“What proof have you of this?”
“The future will afford the proof. Marat hid his designs behind a mask of patriotism.”
Montane shifted the ground of his interrogatory.
“Who were your accomplices in this atrocious act?”
“I have none.”
Montane shook his head. “You cannot convince anyone that a person of your age and sex could have conceived such a crime unless instigated by some person or persons whom you are unwilling to name.”
Charlotte almost smiled. “That shows but a poor knowledge of the human heart. It is easier to carry out such a project upon the strength of one’s own hatred than upon that of others.” And then, raising her voice, she proclaimed: “I killed one man to save a hundred thousand; I killed a villain to save innocents; I killed a savage wild-beast to give repose to France. I was a Republican before the Revolution. I never lacked for energy.”
What more was there to say? Her guilt was completely established. Her fearless self-obssession was not to be ruffled. Yet Fouquier-Tinville, the dread prosecutor, made the attempt. Beholding her so virginal and fair and brave, feeling perhaps that the Tribunal had not had the best of it, he sought with a handful of revolutionary filth to restore the balance. He rose slowly, his ferrety eyes upon her.
“How many children have you had?” he rasped, sardonic, his tone a slur, an insult.
Faintly her cheeks crimsoned. But her voice was composed, disdainful, as she answered coldly: