“It is to yours,” said the ugly man, “what the action is to the word, the body to the soul.”

But his tongue grew thick, his words were indistinct, and he said no more.  Fortunately for us the conversation took another turn.  At the end of half an hour we had forgotten the surgeon of the king’s pages, who was fast asleep.  Rain was falling in torrents as we left the supper-table.

“The lawyer is no fool,” I said to Beaumarchais.

“True, but he is cold and dull.  You see, however, that the provinces are still sending us worthy men who take a serious view of political theories and the history of France.  It is a leaven which will rise.”

“Is your carriage here?” asked Madame de Saint-James, addressing me.

“No,” I replied, “I did not think that I should need it to-night.”

Madame de Saint-James then rang the bell, ordered her own carriage to be brought round, and said to the little lawyer in a low voice:—­

“Monsieur de Robespierre, will you do me the kindness to drop Monsieur Marat at his own door?—­for he is not in a state to go alone.”

“With pleasure, madame,” replied Monsieur de Robespierre, with his finical gallantry.  “I only wish you had requested me to do something more difficult.”