,
the seat of rebellion; that she desires earnestly to see him, and
"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 yellow July evening, we say, the 13th 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 traveled:--and sits now, about half-past seven of the 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-half-penny of
ready-money, in paper; with slipper-bath; strong three-footed stool
for writing on, the while; and a squalid--Washer-woman, 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 Washer-woman running in--there is no Friend of the
People, or Friend of the Washer-woman, 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