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!”

“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: –

“Nothing can be done in opposition to the supreme authority of the delegated commissioners, especially those of the Committee of Public Safety. Although Génissieux said in the session of May 6th, ‘Each commissioner is more than a king,’ it had no effect. Life and death are in their hands. Massade at Angers, Trullard at Saint-Amand, Nyon with General Marcé, Parrein in the army of the ‘Sables,’ Millier in the army of Niort, are all-powerful. The Jacobin Club has gone so far as to appoint Parrein brigadier-general. Circumstances excuse everything. A delegate of the Committee of Public Safety may hold in check a commander-in-chief.”

Marat ceased crumpling the paper, put it in his pocket, and walked slowly towards Montaut and Chabot, who had continued their conversation and had not seen him enter.

Chabot was just saying, –

“Maribon, or Montaut, listen to this: I have just left the Committee of Public Safety.”

“And what are they doing there?”

“They are setting a priest to watch a noble.”

“Ah!”

“A noble like yourself – “

“I am not a noble,” said Montaut.

“To be watched by a priest – “

“Like you.”

“I am not a priest,” said Chabot.

And both men began to laugh.

“Please give us a more definite account.”

“Well, here is the tale: a priest, Cimourdain by name, has been delegated with full powers to a Viscount Gauvain, who is in command of the exploring division of the army of the coast. Now, the difficulty is, to prevent the nobleman from cheating and the priest from betraying.”

“There will be no trouble about that. You have only to make death the third party.”

“That is what I came for,” said Marat They looked up.

“Good-day, Marat,” said Chabot; “we seldom see you at our sessions.”

“My doctor has ordered baths,” replied Marat.

“Ah, you had better beware of baths,” continued Chabot. “Seneca died in a bath.”

Marat smiled.

“There is no Nero here, Chabot.”

“I should say there was, since you are here,” said a gruff voice.

It was Danton, who was passing on his way towards his seat.

Marat did not turn round.

He thrust his head in between the faces of Montaut and Chabot.

“Listen, I have come on serious business; one of us three must propose the draft of a decree to the Convention to-day.”

“I am not the man,” said Montaut. “They pay no attention to me; I am a marquis.”

“Neither will they listen to me; I am a Capuchin,” said Chabot.

“Nor to me, for I am Marat”

A silence ensued.

Marat, absorbed in his own thoughts, was not accessible to questions; still, Montaut ventured upon one.

“What decree would you like the Assembly to pass, Marat?”

“A decree inflicting the penalty of death on any military chief who allows a rebel prisoner to escape.”

Chabot interposed.

“There is such a decree already; it was made a law at the end of April.”

“That amounts to nothing whatever,” said Marat. “Everywhere throughout the Vendée prisoners are helped to escape, and any man may shelter them with impunity.”

“That is because the decree is no longer in force, Marat.”

“It must be revived, Chabot.”

“No doubt it needs to be revived.”

“And to accomplish this we must address the Convention.”

“There will be no need to do that, Marat; the Committee of Public Safety will suffice.”

“The object will be attained,” added Montaut, “if the Committee of Public Safety order the decree to be placarded in every Commune of the Vendée, and make two or three suitable examples.”

“Of men in authority,” rejoined Chabot. “Of the generals.”

Marat mumbled between his teeth, “Yes, I suppose that will answer.”

“Marat,” continued Chabot, “go and say that to the Committee of Public Safety yourself.”

Marat gazed steadily at him, which was not pleasant, even for a Chabot.

“Chabot,” he said, “the Committee of Public Safety meets at Robespierre’s house; I do not visit Robespierre.”

“Then I will go myself,” said Montaut.

“Very well,” replied Marat.

The next day a mandate from the Committee of Public Safety was sent in all directions, ordering the authorities of the cities and villages of the Vendée not only to publish, but also strictly to execute, a decree awarding the penalty of death to all who were known to aid and abet the escape of brigands and rebel prisoners.

This decree was but the first step. The Convention was to go still farther than that. Several months later, on the 11th Brumaire, in the year II. (November, 1793), when Laval opened its gates to the Vendean fugitives, it decreed that every city that sheltered rebels should be demolished and destroyed.

The princes of Europe, on their side, in the manifesto of the Duke of Brunswick, suggested by the Émigrés and drawn up by the Marquis of Linnon, steward to the Duke of Orleans, declared that every Frenchman taken with arms in his hand should be shot, and if but a hair fell from the head of the king, Paris should be razed to the ground.

Cruelty against barbarity.

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