was Charlotte's
errand to Paris? She has finished this, in the course of Friday;--yet
says nothing of returning. She has seen and silently investigated
several things. The Convention, in bodily reality, she has seen; what
the Mountain is like. The living physiognomy of Marat she could not see;
he is sick at present, and confined to home.

About eight on the Saturday morning, she purchases a large sheath-knife
in the Palais Royal; then straightway, in the Place des Victoires, takes
a hackney-coach: "To the Rue de l'Ecole de Medecine, No. 44." It is the
residence of the Citoyen Marat!--The Citoyen Marat is ill, and cannot
be seen; which seems to disappoint her much. Her business is with Marat,
then? Hapless beautiful Charlotte; hapless squalid Marat! From Caen in
the utmost West, from Neuchatel in the utmost East, they two are
drawing nigh each other; they two have, very strangely, business
together.--Charlotte, returning to her Inn, despatches a short Note to
Marat; signifying that she is from Caen, 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-labourers 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,--towards a purpose.

It is 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 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 elevenpence-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 towards that?--Hark, a rap again! A musical woman'