On the following day, she went to see Duperret, a member of the Convention, for whom she had a letter. He promised to take her on the following day to the Home Office, where she wished to solicit on behalf of one of her friends, Mdlle. de Forbin. On the Saturday before calling on Duperret at the appointed hour, she wrote a note to Marat, asking for an interview. Charlotte Corday then called on the minister, in her protector's company; but Duperret was not in favour, and he could not obtain an audience. He accompanied Charlotte as far as the Palais-Royal and left her. When she was alone she entered a cutler's shop, and bought a knife with an ebony handle, and then returned to her hotel, expecting to find there Marat's answer.

Marat was ill; for some time he had not attended the sittings of the Convention. It seems to have been Charlotte Corday's original idea to strike him in the very assembly of which he was a member; but his indisposition necessitated a change in her plans. She called at Marat's house on the 13th, but was not admitted. She returned in the evening, and on her assurance that her business was of a pressing nature, she was at length ushered into Marat's presence.

The father of the people,' as he was styled, was in his bath. A cloth had been thrown over the bath, and Marat was writing on a board, which he used as a desk. He put a few questions to Charlotte, who suddenly approached the bath; leaning over Marat she struck him. with her knife. The blow was dealt with such force that the weapon entered Marat's bosom up to the

handle. Marat uttered a cry and expired almost instantly.

His shriek for help brought in a commissionnaire named Laurent Basse, and two female attendants. Charlotte Corday was standing near the window, and did not try to escape. The commissionnaire struck her down with a chair; she rose, but Basse knocked her down a second time, and held her to the ground, while the two attendants and a surgeon were carrying Marat to his bed. A number of national guards came up, and Charlotte Corday was arrested.

The news was soon known at large, and an immense crowd assembled around Marat's dwelling, clamouring for the assassin's head. It was not deemed prudent to take Charlotte to prison until popular effervescence had subsided; she was therefore incarcerated in Marat's apartment, where Guellard du Mesnil, a commissary of police, questioned her. She answered all questions with a calmness and dignity which never forsook her until her death. A few hours after, she was taken to the Prison de l'Abbaye, where the members of the Committee of Public Safety interrogated her several times.

Charlotte appeared before the Revolutionary Tribunal on July 17. She showed great firmness during the trial, the result of which, of course, was a foregone conclusion. After the jury had given in a verdict of death, she asked the gendarmes to take her to her counsel, M. Chauveau de la Garde, whom she heartily thanked for his services. Charlotte Corday was then transferred to her cell, whence she was soon to be led to the

Place de la Révolution. A priest came forward, but she firmly although courteously declined his services.

She had hardly been ten minutes in her cell when a painter, who had commenced a sketch of her in the course of the trial, entered and asked her permission to finish it. Charlotte readily acquiesced. During the

sitting, which lasted an hour and a half, the unfortunate creature conversed freely with the artist, and she evinced neither surprise nor fear when the door was again thrown open, to admit the clerks of the court and the executioner. My grandfather had brought the red shirt reserved for parricides, which Charlotte Corday was to wear on her way to the guillotine.

In a preceding chapter I stated that Charles Henri Sanson had, during a period of the revolutionary crisis, kept a diary, not only of executions but also of his personal impressions. This record only became regular towards the end of Brumaire 1793; but my grandfather wrote a circumstantial account of Charlotte Corday's execution. I give it here in full:

'On this day, Wednesday, July 17, first year of the one and indivisible Republic, I executed Charlotte Corday, of Caen, who murdered the patriot Marat, member of the Convention.

'On Wednesday, 17th, as above, at ten o'clock in the morning, I went to take the orders of Citizen FouquierTinville. Citizen Fouquier was busy; he sent word for me to wait. Meanwhile I went out, and had some breakfast. At one o'clock in the afternoon a citizen who had just left the Tribunal told me that the girl was

convicted. I made haste back, and met Citizen Fouquier in the witnesses' room. He was quarrelling with Citizen Montané, whom he charged with being too favourable to the accused. They entered a private room, and remained there an hour and a half. On reappearing, Citizen Fouquier saw me and said angrily, “What are you dallying here for?" I answered that he had given me no orders. Citizen Fabricius handed me a copy of the judgment, and we went to the Conciergerie together. I spoke to Richard, the gaoler, and observed that his wife was pale and frightened. I enquired whether she was unwell. She said, "Wait a moment, and perhaps your heart will fail you too." Richard conducted us to the cell occupied by the culprit. Citizens Tirrasse and Monet, the clerks of the Tribunal, entered first. I remained on the threshold. In the cell were two persons, a gendarme, and a citizen who was finishing Charlotte Corday's portrait. She was writing something on the back of a book. She looked in my direction, and asked me to wait. When she had finished, Citizens Tirrasse and Monet read out the judg ment, and meanwhile Charlotte Corday folded the paper on which she had written and gave it to Citizen Monet, requesting him to hand it to Pontécoulant, the deputy. She then removed her chair to the middle of the room, took off her cap, sat down, and told me to cut her hair. Since M. de la Barre I had not seen courage equal to hers. We were, in all, six or seven men, whose profession was anything but softening; and yet she was less moved than we were. When her hair was cropped, she gave a part of it to the artist who had taken her portrait,

and handed the remainder to Richard, the gaoler, requesting him to give it to his wife. I gave her the red shirt, which she arranged herself. As I was preparing to pinion her, she asked me whether she could keep her gloves, because those who had tied her when she was arrested had tightened the cords so much that her skin was broken. I answered that she could do as she liked, but that I could pinion her without hurting her. She smiled and said, "To be sure you ought to know how to do it!" and held out her naked hands. We entered the cart, which contained two chairs, one of which I presented to her. She declined, and I told her that she was right, as the jolting of the cart was less trying in an erect position. She smiled, but was silent. There was thunder and rain when we reached the quays, but the crowd was as thick as ever. There had been a good many cries on our leaving the Conciergerie; but these cries became. less and less numerous as we advanced. Insults came only from those who marched around the cart. At a window in the Rue St. Honoré, I recognised Citizens Robespierre, Camille, Desmoulins, and Danton, members of the Convention. Citizen Robespierre appeared very excited, and spoke a great deal to his companions; but the latter, and particularly Citizen Danton, did not seem to hear him, so attentively did they look at the culprit. I myself often turned round to look at her. And the more I saw of her the more I wished to see. It was not on account of her personal beauty, great as that was; but I thought it was impossible that she could remain so calm and courageous as I saw her; yet what I hitherto considered as beyond