From inquiries that she made, she learnt at once that Marat was ill, and confined to his house. This rendered necessary a change of plans, and the relinquishing of her project of affording him a spectacular death in the crowded hall of the Convention.
The next day, which was Friday, she devoted to furthering the business of her friend the nun. On Saturday morning she rose early, and by six o’clock she was walking in the cool gardens of the Palais Royal, considering with that almost unnatural calm of hers the ways and means of accomplishing her purpose in the unexpected conditions that she found.
Towards eight o’clock, when Paris was awakening to the business of the day and taking down its shutters, she entered a cutler’s shop in the Palais Royal, and bought for two francs a stout kitchen knife in a shagreen case. She then returned to her hotel to breakfast, and afterwards, dressed in her brown travelling-gown and conical hat, she went forth again, and, hailing a hackney carriage, drove to Marat’s house in the Rue de l’Ecole de Médecine.
But admittance to that squalid dwelling was denied her. The Citizen Marat was ill, she was told, and could receive no visitors. It was Simonne Everard, the triumvir’s mistress — later to be known as the Widow Marat — who barred her ingress with this message.
Checked, she drove back to the Providence Inn and wrote a letter to the triumvir:
“Paris, 13th July, Year 2 of the Republic.
“Citizen, — I have arrived from Caen. Your love for your country leads me to assume that you will be anxious to hear of the unfortunate events which are taking place in that part of the Republic. I shall therefore call upon you towards one o’clock. Have the kindness to receive me, and accord me a moment’s audience. I shall put you in the way of rendering a great service to France.
“Marie Corday.”
Having dispatched that letter to Marat, she sat until late afternoon waiting vainly for an answer. Despairing at last of receiving any, she wrote a second note, more peremptory in tone:
“I wrote to you this morning, Marat. Have you received my letter? May I hope for a moment’s audience? If you have received my letter, I hope you will not refuse me, considering the importance of the matter. It should suffice for you that I am very unfortunate to give me the right to your protection.”
Having changed into a gray-striped dimity gown — you observe this further manifestation of a calm so complete that it admits of no departure from the ordinary habits of life — she goes forth to deliver in person this second letter, the knife concealed in the folds of the muslin fichu crossed high upon her breast.
In a mean, brick-paved, ill-lighted, and almost unfurnished room of that house in the Rue de l’Ecole de Médecine, the People’s Friend is seated in a bath. It is no instinct of cleanliness he is obeying, for in all France there is no man more filthy in his person and his habits than this triumvir. His bath is medicated. The horrible, loathsome disease that corrodes his flesh demands these long immersions to quiet the gnawing pains which distract his active, restless mind. In these baths he can benumb the torment of the body with which he is encumbered.
For Marat is an intellect, and nothing more — leastways, nothing more that matters. What else there is to him of trunk and limbs and organs he has neglected until it has all fallen into decay. His very lack of personal cleanliness, the squalor in which he lives, the insufficient sleep which he allows himself, his habit of careless feeding at irregular intervals, all have their source in his contempt for the physical part of him. This talented man of varied attainments, accomplished linguist, skilled physician, able naturalist and profound psychologist, lives in his intellect alone, impatient of all physical interruptions. If he consents to these immersions, if he spends whole days seated in this medicated bath, it is solely because it quenches or cools the fires that are devouring him, and thus permits him to bend his mind to the work that is his life. But his long-suffering body is avenging upon the mind the neglect to which it has been submitted. The morbid condition of the former is being communicated to the latter, whence results that disconcerting admixture of cold, cynical cruelty and exalted sensibility which marked his nature in the closing years of his life.
In his bath, then, sat the People’s Friend on that July evening, immersed to the hips, his head swathed in a filthy turban, his emaciated body cased in a sleeveless waistcoat. He is fifty years of age, dying of consumption and other things, so that, did Charlotte but know it, there is no need to murder him. Disease and Death have marked him for their own, and grow impatient.
A board covering the bath served him for writing-table; an empty wooden box at his side bore an inkstand, some pens, sheets of paper, and two or three copies of L’Ami do Peuple. There was no sound in the room but the scratch and splutter of his quill. He was writing diligently, revising and editing a proof of the forthcoming issue of his paper.
A noise of voices raised in the outer room invaded the quiet in which he was at work, and gradually penetrated his absorption, until it disturbed and irritated him. He moved restlessly in his bath, listened a moment, then, with intent to make an end of the interruption, he raised a hoarse, croaking voice to inquire what might be taking place.
The door opened, and Simonne, his mistress and household drudge, entered the room. She was fully twenty years younger than himself, and under the slattern appearance which life in that house had imposed upon her there were vestiges of a certain comeliness.
“There is a young woman here from Caen, who demands insistently to see you upon a matter of national importance.”
The dull eyes kindle at the mention of Caen; interest quickens in that leaden-hued countenance. Was it not in Caen that those old foes of his, the Girondins, were stirring up rebellion?
“She says,” Simonne continued, “that she wrote a letter to you this morning, and she brings you a second note herself. I have told her that you will not receive anyone, and...”
“Give me the note,” he snapped. Setting down his pen, he thrust out an unclean paw to snatch the folded sheet from Simonne’s hand. He spread it, and read, his bloodless lips compressed, his eyes narrowing to slits.
“Let her in,” he commanded sharply, and Simonne obeyed him without more ado. She admitted Charlotte, and left them alone together — the avenger and her victim. For a moment each regarded the other. Marat beheld a handsome young woman, elegantly attired. But these things had no interest for the People’s Friend. What to him was woman and the lure of beauty? Charlotte beheld a feeble man of a repulsive hideousness, and was full satisfied, for in this outward loathsomeness she imagined a confirmation of the vileness of the mind she was come to blot out.
Then Marat spoke. “So you are from Caen, child?” he said. “And what is doing in Caen that makes you so anxious to see me?”
She approached him.
“Rebellion is stirring there, Citizen Marat.”
“Rebellion, ha!” It was a sound between a laugh and a croak. “Tell me what deputies are sheltered in Caen. Come, child, their names.” He took up and dipped his quill, and drew a sheet of paper towards him.
She approached still nearer; she came to stand close beside him, erect and calm. She recited the names of her friends, the Girondins, whilst hunched there in his bath his pen scratched briskly.
“So many for the guillotine,” he snarled, when it was done.
But whilst he was writing, she had drawn the knife from her fichu, and as he uttered those words of doom to others his own doom descended upon him in a lightning stroke. Straight driven by that strong young arm, the long, stout blade was buried to its black hilt in his breast.
He looked at her with eyes in which there was a faint surprise as he sank back. Then he raised his voice for the last time.
“Help, chére amie! Help!” he cried, and was for ever silent.
The hand still grasping the pen trailed on the ground beside the bath at the end of his long, emaciated arm. His body sank sideways in the same direction, the head lolling nervelessly upon his right shoulder, whil
st from the great rent in his breast the blood gushed forth, embruing the water of his bath, trickling to the brick-paved floor, bespattering — symbolically almost — a copy of L’Ami du Peuple, the journal to which he had devoted so much of his uneasy life.
In answer to that cry of his came now Simonne in haste. A glance sufficed to reveal to her the horrible event, and, like a tigress, she sprang upon the unresisting slayer, seizing her by the head, and calling loudly the while for assistance. Came instantly from the anteroom Jeanne, the old cook, the Fortress of the house, and Laurent Basse, a folder of Marat’s paper; and now Charlotte found herself confronted by four maddened, vociferous beings, at whose hands she may well have expected to receive the death for which she was prepared.
Laurent, indeed, snatched up a chair, and felled her by a blow of it across her head. He would, no doubt, have proceeded in his fury to have battered her to death, but for the arrival of gens d’armes and the police commissioner of the district, who took her in their protecting charge.
The soul of Paris was convulsed by the tragedy when it became known. All night terror and confusion were abroad. All night the revolutionary rabble, in angry grief, surged about and kept watch upon the house wherein the People’s Friend lay dead.
That night, and for two days and nights thereafter, Charlotte Corday lay in the Prison of the Abbaye, supporting with fortitude the indignities that for a woman were almost inseparable from revolutionary incarceration. She preserved throughout her imperturbable calm, based now upon a state of mind content in the contemplation of accomplished purpose, duty done. She had saved France, she believed; saved Liberty, by slaying the man who would have strangled it. In that illusion she was content. Her own life was a small price to pay for the splendid achievement.
Some of her time of waiting she spent in writing letters to her friends, in which tranquilly and sanely she dwelt upon what she had done, expounding fully the motives that had impelled her, dwelling upon the details of the execution, and of all that had followed. Among the letters written by her during those “days of the preparation of peace “ — as she calls that period, dating in such terms a long epistle to Barbaroux — was one to the Committee of Public Safety, in which she begs that a miniature-painter may be sent to her to paint her portrait, so that she may leave this token of remembrance to her friends. It is only in this, as the end approaches, that we see in her conduct any thought for her own self, any suggestion that she is anything more than a instrument in the hands of Fate.
On the 15th, at eight o’clock in the morning, her trial began before the Revolutionary Tribunal. A murmur ran through the hall as she appeared in her gown of grey-striped dimity, composed and calm — always calm.
The trial opened with the examination of witnesses; into that of the cutler, who had sold her the knife, she broke impatiently.
“These details are a waste of time. It is I who killed Marat.”
The audience gasped, and rumbled ominously. Montane turned to examine her.
“What was the object of your visit to Paris?” he asks.
“To kill Marat.”
“What motives induced you to this horrible deed?”
“His many crimes.”
“Of what crimes do you accuse him?”
“That he instigated the massacre of September; that he kept alive the fires of civil war, so that he might be elected dictator; that he sought to infringe upon the sovereignty of the People by causing the arrest and imprisonment of the deputies to the Convention on May 31st.”
“What proof have you of this?”
“The future will afford the proof. Marat hid his designs behind a mask of patriotism.”
Montane shifted the ground of his interrogatory.
“Who were your accomplices in this atrocious act?”
“I have none.”
Montane shook his head. “You cannot convince anyone that a person of your age and sex could have conceived such a crime unless instigated by some person or persons whom you are unwilling to name.”
Charlotte almost smiled. “That shows but a poor knowledge of the human heart. It is easier to carry out such a project upon the strength of one’s own hatred than upon that of others.” And then, raising her voice, she proclaimed: “I killed one man to save a hundred thousand; I killed a villain to save innocents; I killed a savage wild-beast to give repose to France. I was a Republican before the Revolution. I never lacked for energy.”
What more was there to say? Her guilt was completely established. Her fearless self-obssession was not to be ruffled. Yet Fouquier-Tinville, the dread prosecutor, made the attempt. Beholding her so virginal and fair and brave, feeling perhaps that the Tribunal had not had the best of it, he sought with a handful of revolutionary filth to restore the balance. He rose slowly, his ferrety eyes upon her.
“How many children have you had?” he rasped, sardonic, his tone a slur, an insult.
Faintly her cheeks crimsoned. But her voice was composed, disdainful, as she answered coldly:
“Have I not stated that I am not married?”
A leer, a dry laugh, a shrug from Tinville to complete the impression he sought to convey, and he sat down again.
It was the turn of Chauveau de la Garde, the advocate instructed to defend her. But what defence was possible? And Chauveau had been intimidated. He had received a note from the jury ordering him to remain silent, another from the President bidding him declare her mad.
Yet Chauveau took a middle course. His brief speech is admirable; it satisfied his self-respect, without derogating from his client. It uttered the whole truth.
“The prisoner,” he said, “confesses with calm the horrible crime she has committed; she confesses with calm its premeditation; she confesses its most dreadful details; in short, she confesses everything, and does not seek to justify herself. That, citizens of the jury, is her whole defence. This imperturbable calm, this utter abnegation of self, which displays no remorse even in the very presence of death, are contrary to nature. They can only be explained by the excitement of political fanaticism which armed her hand. It is for you, citizens of the jury, to judge what weight that moral consideration should have in the scales of justice.”
The jury voted her guilty, and Tinville rose to demand the full sentence of the law.
It was the end. She was removed to the Conciergerie, the antechamber of the guillotine. A constitutional priest was sent to her, but she dismissed him with thanks, not requiring his ministrations. She preferred the painter Hauer, who had received the Revolutionary Tribunal’s permission to paint her portrait in accordance with her request. And during the sitting, which lasted half an hour, she conversed with him quietly on ordinary topics, the tranquillity of her spirit unruffled by any fear of the death that was so swiftly approaching.
The door opened, and Sanson, the public executioner, came in. He carried the red smock worn by those convicted of assassination. She showed no dismay; no more, indeed, than a faint surprise that the time spent with Hauer should have gone so quickly. She begged for a few moments in which to write a note, and, the request being granted, acquitted herself briskly of that task, then announcing herself ready, she removed her cap that Sanson might cut her luxuriant hair. Yet first, taking his scissors, she herself cut off a lock and gave it to Hauer for remembrance. When Sanson would have bound her hands, she begged that she might be allowed to wear gloves, as her wrists were bruised and cut by the cord with which she had been pinioned in Marat’s house. He answered that she might do so if she wished, but that it was unnecessary, as he could bind her without causing pain.
“To be sure,” she said, “those others had not your experience,” and she proffered her bare wrists to his cord without further demur. “If this toilet of death is performed by rude hands,” she commented, “at least it leads to immortality.”
She mounted the tumbril awaiting in the prison yard, and, disdaining the chair offered her by Sanson, remained standing, to show herself dauntless to the mob and bra
ve its rage. And fierce was that rage, indeed. So densely thronged were the streets that the tumbril proceeded at a crawl, and the people surging about the cart screamed death and insult at the doomed woman. It took two hours to reach the Place de la Révolution, and meanwhile a terrific summer thunderstorm had broken over Paris, and a torrential rain had descended upon the densely packed streets. Charlotte’s garments were soaked through and through, so that her red smock, becoming glued now to her body and fitting her like a skin, threw into relief its sculptural beauty, whilst a reflection of the vivid crimson of the garment faintly tinged her cheeks, and thus heightened her appearance of complete composure.
And it is now in the Rue St. Honoré that at long last we reach the opening of our tragic love-story.
A tall, slim, fair young man, named Adam Lux — sent to Paris by the city of Mayence as Deputy Extraordinary to the National Convention — was standing there in the howling press of spectators. He was an accomplished, learned young gentleman, doctor at once of philosophy and of medicine, although in the latter capacity he had never practiced owing to an extreme sensibility of nature, which rendered anatomical work repugnant to him. He was a man of a rather exalted imagination, unhappily married — the not uncommon fate of such delicate temperaments — and now living apart from his wife. He had heard, as all Paris had heard, every detail of the affair, and of the trial, and he waited there, curious to see this woman, with whose deed he was secretly in sympathy.
The tumbril slowly approached, the groans and execrations swelled up around him, and at last he beheld her — beautiful, serene, full of life, a still smile upon her lips. For a long moment he gazed upon her, standing as if stricken into stone. Then heedless of those about him, he bared his head, and thus silently saluted and paid homage to her. She did not see him. He had not thought that she would. He saluted her as the devout salute the unresponsive image of a saint. The tumbril crawled on. He turned his head, and followed her with his eyes for awhile; then, driving his elbows into the ribs of those about him, he clove himself a passage through the throng, and so followed, bare-headed now, with fixed gaze, a man entranced.
Collected Works of Rafael Sabatini Page 710
