At about seven o’clock in the evening of July 13 she left her hotel, took a cab and proceeded to the residence of Marat, a dismal old building, No. 20 in the Rue des Cordeliers. There Marat lived, and there also he had the office and the press and composing-rooms of his newspaper, “The Friend of the People.” Marat’s living apartments, which were furnished with a certain elegance strangely contrasting with the general appearance of the building, were situated on the second floor and were shared by his mistress, or rather his wife, who loved him passionately, and who watched over him with the fidelity of a dog. Knowing the great peril to which the idol of her heart might be exposed from foreign visitors, she subjected each of them, before admitting him, to a careful scrutiny and painstaking examination.
When Charlotte Corday had ascended the stairway leading to Marat’s office, she suddenly found herself in the presence of Catherine Evrard—she continued to call herself by that name, although afterwards it appeared that she had been married to Marat. Catherine was surprised at the strange visitor, who, with a firm and melodious voice, inquired for the citizen Marat and desired to see him. With great attention Catherine scanned the young woman, who was dressed with great modesty and looked like a lady from the provinces, and demanded the object of her visit, and as Charlotte either refused to give her that information or failed to impress her favorably, she declined to admit her to Marat’s room, who, she said, was just taking a bath and could not be seen. At this moment Marat’s voice was heard from a room whose door was not tightly closed, and he told Catherine to admit the young stranger. He thought it was the young woman who had written to him, and who had announced her visit for that evening. Thus invited, Charlotte entered the room, much against the wish of Catherine. It was a small and dark room. A bath-tub stood in the centre, and Marat was taking a bath, covered up to the neck, except his right arm and shoulder, for he was in the act of writing an editorial for his newspaper. A board had been placed across the tub, and in this way a table had been formed to hold his manuscript. As she stepped up to him he began to ask her concerning the important news from Normandy she had promised in her letter. He also inquired about the Girondists who had gone there, and wanted to know what they were doing. She told him. “It is all right,” he said, while marking down their names. “Within a week they will all be guillotined.” If anything had been needed to confirm her resolution and to stir her up to speedy action, it was this announcement. She quickly drew the dagger from her bosom and plunged it into Marat’s breast up to the handle. This thrust, aimed from above, and executed with wonderful force and firmness, pierced the lungs, and severed the main arteries, from which a stream of blood rushed forth.
“Ah, this to me, my dear friend?” exclaimed the wounded man. It was all he could say. A moment later he was dead.
The assassination of Marat created a rage, a frenzy among the lowest classes of the population of Paris which it is impossible to describe. That the courageous young woman who had slain the demon of blood was not torn to pieces is a wonder. Charlotte, in thinking of the fate which might befall her after her task was performed, had not forgotten the possibility or even probability of falling a victim to the fury of the people, but even this terrible prospect did not deter her. She received what may be called a fair trial and she had the benefit of an official defender. Since she did not deny the act of assassination and readily admitted that it was an act of premeditation and careful preparation, any painstaking investigation might have been deemed unnecessary but for the hope which the Terrorists entertained, of connecting the Girondist party, and especially the Girondists assembled at Caen, with her crime,—a hope in which they were utterly disappointed. She was therefore arraigned before the Revolutionary Tribunal and subjected to a rigorous examination as to her accomplices.
“Who filled your mind with so much hatred for Marat?” asked the judge.
“I did not need the hatred of others,” she replied; “my own was sufficient.”
“But somebody must have instigated you to commit this deed?”
“We do but poorly what others tell us to do.”
“What did you hate him for?”
“For the enormity of his crimes.”