will put it in his power to do France
a great service." No answer. Charlotte writes another Note, still more
pressing; sets out with it by coach, about seven in the evening,
herself. Tired day-laborers have again finished their Week; huge Paris
is circling and simmering, manifold, according to its vague wont: this
one fair Figure has decision in it; drives straight--toward a purpose.

It is a yellow July evening, we say, the thirteenth of the month; eve of
the Bastille day, when "M. Marat," four years ago, in the crowd of the
Pont Neuf, shrewdly required of that Besenval Hussar-party, which had
such friendly dispositions, "to dismount, and give up their arms, then";
and became notable among Patriot men. Four years: what a road he has
travelled; and sits now, about half-past seven o'clock, stewing in
slipper-bath; sore-afflicted; ill of Revolution Fever--of what other
malady this History had rather not name. Excessively sick and worn, poor
man; with precisely eleven-pence-halfpenny of ready-money, in paper;
with slipper-bath; strong three-footed stool for writing on, the while;
and a squalid--Washerwoman, one may call her: that is his civic
establishment in Medical-School Street; thither and not elsewhither has
his road led him. Not to the reign of Brotherhood and Perfect Felicity;
yet surely on the way toward that?

Hark, a rap again! A musical woman's voice, refusing to be rejected: it
is the Citoyenne who would do France a service. Marat, recognizing from
within, cries, "Admit her!" Charlotte Corday is admitted: "Citoyen
Marat, I am from Caen the seat of rebellion, and wished to speak with
you." "Be seated, _mon enfant_. Now what are the Traitors doing at Caen?
What Deputies are at Caen?"

Charlotte names some Deputies.

"Their heads shall fall within a fortnight," croaks the eager "People's
Friend" clutching his tablets to write.

"_Barbaroux, Petion_" writes he with bare shrunk arm, turning aside in
the bath: _Petion_, and _Louvet_, and--Charlotte has drawn her knife
from the sheath; plunges it, with one sure stroke, into the writer's
heart.

"_A moi, chere amie!_" ("Help, dear!") No more could the Death-choked
say or shriek. The helpful Washerwoman running in, there is no Friend of
the People, or Friend of the Washerwoman left; but his life with a groan
gushes out, indignant, to the shades below.

And so Marat, "People's Friend" is ended: the lone Stylites has been
hurled down suddenly from his Pillar--whit