Never was Republic One and Indivisible at a lower ebb. Amid dim
ferment, History specially notices one thing: in the lobby of the
Maison de l'Intendance, where busy Deputies are coming and going, a
young Lady with an aged valet, taking grave graceful leave of Deputy
Barbaroux. She is of stately Norman figure: in her twenty-fifth year;
of beautiful still countenance: her name is Charlotte Corday,
heretofore styled D'Armans, while Nobility still was. Barbaroux has
given her a note to Deputy Duperret,--him who once drew his sword in
the effervescence. Apparently she will to Paris on some errand? "She
was a Republican before the Revolution, and never wanted energy." A
completeness, a decision is in this fair female Figure: "By energy
she means the spirit that will prompt one to sacrifice himself for his
country." What if she, this fair young Charlotte, had emerged from her
secluded stillness, suddenly like a Star; cruel-lovely, with
half-angelic, half-demonic splendor; to gleam for a moment, and in a
moment be extinguished; to be held in memory, so bright complete was
she, through long centuries!--Quitting Cimmerian Coalitions without,
and the dim-simmering twenty-five million within, History will look
fixedly at this one fair Apparition of a Charlotte Corday; will note
whither Charlotte moves, how the little Life burns forth so radiant,
then vanishes swallowed of the Night.
With Barbaroux's Note of Introduction, and slight stock of luggage, we
see Charlotte on Tuesday the 9th of July seated in the Caen Diligence,
with a place for Paris. None takes farewell of her, wishes her
Good-journey: her Father will find a line left, signifying that she is
gone to England, that he must pardon her, and forget her. The drowsy
Diligence lumbers along; amid drowsy talk of Politics, and praise of
the Mountain; in which she mingles not: all night, all day, and again
all night. On Thursday, not long before noon, we are at the bridge of
Neuilly; here is Paris with her thousand black domes, the goal and
purpose of thy journey! Arrived at the Inn de la Providence in the Rue
des Vieux Augustins, Charlotte demands a room; hastens to bed; sleeps
all afternoon and night, till the morrow morning.
On the morrow morning, she delivers her Note to Duperret. It relates
to certain Family Papers which are in the Minister of the Interior's
hands; which a Nun at Caen, an old Convent friend of Charlotte's, has
need of; which Duperret shall assist her in getting: this then 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[47] 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'École de Médecine,
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 Neuchâtel in the
utmost East, they two are drawing nigh each other; they two have, very
strangely, business together.--Charlotte, returning to her Inn,
dispatches 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-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,
Pétion, writes he with bare shrunk arm, turning aside in the bath:
Pétion, and Louvet, and--Charlotte has drawn her knife from the
sheath; plunges it with one sure stroke, into the writer's heart. "_A
moi chère 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 got
hurled down suddenly from his pillar--_whitherward_ He that made him
knows. Patriot Paris may sound triple and tenfold, in dole and wail;
re-echoed by patriot France; and the Convention, "Chabot pale with
terror, declaring that they are to be all assassinated," may decree
him Pantheon Honors, Public Funeral, Mirabeau's dust making way for
him; and Jacobin Societies, in lamentable oratory, summing up his
character, parallel him to One, whom they think it honor to call "the
good Sans-culotte,"--whom we name not here; also a Chapel may be made,
for the urn that holds his Heart, in the Place du Carrousel; and
new-born children be named Marat; and Lago-di-Como Hawkers bake
mountains of stucco into unbeautiful Busts; and David paint his
Picture, or Death-Scene; and such other Apotheosis take place as the
human genius, in these circumstances, can devise: but Marat returns no
more to the light of this Sun. One sole circumstance we have read with
clear sympathy, in the old Moniteur Newspaper: how Marat's Brother
comes from Neuchâtel to ask of the Convention, "that the deceased
Jean-Paul Marat's musket be given to him." For Marat too had a brother
and natural affections; and was wrapped once in swaddling-clothes, and
slept safe in a cradle like the rest of us. Ye children of men!--A
sister of his, they say, lives still to this day in Paris.
As for Charlotte Corday, her work is accomplished; the recompense of
it is near and sure. The _chère amie_, and the neighbors of the house,
flying at her, she "overturns some movables," intrenches herself till
the gendarmes arrive; then quietly surrenders; goes quietly to the
Abbaye Prison: she alone quiet, all Paris sounding, in wonder, in rage
or admiration, round her. Duperret is put in arrest, on account of
her; his Papers sealed,--which may lead to consequences. Fauchet, in
like manner; though Fauchet had not so much as heard of her.
Charlotte, confronted with these two Deputies, praises the grave
firmness of Duperret, censures the dejection of Fauchet.
On Wednesday morning the thronged Palais de Justice and Revolutionary
Tribunal can see her face; beautiful and calm: she dates it "fourth
day of the Preparation of Peace." A strange murmur ran through the
Hall, at sight of her; you could not say of what character. Tinville
has his indictments and tape-papers: the cutler of the Palais Royal
will testify that he sold her the sheath-knife; "All these 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
(_extrêmement_), 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 Révolution, 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 Beautifullest 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-sacrifices and Death well-earned? That
twenty-five million hearts have got to such temper, this _is_ the
Anarchy; the soul of it lies in this, whereof not peace can be the
embodiment! The death of Marat, whetting old animosities tenfold, will
be worse than any life. O ye hapless Two, mutually extinctive, the
Beautiful and the Squalid, sleep ye well,--in the Mother's bosom that
bore you both!
This is the History of Charlotte Corday; most definite, most complete:
angelic-demonic: like a Star!