Julie. Because you cry.
Marat. Do you know me?
Julie. When I was sick, you took care of me.
Marat [draws her tenderly toward him, and looks into her eyes, smoothing her hair back from her face.] Yes, your name is Julie. Your mother is a washerwoman. You had measles last winter. You were afraid. You cried as you lay in your little bed, because you didn't want to die. [She turns her head away. He takes the child's head and presses it to his breast as he smiles.] Don't be ashamed. So, you understood me, eh? You are with me? Do you know what I should like?
Julie. Yes, and I want it, too— [The rest of her sentence is lost, as she hesitates.]
Marat. What?
Julie [raising her head and speaking with an air of conviction that causes the bystanders to smile]. Liberty.
Marat. What would you do with it?
Julie. Give it.
Marat. To whom?
Julie. To the poor people who are in prison.
Marat. Where?
Julie. There—in the big prison. They're alone all the time, and people forget them. [The attitude of the Crowd changes. It has become serious; some frown and do not look at their neighbors. They stare at the ground, and appear to be speaking to themselves.]
Marat. How do you know that, little one?
