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Updated: May 28, 2025
All night the revolutionary rabble, in angry grief, surged about and kept watch upon the house wherein the People's Friend lay dead. That night, and for two days and nights thereafter, Charlotte Corday lay in the Prison of the Abbaye, supporting with fortitude the indignities that for a woman were almost inseparable from revolutionary incarceration.
"I would cut my tongue out, if it did you a service," said Rhoda. "Citoyenne Corday," thought Edward, and observed: "Then I will dispense with your assistance." He moved in the direction of the house. Rhoda swiftly outstripped him. They reached the gates together. She threw herself in the gateway. He attempted to parley, but she was dumb to it.
Through just such a maze of foliage Charlotte Corday has also walked, again and again, with her wonderful face aflame with her great purpose, before the purpose ripened into the dagger thrust at Marat's bared breast that avenging Angel of Beauty stabbing the Beast in his bath.
The snow-white curls being arranged to the best advantage, Madeleine placed upon the head of her aunt a dainty cap, of the Charlotte Corday form, composed of bits of very old and costly lace, an heir-loom in the de Gramont family, such lace as could no longer be purchased for gold, even if its members had been in a condition to exchange bullion for thread.
I wrote some days ago to a lady of my acquaintance at Caen, to beg she would procure me some information relative to this extraordinary female, and I subjoin an extract of her answer, which I have just received: "Miss Corday was a native of this department, and had, from her earliest years, been very carefully educated by an aunt who lives at Caen.
Charlotte Corday died with a serene and dignified countenance; one of the executioners having seized her head when it fell, and given it several slaps, this base act of cowardice raised a general murmur among the people.
With his habitual slouchy gait and the steady pressure of his powerful elbows, he pushed his way to the door, whilst gleaning whisperings and rumours on his way. "The citizen Marat has been assassinated." "By a woman." "A mere girl." "A wench from Caen. Her name is Corday." "The people nearly tore her to pieces awhile ago." "She is as much as guillotined already."
In this city was pointed out to me, the house in which the celebrated Charlotte Corday resided, who, by her poniard, delivered France of the monster, Marat, on Sunday, the 14th of July, 1793. There is some coincidence in the crimes, and fate of Caligula and Marat, both perished by the avengers of their country, whilst in the act of approaching their baths.
It is worth our while to speak first of Charlotte herself and of the man she slew, and then to tell that other tale which ought always to be entwined with her great deed of daring. Charlotte Corday Marie Anne Charlotte Corday d'Armand was a native of Normandy, and was descended, as her name implies, from noble ancestors.
Juliette marvelled at his courage; to defend Charlotte Corday was equivalent to acquiescing in the death of Marat: Marat, the friend of the people; Marat, whom his funeral orators had compared to the Great, the Sacred Leveller of Mankind! But Deroulede's speech was not a defence, it was an appeal.
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