By a peculiar course of study—which it is needless to analyze—she had brought herself to that condition of mind when the sufferer experiences the belief that a self-sacrifice of some nature must be made, in order to appease an inexplicable, unknown longing to do some good—a something which is supposed to be good—in the world.
She was essentially a Republican; but gradually, slowly, the conviction enchained her, that Marat was its monster, and that he must die. Her resolve appears to have been hastened by the departure of her lover, who joined the Caen volunteers. This gentleman, one Franquelin, was, it is said, accused by Marat as a conspirator against the republic, and assassinated by villains hired for that purpose. He did not die on the spot, as it was at first reported, but returned home after Charlotte Corday’s execution. His last words were an entreaty to his mother to bury with him Charlotte’s portrait, and all the letters she had ever written to him.
Supplemental to the latter motive, Charlotte Corday believed Marat was ruining all France. Here she believed truly.
She obtained a letter to one of the Conventionists. No one had the slightest idea of her intentions. She retained a sweet, soft gaiety, which was quite natural to her, and which accompanied this lady to the scaffold. An anecdote is very characteristic of her life. Just before she started for Paris, passing a café, outside of which some men were card-playing, she said, “Cards! Do you know your country is dying?”
Taking a sheet of drawing-paper one morning, she said, “Aunt, I am going to sketch the hay-makers—kiss me.”
Going out, she met a child, of whom she was very fond.
“Here, Robert,” she said, giving him the drawing-paper; “kiss me, and be a good boy. You will never see me again.”
She chattered in the coach most of the way to Paris. One young man fell in love with her, and asked to apply to her friends. She mirthfully repulsed him, and told him to wait, at least for some days.
It was now July. On the eleventh of that month, Charlotte Corday reached Paris. At five in the afternoon she retired to rest in a public-house, and slept until next day, when she presented her letter at the house of the Conventionist, Duperret. When she saw him, she vaguely entreated him to flee from Paris. “After to-morrow evening,” she said, “it will be too late.”
Duperret spoke of her as a beautiful girl, slightly deranged.