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 the chastisement of the Lord; and I shall not be sorry for it.

I have told you the truth about our condition, because I have just had a letter from my father, and he talks of leaving his business in Claus Bergen’s care, and coming here to look after me.  You must convince him, that he could do me no good whatever, and that he might do me much harm.  He is outspoken as a Zealander, and what is in his head and his heart, would come to his lips; also, if it should come to flight, he would embarrass me very much.  Tell him not to fear; Arenta says, not to fear.  I may indeed have to take a seat in “the terrible armchair” [Footnote:  The chair in which the accused sat before the Revolutionary Tribunal and from which they usually went to the guillotine.] but