No one in the crowd noticed that this hand of unwonted
delicacy and whiteness did not seem to comport well with the dress
of a vender of vegetables from the market; no one noticed that on
one of the tapering fingers a jewel of no ordinary size glistened.
Marat was the only one to notice it, and while pressing the offered
hand of the woman in his bony fist, he stooped down and whispered in
her ear:
"Monseigneur, take this jewelled ring off, and do not press forward
too much, you might be identified!"
"I be identified!" answered the woman, turning pale. "I do not
understand you, Doctor Marat!"
"But I do," whispered Marat, still more softly, for he saw that
Simon's little sparkling eyes were turned toward the woman with a
look of curiosity. "I understand the Duke Philip d'Orleans very
well. He wants to rouse up the people, but he is unwilling to
compromise his name or his title. And that may be a very good thing.
But you are not to disown yourself before Marat, for Marat is your
very good friend, and will keep your secret honorably."
"What are you whispering about?" shouted Simon. "Why do you not
speak to the people? You were going to tell us why Paris has no
bread, and who is to blame that we must all starve."
"Yes, yes, that is what you were going to tell us!" was shouted on
all sides.
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