Instinctively, since the name of the Public Prosecutor had been mentioned between them, they had allowed their voices to sink to a whisper.
The older man--a stoutish, florid-looking individual, with small, keen eyes, and skin pitted with small-pox--shrugged his shoulders at his friend's question, and then said with an air of contemptuous indifference: "It means, my good St.Just, that these two men whom you see down there, calmly conning the programme of this evening's entertainment, and preparing to enjoy themselves to-night in the company of the late M.de Moliere, are two hell-hounds as powerful as they are cunning." "Yes, yes," said St.Just, and much against his will a slight shudder ran through his slim figure as he spoke.

"Foucquier-Tinville I know; I know his cunning, and I know his power--but the other ?" "The other ?" retorted de Batz lightly.

"Heron?
Let me tell you, my friend, that even the might and lust of that damned Public Prosecutor pale before the power of Heron!" "But how?
I do not understand." "Ah! you have been in England so long, you lucky dog, and though no doubt the main plot of our hideous tragedy has reached your ken, you have no cognisance of the actors who play the principal parts on this arena flooded with blood and carpeted with hate.

They come and go, these actors, my good St.Just--they come and go.

Marat is already the man of yesterday, Robespierre is the man of to-morrow.