Danton. Don't speak of killing. It's too horrible. France reeks with blood; the smell of dead flesh befouls the air. I just crossed the Seine; the sun was setting, and the river was red. It seemed to flow in waves of blood. If our rivers are so foul, where shall we wash our hands? There are enough dead! Let us build up the Republic. Let the harvests and men grow once more and become a new Patrie. Let us love one another and cultivate our fields.
Camille. May some god give us the chance, Danton! We are counting on you.
Danton. What is it, my children?
Philippeaux. We need your help to fight.
Danton. How can I help you? Must I always do everything? You are all alike. Here is Westermann; he is a man; he has fought; he has saved the Patrie two or three times; and before he sits down to supper, he cuts a man's throat as an appetizer. I must aid him, too! Do you want me to ride a horse and carry a saber, besides?
Westermann. When it comes to fighting, I yield to no one. Take me out to the battle-field; show me a company to rout, and see how I acquit myself. But to have to speak, answer the mouthing members of the Convention, frustrate the underhanded schemes of that Committee of toads that are always plotting my ruin,—I can't do it. I feel lost in that city; the whole pack snap at me; I can't move; I must stand it and not even try to defend myself. Are you going to let me be devoured alive, and not help me? By God, I once fought for you; we have the same enemies. My cause
