However, she was not obliged to commit this fault; not sending the note.

At seven o'clock in the evening of the 13th July, she went out, and taking a public carriage in the Square des Victoires, she crossed the Pont Neuf, and descended at Marat's door, No. 20, Rue des Cordeliers (now No. 18, Rue de l'Ecole de Médecine). This is the large and sad-looking house before the turret one, which stands at the corner of the street.

Marat occupied the first and darkest story of this dark house, a convenient story for an editor and popular tribune, whose house is as public as the street, for the concourse of porters, billstickers, the passing to and fro of proofs, and everybody going and coming. The furniture of the interior showed a strange contrast, a faithful image of the discord which characterized Marat and his destiny. The first floor was very dark, opening on the court, filled with old furniture, dirty tables on which the newspapers were folded up, gave one the idea of the dark lodging of a workman. Farther on, you are surprised to find a little parlor, opening on the street, furnished in blue and white damask, of a delicate and hand

some color, with beautiful silk curtains and porcelain vases, generally filled with flowers. This was plainly the abode of a tender and attentive woman, who appeared to be anxious that a man, like Marat, devoted to work, should find a place of rest. This was the mystery in the life of Marat, which was afterwards disclosed by his sister; he was not in his own house; he had no home in this world. "Marat was at no expense," as his sister Albertine says, "for a divine woman, touched with his situation, when he was flying from cellar to cellar, took and hid in her house the friend of the people; she devoted her fortune, and sacrificed her rest to him."

A promise to marry Catherine Evrard was found among Marat's papers. He had already married her before the sun and before nature.

This unfortunate creature, grown old before her time, was consuming away from anxiety. She felt that death was surrounding Marat, and she watched at the door, stopping on the threshold every suspicious face.

But Mademoiselle Corday was far from appearing so; her modest appearance, as a young girl from the provinces, interceded for her. At this

time, when everything was in extreme, when a woman's dress was either neglected or cynical, the young girl seemed to come from the good old Norman stock; and she did not abuse her beauty; a green ribbon confined her superb head of hair under the well-known cap of the women of Calvados, a modest headdress, less pretentious than those of Caen.

Contrary to the custom of the times, and in spite of the heat of July, her bosom was closely covered with a silk handkerchief, securely tied behind her back. She had on a white dress, and but one luxury which showed the woman, the lace of the cap was left to float around her cheeks. And, lastly, there was no paleness, but, on the contrary, her cheeks were red, and her clear voice gave no sign of emotion.

With a firm step she crossed the first barrier, not stopping at the order of the porteress, who called after her in vain; she submitted to the but little benevolent scrutiny of Catherine, who, at the noise, had half opened the door, and wanted to prevent her entrance. The debate was heard by Marat, and the sound of that silvery and clear voice reached him. He had no dread of women,

and, though in the bath, imperiously ordered that she should enter.

The room was little, and dark; Marat in the bath, was covered with a dirty cloth, and had a board on which he was writing, only leaving his head, shoulders, and right arm free. His gray hair, covered with a handkerchief or napkin, his yellow skin, and thin limbs, and his large toadlike mouth, did not look much like a man. The young girl, as we can well believe, did not look at him. She had promised him news from Normandy-he asked for them, and especially the name of the refugee deputies at Caen, and wrote them down as she named them. Then, having finished: "That is all right; in a week they will be on their way to the guillotine."

Charlotte, finding in these words an addition of strength, and a reason for striking, drew the knife from her bosom, and plunged it up to the handle in the heart of Marat. The blow, falling thus from a height, struck with an extraordinary accuracy, passing near the clavicle, through the lungs, opened the head of the carotids, and a stream of blood gushed out.

"Help! my dear friend!" was all that he could say, and expired.

CHAPTER XIX.

DEATH OF CHARLOTTE CORDAY. (19TH JULY, 1793.)

WHEN the wife and the commissioner entered, Charlotte was found standing motionless near the window. The man, barring the doors so that she could not escape, struck at her head with a chair. But she remained immovable. The people from the neighborhood and persons passing by, hearing the cries, flocked in. A surgeon was called, but one only was found dead. In the mean time the guard had with difficulty restrained the people from tearing Charlotte to pieces; grasping her firmly, for she did not think of protecting herself. Unmoved, she looked around with a clouded cold eye. A hairdresser of. the neighborhood, who had taken possession of the knife, was brandishing it with horrible yells, but she paid no attention to him. The only thing that seemed to astonish her, and which (she said herself) made her