MESSENGERS
THE ANGEL OF THE ASSASSINATION
Monica Stone
This is the story of Charlotte de Corday as recorded in his book THE ANGEL OF THE ASSASSINATION by Joseph Shearing.
Charlotte de Corday was born in July 1768, her parents being Marie-Jacqueline de Gautier a pretty woman but frail and she lost the sight of her one eye. The father was Jacques-Francois de Corday ecuyer seigneur d’Armont. The child was christened Marie-Anne-Charlotte. She could claim on either side blood that entitled her to rank among the provincial nobility. She was of pure Norman descent. The Cordays could trace their titles of nobility to 1077.
The de Cordays connected by marriage with two of the most famous names in French literature; Marie-Anne-Charlotte de Corday d’Armont was the great-grand-daughter of Pierre Corneille, whose grand-daughter had espoused Adrien de Corday in 1701.Through this marriage the Cordays might also claim kinship with Bernard de Fontenelle, Corneille’s nephew who they said had a second brain instead of a heart in his breast.
M. de Corday took his wife and infant daughter to his father’s estate of Mesnil-Imbert where they lived with their three children, Charlotte’s two elder brothers, Jacques-Francois and Charles-Francois. Although being of noble birth the Cordays were very poor, as so many nobles during that time. M.de Corday was a farmer, but resented this fact as he always felt that he did not receive his fair share of the treasure chest, being the third son of his parents.
Jacqueline-Eleonore was born soon after the birth of Charlotte, she was gentle, but was slightly hunch-backed, either from an accident or congenital defect. While her sister Charlotte was exceptionally beautiful and blessed with intelligence, but although very well liked and sociable she liked solitude, muse by herself in the shade of some lonely tree at midday.
There was much more besides Nature with which she could feed her dreams; a desk once used by Pierre Corneille was treasured in the Manor house of Mesnil-Imbert and before she could read she knew the stories written by him told to her by her parents. Rome and Sparta were words familiar to her as Calvados the Province where she grew up. The heroes and actions of antiquity were woven into the incidents of her daily life to form one ineffaceable impression. Hers was the usual experience of the lonely imaginative child – her dreams, fed by tales and colored by enthusiasms fostered in silence, blended with the familiar round of material existence until the impression of mingled truth and fantasy became ineffaceable.
Her education did not change her, as often as not, way of thinking about the Romans and the Spartans, as everything around her, the burning of the autumn leaves the smell of fresh baked bread, all were associated in her mind as part of her antiquated heroes. Her uncle, the abbe Charles Amedee de Corday, who was cure of Vicques in the Calvados, was given charge of Charlotte de Corday when she outgrew her mother’s tuition. He developed the child’s mind and heart along the lines she had already chosen for herself. He taught her to read from the stately line of Pierre Corneille, he taught her to admire antique virtues praised by the great dramatist, which she already by instinct cherished. The priest was a rich man and often sent his carriage to fetch Charlotte de Corday to her lessons. He instilled in her the nobility of conduct, fearlessness, grandeur of soul, self-sacrifice and exalted piety into the receptive mind of the eager child. These ideals suited Charlotte, she had the generous enthusiasm for greatness, not uncommon in extreme youth, but which instead of being fostered is usually overlaid and even destroyed by contact with the world. But Mlle. De Corday d’Armont had no one to disturb her ingenuous passion for sublimity and heroism. It was indeed encouraged by her austere life, the noble outline of her country spread undefaced before her, the direct teaching of the unworldly priest, even by the mournful complaints of her father lamenting the wrongs that he unjustly suffered.
The child Charlotte began to dream of herself as devoted to some great sacrifice, some tremendous service to a high ideal. She mused over heroism as some girls muse over love; she felt in herself pride, the courage, the fortitude necessary to the accomplishment of a famous deed. So exactly did the tragedies of Corneille suit her temper that she exclaimed: “I am of the race of the Emilias and the Cinnas!”
No one could influence her once her mind was decided, the Norman independence defended the Norman mysticism with a masculine energy and remarkable eloquence. Saintliness soon became associated with Mlle. De Corday d”Armont; she was named: “une sainte personne.” Her reading of Corneille and Plutarch did not interfere with her household tasks and she tended to her mother who was fast getting more frail.
When Charlotte de Corday was twelve years old, this was the year 1782 her childhood which was full of gaiety and pleasure, in spite of the poverty, came to an end. Her father filed a lawsuit against his two brothers-in-law. This was a desperate attempt to recover some money to retrieve his sinking fortunes under the expense of Charlotte’s two brothers at College. The tranquil life at Mesnil-Imbert came to an end and the family moved to Caen.
Caen the ancient capital of Calvados was a town of sufficient elegance and culture to be named the Norman Athens.
Mlle. de Corday d’Armont lost most of her gaiety and high spirits. She devoted herself with almost fanatic enthusiasm to her domestic duties, she was at fourteen already inclined to the extreme – all she did she did passionately pushed to its limits. Her manner was grave and severe; she disclosed herself to none and the hard reality of her life did not interrupt her dreams. Books and pamphlets were more readily available in Caen than in Mesnil-Imbert. The young girl heard her father discussing the faults and troubles of the government, the suggested remedies of the intellectuals; his own bitterness colored his comments on the state of the country.
In the year of 1774 when Marie-Anne-Charlotte was enjoying her gay infancy, the age of frivolity came to an end with the death of Louis XV. His successor Louis XVI blundered forward, his ministers Maurepas, Malesherbes and Turgot set themselves to make the best of the disordered finances of a country without a constitution.
The poor Norman gentilhomme read many of the republican and atheistical books then flooding the country. The axioms of Locke and Montesquieu filtering through Jean-Jacques Rousseau, the materialism of Condillac and Helvetius, the infidel opinions of Voltaire. All these were discussed by the household in the poor home of the de Corday family.
Mlle. de Corday marked her father’s bitter comments his weak complaints, and she searched the writings of the philosophes for an answer to these puzzles of mankind’s rights and wrongs.
The situation of the household quickly changed when Mlle. de Corday’s mother passed away, she was strongly aware of the burden of taking over the household. She trained herself to endure suffering in silence. Mlle. de Corday had to go through the experience of life and death as her mother died when giving birth to a third daughter and the latter following the mother in death soon after. Her shy, half-aware maidenhood was shocked; she withdrew her secret soul even further into those sanctuaries inhabited by her phantom heroes and heroines.
Mlle. de Corday was true to her ideals and tried to be a mother to her delicate sister Jacqueline-Eleonore, a housekeeper to her father.
Until the eighteenth century the governments of people were almost entirely decided by powerful men of action or by able intriguers. When force ruled and ignorance obeyed, the role of theorist was useless and dangerous, nor was the power of the press sufficient to make to make it worthwhile to endeavor to influence through books. With the weakening of tyrannies, with the fading of superstition and the spread of the printing press, with a rapidly growing discontent and wonder as to this and that among all classes, came the men of letters, the self-styled philosophers who began to focus and voice the popular grievances, to question institutions sacred and quasi-sacred, to criticize the privileged classes to the compassionate serf, the peasant, the little townsmen. The form of questions being asked were, what is the form of government, what is the nature between ruler and the people, what concern has the church with the state, or either with ethics or a man’s private conscience? How can the rapacity of the clergy and the nobility, their exemption from taxation, their idle lives, be justified? Of what use are the laws that leave a large portion of the nation in a state of hopeless misery? [Do we not ask these very same questions every day? It seems the more things change the more they stay the same].
These and other questions, equally pertinent, equally disturbing, at first heavily censored, gradually spreading began to occupy all thinking men in France. Voltaire and d’Alembert, Condillac, Fontenelle, Diderot, all authors of the Encyclopedia, Montesque with his famous Espirit des Lois, all had, despite the efforts of outraged authority, vogue among all classes. These men were not men of action, they were not soldiers, politicians or organizers of any kind they would have been failures. They lacked experience of public affairs, many of theories were vague, unworkable, the whims of amateurs. But they possessed the perilous gift of powerful, vivid pens, the very least of them were accomplished journalists. [Interesting how these journalists influenced the masses of France so many years ago, we still have the same scenario even in the 21st century as it was in the 18th].
These men of letters were mostly republican and infidel. They suggested sweeping away of decaying institutions, the Church, the Monarchy, the Feudal system, the privileges of clerics and nobles. [Here again nothing has changed, in France in the 18th century, the clerics lost their heads, literally, the churches closed, the Monarch lost his head, today all this is taking place in the 21st century, just more subtly , with more finesse and more “civilized”].
The most beloved, most dangerous, and most gifted of the writers who fascinated, alarmed and roused France was Jean-Jacques Rousseau. He died ten years before the de Corday family came to Caen, but it was only then when his writings filtered through from the intellectuals to the people, with whom they were to enjoy for so long a sensational popularity and to have an unprecedented influence.
In our study of the development of Mlle. de Corday we found that Jean-Jacques Rousseau, who together with the abbe Raynal, Pierre Corneille, the Old Testament and Plutarch were her guides and inspiration. Mlle. de Corday d’Armont living in terrible circumstances and poverty in Caen, to read the exciting works of J.J. Rousseau, which exactly suited her expanding mind, already formed by the heroics of Corneille.
On the family’s return to Mesnil-Imbert from Caen the fields did not hold the same fascination to the girl, she looked with other eyes to the peasantry who worked like beasts without reward or hope, the struggle to pay taxes to the Church and the nobles, the dime the gabelle, the misery of the corvee, the long labor with rude implements to make the earth yield a living, the stark poverty of the small gentry’s dwellings. She knew now where the money went that was wrung from a soil too often watered by tears – to support the idle men, the insolent women, the fat tradesmen, the pampered lackey whom she had seen in Caen. [There is really nothing new under the sun, in the 21st century the laborer is taxed, the big corporations that took the place of the nobles of the 18th century do not pay taxes, or very minimal].
The girl’s aunt, Madame de Louvagny, who was a nun at Saint-Cyr put their case before her friend, the Abbess of the Convent, Madame de Belzunce. The petition was accepted on the foundation of Queen Matilda, which allowed maintenance and education to five young girls of high birth but impoverished means.
So it happened that Charlotte and her younger sister Eleonore entered the magnificent, rigid and somber abbaye as a pensionaire. Thus came to an end with her former life; the rustic infant, the anxious little housewife, the earnest pupil of the uncle priest.
Under the guidance of the Abbess, Cecile-Genevieve-Emilie de Belzunce de Castelmoran the two girls were educated and guided on the lines that had been long laid down as suitable for gentlewomen, in all the grave and elaborate ritual of faith, in charitable duties to the poor and the sick, in music, in drawing, fine needlework and lace-making. If the nuns were aware of what was taking place outside their walls they never gave sign of it. They prayed and taught as though it was still in the times of Queen Matilda and William the Conqueror.
The most brilliant and most difficult of the pupils was Marie-Anne-Charlotte; docile and sweet as was her disposition, she found it hard to submit to the severe rules of the convent. The girl had an intense mental activity; she could take nothing on trust – all must be argued and proved. Nor could she resign, on any count, her own convictions. On the contrary, she would defend them with fire and force, taking them always to extremes. The Abbess was alarmed at this independence of spirit, which the girl carried as so far to argue with her Confessor. She was not punished because her ideals were so lofty, her instincts so noble, so no one would take the step to reprimand her. Her conduct was so excellent, her charm of person and manner so compelling, her piety so warm and orthodox. The abbe Boulay, the confessor to the young girls found Mlle. de Corday to be: “Une sainte personne.”
The young Norman believed in the Church whose rites she so piously followed; there was nothing of the atheist or the heretic in her disposition, which raised above all these differences and restrictions. She was a mystic.
She brought her Plutarch, her Corneille into the convent; her reading was not unduly limited, she was allowed to mingle the exploits of the ancient heroes with the lives of the Saints. Owing to her high character she was permitted, as she grew older to read J.J. Rousseau (not the romances) and that strange work which affected her so powerfully, the Histoire Philosophe des deux Indes by the abbe Raynal. Plutarch’s Lives, which might at this period be termed the intellectual’s handbook, was often between her fingers and always in her mind.
Like so many women of her day, she loved making things with her hands, doing embroidery and she was an exquisite lace-maker, making her own designs, she learned how to play the clavecin excellently. In her own language she was not accomplished; although she read so much she always spelled incorrectly and made childish mistakes in putting her sentences together.
Her physical gifts were as abundant as her mental endowments; she developed into “un vrai soleil” – complete unself-consciousness; she enjoyed brilliant health which gave her serenity, a poise and a cheerful common sense that would have been impossible to the feeble, the nervous or the hysterical. Her voice low and warm, was extremely beautiful and could hardly be heard without emotion.
Her serenity of mind rose from her perfect spiritual, as well as her perfect physical adjustment; she had the mystic’s supreme happiness of feeling at one with God. This conviction of union with the Divine gave her the confidence that some mistook for pride and obstinacy; it was not possible for her complete integrity to betray what she felt to be a sacred truth for the sake of agreeing with human arguments. Everything mediocre was distasteful to her, she strove to raise her religion to sublime heights, she wished not only to be a Christian, but a saint, a martyr; to the rites of the Church she brought the emotional heroism of Corneille, the stoicism of Plutarch’s worthies.
Into a little prayer notebook she copied the following: “Deliver us always, Lord from our enemies, we entreat you, by this Sign of the Cross….. O, Jesus, I present myself before you with a humble and contrite heart, to recommend to you my last hour and that which must follow it….When my pale and livid cheeks inspire with compassion and terror those who attend me…..When my ears, about to be forever sealed to the voices of men, wait, trembling to hear the word of Judgment pronounced – Miserere mei.”
Mlle. de Corday could be joyful too, she was the most high-spirited among the pupils and the nuns. She loved too the company of children.
This life of a nun, of gentlewoman lasted nearly seven years. During that period she was influenced by the books she read, which was more than what her environment offered her. This seclusion for breeding dreams, encouraging visions, for forcing a strong imagination. Mlle. de Corday d’Armont was not fed by romances or tales of love and intrigue; her reading was severe, no novel ever came into her hands. J.J. Rousseau was to her the author of Contrat Social and she knew nothing of his scandalous miserable life.
Her natural disposition, the circumstances of her upbringing, the subtle influences of her time, above all her reading, turned her thoughts in one direction, that of virtue and strength. A passionate admiration for Sparta and Rome roused in her a secret exaltation that was at the root of her serenity, her gaiety , her piety. She was in love with heroism. Through her adored Corneille, she reached out to antiquity, where she found her ideals realized – the hero combatting the tyrant, the hero dying for the country.
The enthusiasm she felt burned the stronger for being concealed, she had no one to share her thoughts with.
From her long brooding over strange assortment of books which formed her little library she drew only ideals of liberty, goodness, strength, courage and self-sacrifice. She saw a Rome, a Sparta that never existed.
While Mlle. de Corday spent her days reading and dreaming about the heroics of Sparta and Rome outside the walls of the convent a revolution raged with mobs of unruly criminal men killing, murdering and raping and looting. The aristocracy the main target to destroy. Everything, law and order collapsed and chaos reigned, but the masses were at last “free” from the yoke of the aristocracy and the Church. The savagery bestiality of the lowest of the people, who brutalized and oppressed for too long turned their full hatred towards their superiors. They would not wait for the Assembly to bring into effect the reforms, they were too impatient and turned to violence and bloodshed.
The young girl in the cloister turned into herself more and delivered more passionately her prayers and her dreams.
Mirabeau, the one great man in the Assembly, remarked on hearing the news from the provinces, that “the people will, overcome with gratitude, return to law and order,” after we all were declared equal, “Before you give the people their rights, you must teach them their duties.”
In the meantime Jean-Paul Marat threw himself violently into the disturbed current of the times. An inflammatory pamphleteer, being the venomous journalist that he was he scribbled with power and fury about all that he saw wrong with society, and being a dangerous man he soon became pursued by the police. He forgot his science, his speculations on electricity, he was a patriot – l-ami du people.
He went into hiding, lived like a rat in the old quarries of Montmartre, a miserable creature. Without shirt or stockings, wrapped in his filthy coat and breeches, his greasy hair tied in a torn handkerchief damped with vinegar, so he sat in his retreat, a pen in his hand, writing his revolutionary ideas down on a piece of a paper.
His health failed quickly, he had chronic indigestion, the rage that racked him caused to have constant convulsion, gradually the most repulsive skin disease resembling in the eyes of the ignorant, leprosy.
The Revolution spread. In October, 1789, the frantic reception of the loyal Flanders regiment in the Salon de Hercule, the tricolor trampled underfoot, the white cockade triumphant, in the streets of Paris the women with drums shouted” “Bread! Bread!” Seven thousand of them marching on Versailles, driven out by the National Guard, the King forced to return to the Tuilleries, virtually a prisoner.
The clubs were founded; with their headquarters in Paris, having branches all over the country; in the gloomy rooms of the old Jacobin convent in the rue St-Honore the extremists, ragged, dirty men, violent and forceful, met by the light of cheap tallow candles, but among them is one, neat, charming and elegant and well behaved – Maximillien Robespierre.
In the ancient monastery of Cordeliers is another club, the members were poor, oppressed, somber and passionate; their avowed aim is the establishment of a free Republic. Amongst those creeping out of hiding was Jean-Paul Marat. “I am,” he cried. “the rage of the people.” In his rage and venom he does indeed seem to typify, foreigner as he is, that portion of the French nation which has hitherto been shut out, despised, starved, beaten, ridiculed. He is a figure of horror.
The year 1791 saw the royal family trying to flee the country, but brought back, all functions of royalty suspended, the Constituent Assembly is dissolved. The Legislative Assembly is formed with 745 Deputies elected by the people to frame the laws for the new Constitution. The divisions are as before; the Right, namely the Monarchists, the Centre, the Moderates, the Left the Gironde.
The King chose his ministers from the Left, they declare war on the Holy Roman Empire and Russia these two Powers have sent insolent rebukes and demands to the Assembly. The French were defeated in the field. The government enrolled 20,000 men for the defense of Paris, the King vetoed the decision; the mob stormed the Tuileries.
By a decree of 1791 all monasteries and convents are closed, Mlle. de Corday cannot then be a nun; the life for which has been preparing for seven and one half year. She is allowed to stay a little longer, reading, pondering, she is there when Marat and Danton, representing the Mountain, or Extreme Left, urged on the September massacres as reprisals against the royalists for the march of the invaders on Verdun; ten thousand prisoners are slaughtered in two days by hired murderers, while Dumouriez drives the enemy back across the Rhine, retaking Verdun and Longwy.
Mlle. de Corday heard rumors, echoes, confused reports for the Gironde, THESE TRUE Republicans, disciples of J.J. Rousseau, lovers of Plutarch, who talks in terms of Greece and Rome, these men worthy of the names of Cato, Cincinnatus, Brutus, Manlius – she perceives that they have their enemies, that the tyrants are not crushed. But Tarquin and Caligula were not to be found on the throne, now overturned, but on the benches of the tribunes, disguised under the ferocious masks of Danton and Marat.
In this terrible year of 1791 Mlle. de Corday d’Armont left, at long last, and reluctantly, the quiet seclusion of the ancient convent, the allees of elms, to return to her father at Mesnil-Imbert; the family, in accordance with the new republican fervor and the law of 1790 suppressing titles of nobility, cease to use the name of their estate; the eldest daughter, on re-entering the world, takes her third name; she is now known as Charlotte de Corday.
Charlotte mingled with her friends, taking care of the sick, the poor but mostly with children for which she showed tender affection.
Charlotte led a very simple life without all the trappings and affectations of society. She kept herself busy teaching lace-making to the peasant women. She would tell the children about the new government in France, taught them the grandeur of love, of country, of self-sacrifice, of fortitude, she would tell them of the new France, which was founded on these pure models of antiquity, the members of the Gironde republicans worthy of Sparta. Surely these children would live to see this glorious dawn on increase in power until the beams of a brilliant day blessed the beloved land! A government modelled on Rousseau, conducted by men who were nourished on Marcus Aurelius, who had put up a bust of Brutus in the Senate and who had taken as their motto: LIBERTY OR DEATH!
The fair eyes of Charlotte de Corday gleamed with the ardor as she expounded these wonders to her patient little audience in the dovecote, who endured the lessons for the sake of the lovely teacher and of the sweetmeats to follow.
Jean-Paul Marat also became more Roussseauiste, more fanatically attached to the rights of man. His newspaper failed for lack of funds. He was enabled to issue his newspaper through the devotion of a woman. Hideous, diseased, filthy as he was, suffering in mind and body he won the tender affection of Simonne Evrard, who was of good character and possessed a small capital. She put this at the disposal of Marat who used it to fund his newspaper L’ami du peuple . He set up a poor home with Simonne Evrard and Albertine, his sister, who held him in a passionate admiration and contributed to the miserable menage by her exquisite work at watch-making.
Marat, in increasing fervor of republicanism and the gradual disappearance of the ancient regime, had been able to leave his hiding places and start his little establishment with the two women who held him in such admiration and respect, he did not marry Simonne, as he despised matrimony.
Simonne was a respectable comely woman. Marat, who seemed to his enemies like an obscene toad which had crept up from stagnant march, who in truth so foul in his person that even his friends did not dare sit next to him on the benches of the Assembly, had aroused in this young woman a passion which made her willingly his companion, nurse and servant, performing the most menial and most loathsome offices. Marat’s apartment always had an air of squalor.
In the year of 1791 the cruel disease that seized Marat was increasing in virulence, encouraged by his filthy habits, his nervous tension, his incessant labors. He was often in bed for days with attacks of pain, fevers, headaches, and he was never free from the steady torture of a skin disease, herpes.
Nothing could be more in violent contrast to the radiant figure of Charlotte de Corday, teaching virtue to her little pupils, than that of Jean-Paul Marat, with his polluted body, ruined nerves and half-crazy mind.
Charlotte followed the news of the Gironde and likened them to the heroes of ancient Greece and Rome. She wanted to sacrifice herself for them, as she longed to sacrifice herself for her sick mother, the poor, as a maiden of God. Her nature, always in the extremes saw these men as heroes, the saving grace of her beloved France.
Who were these amateur senators, the members of the Gironde, who had inflamed the intellectuals of Europe with their patriotic virtues? They were young men (most were under thirty years and none over forty years of age), of middle class, well educated, of high morals, fine ideals, full of enthusiasm, courage and good intentions. They were, except for the atheism which most of them professed, fanatic followers of J.J. Rousseau, and they all carried the prevalent fashion for antiquity to a mania. They were more familiar with Greece and Rome than with their own provinces, more at home with the heroes of Plutarch than with their own countrymen, they were journalists, lawyers, medical students, small squires. There was not one man of action among them, but all of them could write and talk and their leaders were unsurpassed in brilliant eloquence. All were full of theories, of schemes for reform, of noble sentiments, of high ideals. All were gentlemen, most of them good-looking with seductive personalities and the attractions of wit, generosity, moving eloquence, graceful delivery, elegant gesture, an air of culture and refinement.
These men, who essayed to govern a nation at a moment of appalling crisis, did not number one able politician, nor even one shrewd man of the world in their brilliant ranks. They were amateurs in everything but journalism and party oratory, often intoxicated with their own verbiage, they would sacrifice a principle a fine phrase, a truth for a round of applause, and leave the Assembly ashamed of what they said. They were fanatiques de Rousseau without having grasped his teaching (even if that teaching could at this juncture be turned into practical account), they were republicans without knowing how to form a republic, they were utterly tedious in their endless references to Cato, to Brutus, the father of Roman liberty and his stoic namesake, they had so little humor as to term Louis XVI Caligula or Traquin, and yet they had not really studied the antique models over which they raved, nor penetrated beneath the surface of those classic institutions and events that appeared so perfect from a distance.
Their attire marked them out from the brocaded, powdered nobles and the ragged hordes of the people. They affected that classic simplicity, which was to create a uniform dress for all classes, somber but not unbecoming. Their youth, their good intentions, incompetence added to their useless brilliancy, gave them that romantic pathos which attaches to the doomed leaders of a lost cause.
They satisfied Mlle. de Corday, who judging them largely through their own Press and found no fault with them. It was because of her admiration for the Gironde that she came to a disagreement with her father. M de Corday stayed loyal to the ancient regime, he rebuked his daughter for her passionate republicanism. Because of the strained relationship between father and daughter she obtained permission to visit a distant relation, Madame de Bretteville, who lived in Caen.
Mlle. de Corday brought with her the following books: the Plutarch, the Bible, the volumes of J.J. Rousseau and the abbe Raynal. This last author was more than ever “her oracle” by reason of his heroic behavior. In March 1791, he had sent a letter to the Assembly, warning them of the dangerous direction in which affairs were being allowed to drift and rebuking “the tyranny of the people” which would be more terrible than the tyranny of kings, and pointing out the alarming state of the country, “soldiers without discipline, generals without authority, ministers without power————-“
He then sternly blamed the wild license of the inflammatory section of the Press (of which Marat’s L’ami du peuple was a fair specimen), the useless metaphysical discussions which served only germs of disorder, the harsh treatment of the King. He pointed out anarchy ahead for France- “a King without power, a people without bridle.” Instead of people being freed, they would in their turn become le tyran le plus feroce.
Raynal was eighty years old, one of the most eager friends of reform, but his warning filled the Assembly with alarm and dissention. The Right applauded, the Left hesitated, Extremists were furious, Robespierre, Camille Desmoulins, Marat violently attacked Raynal as senile and disloyal.
There was nothing expected from her to do around the house, so she spent her days in her room reading the newspapers, keeping herself busy with sewing, lace-making, drawing, writing verses, this all was a sham to her, she worked without purpose or direction.
In blood and fire 1792 passed over France. In September the Assembly fell and was replaced by the Convention, composed of seventy-two deputies who abolished all titles, decided that the year 1792 was the Year I of the Republic, One and Indivisible, and who were divided into three main parties, the Gironde, under Brissot, the Montagne, so called from the high-placed seats the deputies of the Extreme Left occupied in the Senate and the Centre Plaine or Marais. Prominent among the Montagnards were Danton, Robespierre, Jean-Paul Marat, the Secretary of the Commune, one of the representatives of Paris; the situation soon resolved itself into a struggle between these two opposing parties, the moderates and the idealists, the extremists and the realists, the fate of the King became of paramount importance, the Gironde would have saved him, though they knew that the emigres and the foreign armies which threatened France, the King’s allies, would if they could, destroy them, true to principle, they remained indifferent to their own interest, their own safety. With equal heroism and sincerity, the Montagne were resolved on the extreme step of the death of the King as a symbol of the extinction of royalty, as a gage of defiance to Europe. This struggle took place in the midst of a country hovering on the brink of anarchy and bankruptcy and threatened by a foreign invasion on all sides, a growing sense of tension a deepening horror, gripped the nation; steadily the nobility crept away to the Rhine, where the Conde gathered daily in numbers if not in strength. A sense of impending disaster was in the air as if the bold prophecies of abbe Raynal were about to be fulfilled.
Mlle. de Corday vowed to never write “Madame” in front of her name as she very boldly stated there are no men in her realm worthy to her views and her cause. She wished to devote her life to God, but the convent doors had been closed to her, she had hoped there might be some sublime human passion on which she could bestow these enthusiasms – but she found no object worthy of what she knew she had to give. All the emotion then, of which she was capable was to
Love of her country.
Louis XVI had been beheaded in January 1793, and his fearful cry as he was swung under the guillotine had echoed throughout Europe, raising indignation and horror in all feeling hearts. Raising doubt as to the future, too – the Gironde could not save the King; could they save themselves? And if the Gironde went who would stem the tide of anarchy?
Charlotte de Corday wept when she heard the heard the news, she wrote to her friend, Mlle. Rose Fourgeron du Foyot:
“You have heard the frightful news, my dear Rose – France is indeed delivered over to scoundrels who have already done us such harm…….I shudder with horror and indignation. Such an event prepares us for the most frightful possibilities in the future….Everyone who could give us liberty has been assassinated. These men are butchers! Weep for the fate of poor France. I should follow Delphin to England if I could. But God keeps us here for other destinies…..We are a prey to brigands of all colors, they leave no one in peace, it is enough to give one a horror of this Republic….in brief, after this terrible blow (execution of the King) which frightens the universe, pity me, my dear Rose, as I pity you, as I pity myself, for there is no generous and sensitive heart that must not weep tears of blood.”
Jean-Paul Marat, deputy of Paris, President of the Jacobins, secretary to the Commune rapidly acquired power and was fast approaching the apogee of his fame, that poor doctor, sweating over his battles with the Academics, the proscribed journalist starving in his damp cellar, had enviously dreamt of but hardly hoped to realize.
“The just rage of the people”; his self-description was true enough; he did represent the rage, jealousy and vengeance of those who had nothing against those who had much, and represented it with an awful sincerity. The filthy condition of his person that he allowed through neglect, he now purposely encouraged in order to flatter the vilest of the vile by degrading himself to the lowest level. His agonizing skin disease had increased to such an extent that it was commonly believed that he had leprosy; his whole body was covered by a foul eruption, a scrofula (prurigo de Hebra, or eczema); this disease and the arthritis that accompanied it were beyond the power of Souterbielle, the skillful doctor who dressed Robespierre’s ulcerated leg every day in secret, to cure or even alleviate. In that April of his triumph Marat was doomed if not a dying man, and the fury that possessed him had the fearful power of the insanity produced by the torment of his body and the passion of his mind. Before the horrified imagination of Charlotte de Corday this loathsome figure seemed the embodiment of anarchy that was raised with force of a vision from the infernal regions.
The little man with the huge head and mask that might have been that of murder personified, with the brow of a philosopher, covered with greasy, verminous black hair and bound with a dirty rag soaked in vinegar, with his scabby limbs covered with filthy clothes, his bandaged legs thrust into broken boots, two pistols in his sash, vituperation, denunciation, abuse on his lived lips, seemed indeed to symbolize the Terror, that appeared about to overtake France and to efface for- ever the ideals of the patriots.
The German poet, Klopstock, who represented emphatically and faithfully the feelings – from wildest enthusiasm to deepest horror – of his countrymen regarding the French Revolution, wrote as an expression of his most profound disgust: “Who is, what is, this nation that makes a god of the hideous Marat?” And he imagined and described an orgy truly terrible in the blackened, foul rooms of the Jacobin club, where the clubistes honored Marat “after the fashion of the Hottentots” while they celebrated the coming reign of terror, expressed by Klopstock in a huge portmanteau word after the fashion of Aristophanes, meaning briefly, Republic of the guillotine, of the City, of the Mountain and of the Club, “Klubermunicipalguillotinoligoquatierepublik”.
Under this sinister, half-symbolic aspect, as a creature too dreadful to be believed in, as a symbol too horrible to be understood, did Charlotte de Corday see Jean-Paul Marat.
Neither Marat nor his followers were more capable of government, or even knowing what they wanted. The Republicans did not know where they were going. It is doubtful if Marat cared; Rousseauiste as he was, he had discarded the Genevan’s Utopia for the pressing need of the moment – to destroy, to sweep away all who opposed, all who criticized, all who roused his envy, jealousy or hatred.
On April 10, 1793, Jean-Paul Marat, with all his infuriated spite, accused the Girondists of being traitors to France and of having tried to save “the tyrant” (Louis XVI) by that “appeal to the people” for which some had voted.
Marat was accused of inciting murder and secured his arrest. While the case of Marat was being referred to the Revolutionary was, exclaimed in fury that they would make the Gironde “retomber dans son vossiment.” They excited the people by proclaiming that there were thousands of empty stomachs in Paris and that all the Gironde offered these starving wretches was some fine sentences from the classics.
There was much justice in the ferocious complaint; the people, caring nothing for Rousseau. Plutarch, Brutus, or any kind of Utopia, took up the cry, and backing the Commune, gave it the power of the might.
The Commune, fully aware of its power and backed by the clubs and the famished people, pressed the Tribunal to acquit Marat. The maximum voted, the power of the Convention destroyed.
The acquittal of Marat was celebrated on April 23rd. The demagogue, the idol and the hope of the mob of Paris, was carried on the shoulders of his frantic admirers from the Palais de Justice to the Tuileries, his rags fluttering about him, a wreath of laurels over his soiled foulard a grin of exultation on his dark tormented face. This grim Caesarean triumph swept into the Assembly hall. Marat, dirt, sores, fury, laurels, rags, was placed on his seat, while his terrible tattered bodyguard danced and sang the caragnole on the floor before him, making a hideous music with clattering wooden shoes.
There was a sickly pallor on the faces of the members of the Right as Marat rose to speak, the vast Centre remained silent, uneasy, as l’ami du peuple was swept away to a complete apotheosis in the club of the Jacobin.
It was clear to everyone that the Commune, the mob, and men like Marat, were leading the forces of anarchy against any attempt at sane government, exploiting the fear and poverty of the people, for their own ambitions.
The Girondists never lacking courage could save them against the Commune, against the Paris mob so skillfully inflamed to fury, against Danton and the revengeful passion of Jean-Paul Marat.
On the evening of May 30th the people were called to arms. It was an insurrection engineered by the Jacobins, the Commune against the Girondists. It was a night of nightmarish horror and alarm. The more prominent members of the Gironde believed that they were about to be massacred.
The theatre was empty save for the three Montagnards when the Girondists arrived, one was Danton.
“Nothing has happened” he said tranquilly, but the doomed deputies were not deceived.
As the chamber filled, Pache, Mayor of Paris, brought the assurance that the revolt was nothing and that he was responsible for law and order, but even as he spoke the sound of the cannon fired by Hanriot’s communists filled the Tuileries. The mob that had pushed into the room supported him with yells of hatred against the Right. The day proceeded in wearisome confusion; it was a cynical illustration of Herault de Sechelles’ ironic remark: “The voice of reason and that of the people are the same thing” – for in this mob law the voice of reason could not for one second be heard.”
Then Robespierre in no uncertain terms said to the Right: I’ll end – against you”, demanded the heads of the Right.
The Gironde amounted to twenty-two, all bore themselves with that haughty courage which they so admired in their antique models. Thus assailed on all sides, facing the frightful fate of mob massacre, the “suspect” Girondists , twenty-two against hundreds of thousands, preserved their dignity and spirit.
The Girindists had lost everything save their bravery and their wit. Herault, with admirable courage, demanded what the people wished. “Not words”, was the reply, “but twenty-two criminals.”
Neither wit, eloquence, elegance nor courage could save the Girondists they became, as unarmed men must become when hustled by brute force, ridiculous, humiliated; with Marat yapping like a hell-hound at their heels, and amid the bestial laughter of the sans-culottes, they were herded back to the Assembly room. A Girondist flung out contemptuously: “Cauthon is thirsty – give him a glass of blood!”
Marat sprang up and gave out, with zest, with joy, with unctuous cruelty, the names of the twenty-two deputies; all republicans, ardent disciples of liberty – the list went on, mouthed over by those terrible grimacing lips, livid with pain and fury, to the accompaniment of hoarse cries of triumph from the Mountain.
The twenty-two were sacrificed; while the Left voted their arrest, the overawed Centre was silent; the exhausted deputies left at last the senat that had become their prison; with yells of joy the sans-culottes withdrew their cannon, insulting the deputies as they pushed through the mass.
The Convention was subverted; the Commune and Marat ruled in Paris; the first reign of terror was in sight.
Charlotte de Corday sat in her sad little room in Caen, asking herself this question, “Shall I?” – “Shall I not?” The torment of her mind was acute. She too saw the monster had to be destroyed, but to her it did not give her the face of Alecto or Anarchy, but that of Marat – the vile the stinking, filthy, the hideous Marat who had been borne in triumph on the shoulders by the mob. Marat who had rung the tocsin inciting to murder and chaos, Marat who yelled at the helpless, disarming the Girondists driving them with insults back to the Assembly room where he had forced them to listen to his demand of blood, his demand for their heads as he checked them off one by one.
Charlotte de Corday took her own Bible and read the story of Judith, she thought of the heroine whom the Lord had made fair for His own purpose, and, with sad resolution, gazed at her own lovely face in the mirror. “Shall I? – Shall I not?”
She just said there and felt so utterly alone. She had no desire to write to her family or to do the arts of sewing, painting or tapestry.
Those who opposed the revolution were seen as a “menace” and duly dealt with. It was declared utter hostility and the mob incited to revolt against “murderers and brigands”. Mlle. de Corday followed her countrymen’s deliberations, only to murmur, “Shall I? – Shall I not?”
It showed very clearly from the beginning that the civilized behavior, the eloquence, the wit, the intelligence, virtue, these cultured young men of the Girondists would not at all be able to stem the tide of the rolling vile dirty, stinking mob, who with as their leaders, Robespierre, Danton, Marat, Couthon in saving their beloved France.
It was truly with the frenzied energy of men besieged that the new government armed, planned, made ready their ragged, famished troops, crushed their enemies, prepared to defy all Europe while the fugitive made their fine speeches and wrote their fiery pamphlets.
It was an attack on Marat and held the ce monstre up to public execration as the front symbol of the government of the Terror. In cultured and fiery language, the tone of Corneille, of Rousseau, of Raynal, with which Charlotte de Corday was so familiar, the Normans were passionately incited to rise and march on Paris, to deliver the capital from the ruffians who kept it in a stranglehold, to destroy above all Marat.
Marat, the tiger, the monster, the fury – under that one loathed name of le plus vil des hommes was gathered all the wrongs and cruelties that oppressed France.
Mlle. de Corday tore up the last of her papers on which was written: “Shall? – Shall I not?”
She sat in her room at the open window breathing in the summer heat, watching the stars. She knew what must be done. Her noble and innocent sole, at first overwhelmed by the horror of triumphant evil, had found a sure refuge in itself; to be all-sufficient is to disarm the world’s power to hurt.
Charlotte de Corday followed closely what was happening in Caen, she disclosed herself to none. She prepared herself to leave her somber dwelling that had been her home for two years. She visited all the sights dear to her, as if saying “farewell”. The churches were still open, but Mlle. de Corday now seldom went into them to pray, and it was sometime she had taken to the Sacraments. She had passed beyond the need of rituals; she felt herself in direct communication with God; she had no need of any intermediary between herself and the Deity; fully aware of her mission, she had no need of symbolism. The purity of her soul required no comfort or sympathy from any human being; that of Heaven she had already received.
She typified the device of the Virgin to be found in Evreux Church and on several Norman fonts, one with which she was familiar – Rosa Mystica in Horto Incluso – the mystic rose, the rose of Sharon, in the enclosed garden. Her virginity was not only that of the exquisite and fastidious body, but also that of the delicate, noble soul.
She told her aunt she might going to visit her father at Argentan or even traveling to England, She said to some acquaintances: “I have a voyage to make.”
To Madame Paisan she gave a book of lace designs: “I shall have no more need of lace.”
She gave her plain gold ear-rings to a girl, because: “I shall have no more need of these.”
In the evenings she would burn on her wide-hooded hearth the pamphlets, speeches and journals of the Gironde that she collected, read her Corneille, or silent in the hot dusk, listen to the clavecin playing in the house next door.
Her aunt, Madame de Bretteville found her weeping in her bedroom, Charlotte quickly excused herself saying: “Who would not weep, dear Aunt, in times like these? Who knows who may not be struck down next? Who is safe while Marat lives?”
On July 6th she packed her small trunk, in it she placed her inexpensive but well-kept toiletries, a petticoat in rose colored silk, another in white cotton, two chemises marked “C.D.” (Charlotte Darmont), two pairs of cotton stockings, one white, one grey, a little sleeveless dressing-jacket, two caps and two fichus in linen, four white handkerchiefs marked “C.D.” a fichu of green gauze, a silk fichu with a red border, a packet of different colored ribbons, several pieces of chiffon, rose, white. This modest luggage ready, she had sent it down to the booking office of the diligent service, Caen-Paris, where she already taken a place in the coach leaving Caen at two o’clock on July 9th.
Then she went down her shoemaker, Lecointre, to buy a pair of shoes with stout soles and high broad heels, fit for the streets of Paris. To her aunt, continually nervous and fearful, she continued to say that she was going to visit her father, to others she spoke vaguely of a voyage to England via Paris.
On July 7th Charlotte de Corday was present when General Wimpfen reviewed on the Cours-la-Reine, the troops who were to chase the monsters and brigands from Paris. With banners bearing inscriptions: “War on the tyrants and the anarchists” – “Long live the Republic one and indivisible”, the battalions paraded before a vast crowd. There were speeches appealing for volunteers, there were patriotic songs, new words to old tunes.
After all this excitement and the flaming eloquence of the Girondists, seventeen men volunteered instead of the hundreds expected.
On the question of how long Mlle. de Corday would be away she said: “That depends on the turn of my business will take.”
With only two nights to stay she busied herself with burning the last of the Gironde literature, preserving only the current Bulletin de Calvedos, then she took down her Bible and re-read the story of Judith.
She wrote a letter of farewell to her father, telling him she would be going to England. She stated that Heaven refuses us the happiness of living together as it has denied us so many other blessings. She was absolutely alone, she had by a supreme effort of will, detached herself from all her surroundings, from her affections, her hopes, her fears. She was no longer even concerned in the tumults of Caen, which were increasing in violence. Charlotte de Corday had forgotten all about her friends, her environment, she had achieved the peace that comes with harmony with God.
In her lonely leisure, while listening to the clavecin flowing through the open window, she embroidered on a scrap of silk the sentence that had haunted her – “Shall I? – Shall I not?” This she placed in front of her mirror so that she continually saw it as she moved about making her final preparations for departure, she had answered the question, but the sight of the words, so exquisitely traced by her needle, helped to soothe and sustain her resolution.
She left her room, somber and stark as it was. She put all her books, her constant companions, on the shelves at the side of her bureau, on the table by her bed, the Raynal, the Rousseau, the Corneille, the Bible, she had no longer any need of them, their messages forever graven in her heart.
She did not need to read any more of Judith, of Emilie, of Pauline; she had absorbed their souls; she did not need to ponder again the words of Corneille.
As she put away, carefully, with her money and the few necessaries for her long journey, the packet given her by Barbaroux, she recalled the eloquent speeches of the young deputy, his emphasis on the country’s peril from anarchy – “without another Jeanne d’Arc, without some deliverer sent from Heaven, without some unexpected miracle, what is to become of France?”
As Mlle. de Corday came nearer to the capital, travelling by slow stages in the clumsy diligence through the exhausting heat, Jean-Paul Marat was forced to keep to his apartment, being too ill to drag himself to the Comite du Salut Public, where he enjoyed the triumph that he waiting for all his life. This forced inactivity bitterly galled the sick man; his rage helped to increase the poisons that were burning his blood, the great heat of the summer added to his torment; his doctor could give him no ease; his flesh was corrupting while he lived; death was only a question of weeks. But his powerful spirit refused to be daunted; with his head swathed in the vinegar muslin, an old dressing-gown over his shoulders, Marat sat in his slipper bath scribbling on a plank laid across his knees, pouring out, with that energy which had once tried to overset the unparalleled genius of Newton, idealism, venom, fantasy, fury, for the pages of L’ami du peuple.
Mlle. de Corday arrived in Paris, shaken, exhausted, covered with dust, disheveled with sleeping in her clothes and completely a stranger in the capital the morning at eleven. She was directed by the booking-office to the hotel de la Providence which was quite near, No 19 in the rue des Vieux-Augustines. She gave her name, her hometown and all particulars to the hostess, as this was required from the police. She made a hasty toilet, gave the waiter some money to buy pens, paper and ink and asked him the way to the rue Saint-Thomas-du-Louvre.
She went to the house of Lauze Deperret, as he was absent from his home, she left the packet given to her by Barbaroux with his two daughters.
Mlle. de Corday returned to La Providence where she rested, the room was neither uncomfortable nor displeasing. The window gave on to the corner of the rue Montmatre.
After Mlle. de Corday rested she went downstairs and entered into a conversation trying to obtain news of what was passing in Paris, relating in her turn the recent events in Caen. The conversation had an air of innocence around it, the young Norman introduced the name of Marat – what was the thought of him in Paris?
The patriots admired him, but the aristocrats detested him, and added that he was very ill and would not appear on the Champ-de-Mars on July 14th, nor for some time, if ever again take his seat in the Convention.
Mlle. de Corday continued the casual conversation with an air of indifference, but soon broke it off to return to her room. She was profoundly disturbed by what she heard.
She came to Paris especially in time for the Fête de la Liberte for she meant there to meet Marat, or if this failed, to see him on the benches of the Assembly.
Now she was at a loss – what should she do? Baffled, troubled, she mused in the hôtel bedroom, her unpacked trunk on the floor by the newly-made bed, her body was enervated by fatigue and heat, but her mind remained resolute to her fixed idea – to kill Jean-Paul Marat.
Convinced that this duty and this sacrifice had been divinely laid upon her, she had achieved the task of detaching herself from all earthly considerations and at the same time of making careful preparations so as to involve no one but herself in the consequences of her deed and to leave her modest affairs in order.
It was not only to forward the cause of Mlle. de Forbin that she three times sought out Barbaroux . It was also to attract the attention of the Girondists to herself, so that, when her deed was accomplished, they would be ready to protect her family and her friends. It was to save any trouble
falling on her father that she had written to him that she was going to England. She asked no counsel to anyone; all who knew her would be able to say she had not breathed a word of her design. Even the expenses of her journey she had paid herself out her pocket-money.
She had done nothing she regretted, made no false step, never hesitated a second in her resolution – and now she was, at the last stage of her enterprise, frustrated.
She had planned her deed so exactly, visualized it so clearly; she would strike down Marat on the Champ-de-Mars on July 14th, at the moment of his gross triumph, and, immediately afterwards she would be slain by his furious supporters. She had no doubts about her fate, “One cannot attack a savage beast without being bitten.” She had not even wish for fame, for glory; she had hoped to be destroyed and never to be made known.
If for some reason July 14th not given her the opportunity, she would gain admission to the Tuileries and strike the tyrant in his seat. There too she visualized her being struck down and no one would find out her identity.
Now what to do?
Useless all the information she so carefully gathered from Barbaroux.
Mlle. de Corday solved her problem, she would go to Marat’s private house and kill him there. The details of how and where he lived must still be resolved, at this moment in time she was too exhausted. She fell on her bed and went to sleep.
In her hôtel bedroom, Charlotte de Corday wrote her testament, her apologia.
Mlle. de Corday entitled her document – L’Adresse aux Francais; Charlotte de Corday intended to sacrifice herself, but before giving her own life she intended to take that of the tyrant.
The object of this writing was to justify the author’s action and to clear herself from any criminal intent. She stated that she wished to accept the full result of her action; she wished to serve her country, to offer the utmost sacrifice – perhaps her head, carried above the mob, across the capital would serve – “as a rallying point for all the friends of the Law.” She hope to be the last victim of anarchy and hoped that the universe she had avenged would declare that she had deserved well of humanity by striking down “the savage beast fattened by blood.”
In a paragraph that breathed the spirit and the rhythm of Corneille, she wrote:
“When Marat, vilest of scoundrels, whose mere name stands for numberless crimes, falls under the avenging knife, the Mountain will tremble, Danton and Robespierre will pale, and all the brigands seated on their bloody thrones will shiver before the thunder that the gods, avengers of humanity, only suspend in order to make their final downfall more awful.”
Mlle. de Corday was at the Palais Egalite, ci-devant Palais Royal, at six-o’clock the next morning sitting in the garden, waiting for the shops to open, she had to buy something, so she waited patiently.
While she was waiting on this warm morning of July 13th a deputation from the Convention waited on Marat to condole him on the ill health that kept him from his seat in the Assembly.
They found him eaten to the bone by his “leprosy”, as they named the disease that had attacked him, and hunched in his bath, where he scribbled his inflammatory articles; the man was dying and in such frightful torments that death could be nothing but a release, but his friends consoled themselves that l’ami du peuple was merely suffering from a passing indisposition; that he was, indeed, slightly more at ease on this morning of July 13th than he had been for some days, enjoying one of those intervals of comparative freedom from distress that come even in the most agonizing illnesses.
Mlle. de Corday was on her way to a certain Bardin who sold cutlery where she bought but one knife. She selected one of ordinary size, a flexible blade six inches long, with an ebony handle to which were attached two rings to suspend to the cook’s waist or a shelf.
She paid forty sous for this common knife and its case and left the shop to saunter again up and down the arcade, it was too early for her, under any pretext to see Marat.
At nine o’clock she ask a driver to take her to Marat’s residence, the driver did not know either but established the address – No. 20, rue des Cordeliers, near the rue l’Ecole-de-Medecine.
She was calm, still detached from everything, still absorbed in what she had to do.
Mlle. de Corday was turning up the stairway when she was stopped by the concierge, Marie-Barbe Aubain asking her, her business. Mlle. de Corday turned around without answering and left the building, she returned at about half-past eleven and quickly ran up the dismal stairway before the woman Aubain saw her.
In front of the stair-head was the door of Marat’s apartment; the door was opened by Catherine Evrard and on the request by Mlle. de Corday to see Marat, she was rudely shown the door. He was too sick to be seen. The apartment was filthy, devout of any cleanliness.
She was very shaken; but it was more difficult, more horrible than she had thought it could be; to slay the beast one had to descend into the slime.
Always she had imagined the deed being done in open air, under the sky, or in the grave chamber of the Assembly, some venue formal, important, where she might meet an instant death that would wipe out her identity.
But this revolting background, the sordid lodging, the two low women, who appeared to her sluts, wretches, Marat’s concubines, perhaps his attendant furies! Never had she, the fastidious gentlewoman, set foot in such a dwelling or spoken to such people.
And Marat himself! What a foul beast it must be who lurked in such a lair.
What must she see or hear that was repulsive, disgusting, loathsome, before her task was done?
But her strength did not falter. The rebuff, the delay, first shook, then nerved her; it must be done, and done today.
She wrote a letter to Marat: “I come from Caen. Your love of your country must make you wish to know the plots that are hatching here. I await your reply.
Charlotte de Corday Hotel de la Providence”
On her question how long it would take to be delivered the answer was a few hours. She returned to her hôtel bedroom to wait. She waited and then wrote another letter: “I wrote to you this morning, Marat, did you receive my letter? Can I hope for a moment’s interview? If you have received it I hope you will not refuse me, seeing how interesting the business is. My great unhappiness gives me a right to your protection.”
She had employed flattery for the first time in her life, surely this sacrifice would be unavailing? The tyrant’s vanity, curiosity, would doubtless be touched, the letter went in the petite poste, it would arrive, she was informed, at the bureau at the rue des Cordeliers about seven o’clock that evening. About seven then, she would return to the sordid apartment. Surely, if she arrived at the same as her letter, he would admit her to that “moment’s interview” which would be sufficient for her purpose.
Mlle. de Corday then got ready to visit the home of Marat. She dressed carefully, she put on a white dress, carefully selected for this moment in her life and also to impress Marat. She even had her hair done.
When the hairdresser left, she finished her toilet, placed the knife in her pocket and left the hôtel, walking to the fiacre stand, where she took a vehicle and ordered the man to drive to No. 20, rue des Cordeliers, it was seven o’clock when she arrived, she told the cocher to wait, and passed between the two shops across the courtyard, the porter’s box was empty, so that it was without being challenged she reached the door of Marat’s dwelling, she rang the bell.
Jeanette Marechal opened the door, before Mlle. de Corday could state her business two other people arrived at Marat’s door. One was Laurent Bas, a street porter who had to take the current issue of the paper to the War office.</p