ok him to his heart and made him his right-hand
man. It was a great diplomatic move, and the people applauded. Danton
was tall, powerful, athletic and commanding, just past his thirtieth
year. Marat was approaching fifty, and his sufferings while in hiding in
the sewers had told severely on his health, but he was still the
fearless agitator. When Marat and Danton appeared upon the balcony of
the Hotel de Ville, the hearts of the people were with the little man.

But behold, another man had forged to the front, and this was
Robespierre. And so it was that Danton, Marat and Robespierre formed a
triumvirate, and ruled Paris with hands of iron. Coming in the name of
the people, proclaiming peace, they held their place only through a
violence that argued its own death.

Marat was still full of the desire to educate--to make men think.
Deprivation and disease had wrecked his frame until public speaking was
out of the question--the first requisite of oratory is health. But he
could write, and so his little paper, "The People's Friend," went
fluttering forth with its daily message.

So scrupulous was Marat in money matters that he would accept no help
from the Government. He neither drew a salary nor would he allow any but
private citizens to help issue his paper. He lived in absolute poverty
with his beloved wife, Simonne Evrard.

They had met about Seventeen Hundred Eighty-eight, and between them had
grown up a very firm and tender bond. He was twenty years older than
she, but Danton said of her, "She has the mind of a man."

Simonne had some property and was descended from a family of note. When
she became the wife of Marat, her kinsmen denounced her, refused to
mention her name, but she was loyal to the man she loved.

The Psalmist speaks of something "that passeth the love of woman," but
the Psalmist was wrong--nothing does.

Simonne Evrard gave her good name, her family position, her money, her
life--her soul into the keeping of Jean Paul Marat. That his love and
gratitude to her was great and profound, there is abundant proof. She
was his only servant, his secretary, his comrade, his friend, his wife.
Not only did she attend him in sickness, but in banishment and disgrace
she never faltered. She even set the type, and at times her arm pulled
the lever of the press that printed the daily message.

Let it stand to the eternal discredit of Thomas Carlyle that he
contemptuously disposes of Simonne Evrard, who represe