Marat stopped in the passageway at the left and looked at Montaut and Chabot.
Every time that Marat entered, it created a commotion, but at a distance from him. All around him it was silent. Marat paid no attention to it. He scorned the "croaking in the marsh."
In the obscurity of the lower row of seats, Conpé de l'Oise, Prunelle, Villars, a bishop who later became a member of the French Academy, Boutroue, Petit, Plaichard, Bonet, Thibaudeau, Valdruche, pointed him out one to another.
"See, Marat!"
"Is he ill?"
"Yes, for he is in his dressing-gown."
"In his dressing-gown?"
"By Heavens, yes!"
"He dares to do anything."
"He dares to come to the Convention in this way!"
"Since he came here one day crowned with laurels, he may as well come in his dressing-gown!"
"Face of copper, teeth of verdigris."
"His dressing-gown looks new."
"What is it made of?"
"Of rep."
"Striped."
"Look at his lapels."
"They are fur."
"Tiger skin."
"No, ermine."
"Imitation."
"And he has on stockings."
"That is strange."
"And buckles on his shoes."
"Of silver!"
"The sabots of Camboulas will not forgive him that."
On the other benches they pretended not to see Marat. The people talked of other things. Santhonax addressed Dussaulx.
"Dussaulx, you know—"
"What?"
"The ci-devant Count de Brienne?"
"Who was at la Force with the ci-devant duke de Villeroy?"
