out. HÉRAULT. _Pur troppo!_ LUCILE. Now what does that mean? Something naughty, I know. PHILIPPEAUX. Something sad, and only too true. LUCILE. Hush, you gloomy men! Fabre will be released, I tell you. Are we not here to help him? HÉRAULT. Danton himself could do nothing to save him. LUCILE. Danton, perhaps. But when Camille takes his pen in hand, and writes all he thinks, you'll see the jail gates open of their own accord! HÉRAULT. For whom? LUCILE. For the tyrants!