Chapter 11 - Page 2

Jefferson made a friend of him, and even Washington talked with him
about his book on our country. Then he passed himself off as a noble,
but he is really the son of an innkeeper. I had so often heard of him,
that I regarded with interest his pale face and grave, melancholy
manner. He was accompanied by Camille Desmoulins, and by Danton; the
latter a man almost terrible in his ugliness. David, the painter of
Socrates, was there; he had his hair frizzed, and was dressed
splendidly; and with him was Chenier, more tragic looking than any of
his plays. The salons were filled with flowers and beautiful women;
among them the majestic Madame Vestris, and the lovely Mademoiselle
Candeille, who was singing a song when there arose a sudden
indescribable noise, growing louder and louder, and then the cry of
MARAT! MARAT! and the "Friend of the People" entered. Now I shall spare
a few minutes to tell you, that no one has made frightful enough his
large bony face, his thin lips and his livid complexion. He wore an old
carmagnole, a dirty handkerchief twisted about his neck, leather
breeches, shoes without stockings, and a piece of red cotton round his
head, from which there hung a few locks of greasy hair. A nervous
twitching keeps him constantly moving, and he has the leprosy:--this is
well known. He walked straight to Dumouriez, who said disdainfully, "Ah!
are you the man they call Marat?" Marat immediately demanded from him an
account of military measures he had taken. They had some sharp
conversation which I did not hear, and Marat finally went away uttering
the most insulting threats, and leaving every one in a state of mortal
terror. The next day the newsboys were shouting "the discovery of a
great plot by Marat, the Friend of the People! Great meeting of
Aristocrats at Talmas, etc."

This is the kind of pleasure we have; as to religion, there is no longer
any religion. Everywhere the Almighty is spoken of as the "soi-disant
God." The monarchy is abolished, and yet so ignorant are the leaders of
the people, that when Brissot mentioned the word Republic in Petion's
house, Robespierre said with a grin, "Republic! Republic! what's a
republic?" Spying, and fear, and death penetrate into the most private
houses; above all, fear, constant fear of every one with whom you come
in contact. This feeling is so universal, that some one has conjugated
it thus--I am afraid--Thou art afraid--He is afraid--We are afraid--
You are afraid--They are afraid--For as death has been officially
declared "an endless sleep" any crime is possible; the mob have no fear
of hell, and as for the guillotine, it is their opera and their
perpetual comedy. Very soon these things must bring on France