1The twenty-two deputies were already condemned by the will of the ensanguined mob.

2On the eve of the last day in May (1793), of those twenty-two, only one, the leader, Vergniaud, slept in his own home. The others feared an assassination, and sought the aid of friends.

3A vote being carried against the moderates, the victors proposed to walk with the people through the city, which was illuminated. The Girondists, as a measure of precaution, joined in the procession.

4While the procession was progressing, that now organized band, the Revolutionary Committee, sent to arrest Madame Roland’s husband.

5That evening, Roland, who does not show well in this business, fled into hiding. Madame Roland then determined to go down to the Convention and upbraid it. So far, the French had not begun to behead women. Starting from her home, she was surprised to find the city had been suddenly illuminated. Making her way to the Convention, she found it closed. And she learnt that the moderate party were overthrown, and that they would soon be headless.

6She returned home, to await her fate. She did not seek to fly. Roland, poor man, remained in concealment—only, after a time, to be ashamed of his cowardice, and to commit suicide.

7She prepared to send away her daughter to trusted friends, made up a packet of clothing to take with her to prison, and waited. At midnight, they came beating at her door, and she had to be awakened; for no fear of death deprived her of that balm of life—sleep.

8“How much you are beloved!” said the leader of the sectionaries, seeing the eagerness with which the young daughter kissed her mother.

9“Because I love,” she replied, proudly.

10Reaching the carriage waiting for her, she was asked if she would have the window closed.

11“No,” she replied; “I have done no harm, and I can face my enemies.”

12“You are braver than many men waiting the decree of justice.”

13“If in France there were justice, I should not be seated with you. I shall go to the scaffold as fearlessly as I go to prison. I despise life.”

14Marat now became supreme. “Rise, sovereign people!” he cried; “no man dare oppose you.”

15There was never given a more fearful impetus to murder than these words.

16What it pleased men to call a Committee of Public Safety was now organized, and its operation was the killing of every human being who could by any means be made to appear not utterly to sympathise with the seething mob.

17The Convention existed, but its power was completely at an end. Its votes were laughed at. Queen Guillotine was the one power left in France.

18Every day the foreign arms directed against France obtained successes. Meanwhile, the land was like a vessel without a rudder. No man was strong enough to control the mob. Indeed, it was only when Napoleon Bonaparte rose, that internal peace was established. It is not to be wondered at that he came to be looked up to as a demigod.

19Twenty thousand Royalist volunteers were now in arms against Marat, in one department of France alone.

20Marat was at this time King of Paris. Robespierre was waiting. Danton was threatening and trembling at the same time. Another week, and the foul Marat would have conquered both, and been proclaimed, by the voice of the streets, President of the Republic.

21But his hideous career was to be arrested by the feeble hand of a girl—Charlotte Corday.

22Just before the commencement of the Reign of Terror in France, there might have been seen in a quiet corner of a quiet old street in Caen (that city in Normandy so much mixed up with the early history of English), a quiet old house, called the Grand Manor—a house around a court-yard, in the centre of which was a mossy fountain. Near this fountain, through the sunny hours, might frequently be seen a very beautiful girl, the niece of an aged woman, who was the maiden’s aunt. This was Charlotte Corday. Fair of skin, and grey of eye, her hair was what had not inaptly been termed gilded-black. In other words, it was black hair, golden-tipped, with golden lines veining it. She was always dressed plainly, in brown cloth, and her voice was sweet and lingering. No man has ever breathed a word against her character.

23By a peculiar course of study—which it is needless to analyze—she had brought herself to that condition of mind when the sufferer experiences the belief that a self-sacrifice of some nature must be made, in order to appease an inexplicable, unknown longing to do some good—a something which is supposed to be good—in the world.

24She was essentially a Republican; but gradually, slowly, the conviction enchained her, that Marat was its monster, and that he must die. Her resolve appears to have been hastened by the departure of her lover, who joined the Caen volunteers. This gentleman, one Franquelin, was, it is said, accused by Marat as a conspirator against the republic, and assassinated by villains hired for that purpose. He did not die on the spot, as it was at first reported, but returned home after Charlotte Corday’s execution. His last words were an entreaty to his mother to bury with him Charlotte’s portrait, and all the letters she had ever written to him.

25Supplemental to the latter motive, Charlotte Corday believed Marat was ruining all France. Here she believed truly.

26She obtained a letter to one of the Conventionists. No one had the slightest idea of her intentions. She retained a sweet, soft gaiety, which was quite natural to her, and which accompanied this lady to the scaffold. An anecdote is very characteristic of her life. Just before she started for Paris, passing a café, outside of which some men were card-playing, she said, “Cards! Do you know your country is dying?”

27Taking a sheet of drawing-paper one morning, she said, “Aunt, I am going to sketch the hay-makers—kiss me.”

28Going out, she met a child, of whom she was very fond.

29“Here, Robert,” she said, giving him the drawing-paper; “kiss me, and be a good boy. You will never see me again.”

30She chattered in the coach most of the way to Paris. One young man fell in love with her, and asked to apply to her friends. She mirthfully repulsed him, and told him to wait, at least for some days.

31It was now July. On the eleventh of that month, Charlotte Corday reached Paris. At five in the afternoon she retired to rest in a public-house, and slept until next day, when she presented her letter at the house of the Conventionist, Duperret. When she saw him, she vaguely entreated him to flee from Paris. “After to-morrow evening,” she said, “it will be too late.”

32Duperret spoke of her as a beautiful girl, slightly deranged.

33Her great desire was to remain unknown by name in connection with the death of Marat. With this view, she determined to kill him before the people, so that she might at once be torn to pieces, and her mutilated face be beyond recognition. But she learnt that Marat was so ill that he could not appear in public again. He still issued, daily, stronger and more defiant demands for men’s lives. It was said he remained at home from fear of assassination. Charlotte Corday resolved to seek him in his home.

34She wrote this letter:—

35“I have just arrived from Caen. Your patriotism allows me to be presumptive enough to hope that you will hear privately what I have to say concerning events in that city. I shall present myself at your door about one o’clock. I pray you for the good of all France—receive me!”

36She went to his house, and was refused admittance. She wrote another letter:—

37“I cannot believe that it was you yourself refused me admission: you are too good a patriot. I repeat, I have important news to tell you; that I have just arrived from the north, and I have secrets to disclose. I am persecuted. Will you, then, not aid me?”

38At seven the next morning she dressed herself very carefully. She wore a white dress, with a silk scarf crossed over the breast and knotted behind—a white Normandy cap, bound with a green ribbon—her hair falling over her shoulders. Her face was bright, fresh-colored, her countenance smiling.

39Thus she presented herself at the house occupied by Marat, who happened to be in his bath, which he used, not for its cleanly offices, but because it reduced the bodily inflammation which had now become habitual to him.

40The house, which bore all the aspects of that poverty in which Marat was really plunged, was jealously guarded. But what men could suspect a beautiful girl, clothed in brilliant white, her face flushing with youth and beauty?

41Charlotte Corday stepped from her coach, and approached the house. She reached the outer door of the apartments in which Marat lived, and there her entrance was jealously opposed by Albertine, Marat’s mistress, and a female friend.

42Marat, hearing the altercation, and associating the pleading voice with the letters he had received, imperatively ordered the applicant to be admitted.

43Now mark what occurred. The woman Albertine, offended, walked away, her friend followed her, and Charlotte Corday was alone with Marat.

44The room was dark, close, and smelt abominably. He was wrapped in a dirty sheet, and sitting in a bath, across which was a rough piece of wood which he made his desk, for he passed hours in the water. He was writing when Charlotte Corday entered. He had finished this sentence:—“I demand that every man in France who has the blood of the Bourbons in his veins, however little, shall be put upon his trial, and his wife and children also.”

45She approached this human monster, her eyes downcast. He spoke to her imperiously—“What is the state of Normandy?”

46“Certain deputies have taken refuge in Caen.”

47“Their names?”

48She gave certain names, and he wrote them down.

49“Good!” he said; “before another week is past, they shall be guillotined.”

50At this moment she raised the dagger she took from the breast of her dress, and plunged it down into his bosom.

51“Help, my dear, help!” he cried, and fell back dead.

52Albertine, the woman, and a man named Basse rushed forward in time to see his last-drawn breath. By this time the water was like that crimson stream Marat was for ever demanding. He was bathed in it himself now.

53She did not attempt to escape. She drew out the dagger, let it fall, and took two or three steps to the window. The man Basse caught up a chair and beat her down, whereupon the woman, Albertine, trampled upon her.

54The news spread in an incalculably short space of time, and the seething people called up into the air, “Throw her out to us; we are waiting.”

55Soldiers rushed in, forming a hedge of steel about Charlotte Corday, and beat back the blaspheming crowd.

56Charlotte showed no fear, crossed her hands ready for the cords, and her first words were “Poor woman!” in reference to Albertine, who was rending the air with her cries.

57She said afterwards she had not asked herself the question, “Could this man be loved?”

58“Poor people!” she said to those who endeavored to tear her to pieces; “you desire my death, whilst you owe me an altar for having freed you from a monster! Oh, throw me to the people,” she said to the soldiers; “as they regret him, they are fit to be my executioners!”

59She was not cast among the people—at least, she died in peace. She boasted of her act, and declared herself a martyr.

60Paris turned pale at the news. The panic reaching the Convention, business was arrested. One Henriot, the Commandant-General of the National Guard, entered.

61“Tremble!” he cried. “Marat has been assassinated by a girl, who boasts of her deed! Tremble! Such a fate threatens all! Mistrust green ribbons, and let us swear to avenge the death of this great man.”

62Charlotte Corday, accused of murder, stood beautiful and smiling in the midst of accusers, all of whom wore fierce looks of hate and rage.

63She was fearless until she reached the street, when the blaze of shouts so terrified this young country girl, that she fainted. Restored to consciousness, (they had bound her weak hands), she cried, “Alas! do I still live?”

64Then quite consistently, she thanked her guardians for saving her from the crowd.

65She never for one moment looked upon her act as a crime. When interrogated at her trial, she adhered to this statement:—“I saw civil war enveloping France. I considered Marat its chief cause, and to save my country I sacrificed myself, and slew him.”

66That her virtue was attacked at her trial, is a condition of things which clearly proves how deeply dyed in prejudice by this time had become the revolutionary tribunals.

67One Chabot under pretence of suspecting a concealed paper, tore off her breast kerchief. She leaped back at the outrage, the string of her dress broke, and her fair chest was exposed to the gaze of a number of savage men. Her hands were corded, so that she could not save herself from degradation; and her virtue gave of itself her best proof, for she crouched down to hide her disarranged dress. Entreating them to untie her hands, they complied; and turning her back to the wall, she rapidly completed her toilette. Where the cords had been, the flesh was marked with great blue bands; and very meekly she asked to be allowed to put on her long gloves before the knots were again tied. Upon her dress, after her death, was found pinned a long address to France, in which she entreated all men to destroy the Jacobins, and save France.

68She was condemned to die the following morning. An artist, during her trial, having been remarked by her drawing her face, she requested he might complete it, and the painter was introduced to her cell. One man endeavored to save her by maintaining she was insane. In this shape of pity, he nearly lost his own head.

69She wrote of Marat finally:—“Pardon me, oh men! The name of Marat dishonors your race. He was a beast of prey seeking to devour France by war and hate. I thank Heaven that by birth he was no Frenchman.”

70She was pained by the accusation made by Chabot, the wretch who had torn away her neckerchief, who declared she had been his mistress, far more than by the thought of approaching death. “Chabot,” she wrote, “is a mere madman. I never even dreamed of this man. He need not be feared—he has not intellect enough to be dangerous.”

71In the same paper she said, “All Parisians are such good citizens, they cannot comprehend how a useless woman, whose longest term of life would be good for nothing, can calmly sacrifice herself for her country. To-morrow, at twelve, I shall have lived!”

72Again she said, “’Tis crime gives the shame—it is not the block.” This is the verse of the great French poet Corneille, who was her ancestor.

73Tried at eight in the morning, and knowing she should die at mid-day, she said, upon leaving the prison, “Madame Richard, pray let my breakfast be ready upon my return, or we shall not have time to take it together.”

74At her trial, it being maintained that the nature of the blow which killed Marat had been that of one accomplished in the use of the dagger, she cried, “Miserable wretch—he takes me for an assassin!”

75The counsel for her defence urged that she only pleaded that in killing Marat she was doing a public good.

76The jury directly found her guilty, and ordered her property to be confiscated.

77“Sir,” she said to her defender, “you have done well. But I cannot pay you, for you have heard how my property has been seized. However, I do you this honor; I pray that you will pay the few pieces of silver I owe to the prison people—they ought to be paid.”

78Going back to her prison, where the painter finished her portrait, she conversed about painting.

79A knock at the cell-door, and the executioner entered, carrying scissors with which to cut away her hair, and the red garments worn by the condemned on their way to execution.

80“Sir,” she said to the painter, “I can only offer you a lock of hair.”

81And taking the gaoler’s scissors, she cut a lock of the wonderful hair.

82A priest coming, she said, “I thank those who have been kind enough to send you, but I do not require your services. The blood I have spilt, and my own, which I am about to shed, are the only sacrifices I can offer the Eternal.”

83The executioner now cut off her hair, and flung over her head the red garment.

84“This,” she said, “is the toilette of death, arranged by somewhat rude hands, but it leads to immortality.”

85As she stepped upon the cart, such as carried all those condemned to death to the place of execution, a violent storm burst over Paris. Women danced about the death-cart, uttering imprecations; hers was the only calm face to be seen. Strangely enough, the rain wetting the red flannel—her only covering to the waist—it clung to her skin, and betrayed her to be exquisitely formed, especially as her hands were so tied behind her that she was forced to hold herself upright.

86As she neared the scaffold, the sun appeared, and the gold threads in her hair shone out magnificently.

87The leaders of the rebellion, Danton, Robespierre, Camille Desmoulins, standing at a window, saw her pass. She had preserved them from Marat, but, at the same time, she had shown how a tyrant could be slain. She saved their lives by her act; but she taught, also, how they might be taken.

88One Adam Lux, a German, was hopelessly stricken by love as she passed along. He followed to the scaffold’s feet, asking to die with her.

89Reaching the scaffold, she turned pale, and, for one moment, shrank; but the next, recovering herself, ascended the steps as rapidly as her long red dress and pinioned arms would allow.

90When the executioner pulled down her dress, that her neck might be bare, she was for the last time outraged while living. She placed herself upon the plank, and, the next moment, her head fell.

91Legros, a miserable scaffold-dog, took up the head by the remaining hair, and struck at the cheeks. It is said the skin grew scarlet, as though the modesty of Charlotte Corday outlasted her life.

92Did her face change color? Some hold that the head has consciousness and power after being severed from the body, and that it can see and hear. Nay, it was urged during the Revolution that the passion of the heads remained, because the interior of the wicker baskets in which the heads were carried away were often found to be gnawed, as though the teeth of the heads gnashed after separation from the body. For my part, I believe that this gnawing was effected by rats, which at that time, even more than now, overran Paris.

93Such was the death of Marat—of his murderer, whom we cannot praise. But who can blame her? Assuredly her death was necessary to purge her of assassination, to some extent.

94Adam Lux, wild with love, published a defence of Charlotte Corday. He was seized, and, three days afterwards, died by the very knife which destroyed her life.

95Chénier, the patriotic poet, sang her heroism. He was soon arrested, and therefore beheaded.

96But what good had Charlotte Corday done?

97She had strengthened the love of the people for desperate measures; she had made a martyr of their most foul leader. She gave a dignity to those who advocated the scaffold. The liberal twenty-two knew that this last act annihilated them.