Now mark what occurred. The woman Albertine, offended, walked away, her friend followed her, and Charlotte Corday was alone with Marat.
The room was dark, close, and smelt abominably. He was wrapped in a dirty sheet, and sitting in a bath, across which was a rough piece of wood which he made his desk, for he passed hours in the water. He was writing when Charlotte Corday entered. He had finished this sentence:—“I demand that every man in France who has the blood of the Bourbons in his veins, however little, shall be put upon his trial, and his wife and children also.”
She approached this human monster, her eyes downcast. He spoke to her imperiously—“What is the state of Normandy?”
“Certain deputies have taken refuge in Caen.”
“Their names?”
She gave certain names, and he wrote them down.
“Good!” he said; “before another week is past, they shall be guillotined.”
At this moment she raised the dagger she took from the breast of her dress, and plunged it down into his bosom.
“Help, my dear, help!” he cried, and fell back dead.
Albertine, the woman, and a man named Basse rushed forward in time to see his last-drawn breath. By this time the water was like that crimson stream Marat was for ever demanding. He was bathed in it himself now.