Prussian Cloots, the fair Anacharsis! The last trip of the young Anacharsis! Mankind is in a fine fix now: deprived of its orator! The guillotine is busy today.
Lucile [to the baby]. Look, Horace, look at those naughty men! And Commander Hanriot, galloping with his saber! Do you see, darling?
Philippeaux. He's too zealous. He ought to be riding on the cart himself.
Camille. It's like a great festival; the people are gay. [Outside a clarinet is heard playing a grotesque air. The People laugh.] What's that?
Lucile. The little hunchback with the cart, playing his clarinet.
Camille. Pleasant idea! [They all laugh.] Why don't you look, Hérault? Aren't you interested? You seem sad? What are you thinking about? [The uproar becomes fainter.]
Hérault. I was thinking, Camille, that Anacharsis is thirty-eight, and Hébert thirty-five—your age, Philippeaux; and Vincent twenty-seven, six years younger than I—and you, Desmoulins.
Camille. True. [He suddenly becomes serious, leaving the window and coming to the center of the room. He stands still an instant, his chin in his hand.]
Lucile [still at the window]. How it rains! Too bad!
Camille [put out]. Come away from the window, Lucile. You'll catch cold.
Lucile [closing the window, comes into the room with the baby, singing to herself:]
