details are
needless," interrupted Charlotte; "it is I that killed Marat." By
whose instigation?--"By no one's." "What tempted you, then?" "His
crimes. I killed one man," added she, raising her voice extremely
(_extremement_), as they went on with their questions, "I killed one
man to save a hundred thousand; a villain to save innocents; a savage
wild-beast to give repose to my country. I was a Republican before the
Revolution; I never wanted energy." There is therefore nothing to be
said. The public gazes astonished: the hasty limners sketch her
features, Charlotte not disapproving: the men of law proceed with
their formalities. The doom is Death as a murderess. To her Advocate
she gives thanks; in gentle phrase, in high-flown classical spirit. To
the Priest they send her she gives thanks; but needs not any shriving,
any ghostly or other aid from him.

On this same evening, therefore, about half-past seven o'clock, from
the gate of the Conciergerie, to a City all on tip-toe, the fatal Cart
issues; seated on it a fair young creature, sheeted in red smock of
Murderess; so beautiful, serene, so full of life; journeying toward
death,--alone amid the World. Many take off their hats, saluting
reverently; for what heart but must be touched? Others growl and howl.
Adam Lux, of Mentz, declares that she is greater than Brutus; that it
were beautiful to die with her; the head of this young man seems
turned. At the Place de la Revolution, the countenance of Charlotte
wears the same still smile. The executioners proceed to bind her feet;
she resists, thinking it meant as an insult; on a word of explanation,
she submits with cheerful apology. As the last act, all being now
ready, they take the neckerchief from her neck, a blush of maidenly
shame overspreads her fair face and neck; the cheeks were still tinged
with it when the executioner lifted the severed head, to show it to
the people. "It is most true," says Forster, "that he struck the cheek
insultingly; for I saw it with my eyes; the Police imprisoned him for
it."

In this manner have the Beautifulest and the Squalidest come in
collision, and extinguished one another. Jean-Paul Marat and
Marie-Anne Charlotte Corday both, suddenly, are no more. "Day of the
Preparation of Peace"? Alas, how were peace possible or preparable,
while for example, the hearts of lovely Maidens, in their
convent-stillness, are dreaming not of Love-paradises and the light of
Life, but of Codrus's-sac