The Story Continues: Chapter 20 - My Capture

Chapter Twenty...

In which Charlotte is bound, captured and taken to prison.

As Simone and others rushed to Marat, I escaped into an antechamber. But I was immediately apprehended, my ears deafened by the wails of “Help!” and “Assassin!”  Someone hit me with a chair. I fell to the floor. Someone else tied my wrists together with a rough rope. It hurt terribly, but I didn’t resist. I knew all along that it would come to this; I knew that killing Marat was as good as committing suicide.

I was questioned for hours, always the same demand. My interrogators wanted to know who was behind my act; who were my collaborators. Over and over I told them it was my idea; that I acted alone. 

It wasn’t until midnight that was I placed in a coach and taken to the nearest prison. Though located close to Marat’s apartments, it took two hours to reach it, for a huge crowd had gathered wishing to see the murderess of Jean-Paul Marat. They menaced the horse and carriage, hurling death threats through distorted faces. I was frightened; I thought the people might tear me to pieces. This was not what I had expected. I thought they would rejoice. I thought they would carry me through the streets on their shoulders. Instead, they called me an “Enemy of the Revolution”.

Yesterday, I was transferred to the Conciergerie, the Revolutionary Prison, where most people these days leave by tumbrel - an open wooden cart used to ferry the condemned to their beheading at the Place de la Revolution.  For this reason the Conciergerie is known today as, “the antechamber to the guillotine.”

I beg you to come visit me at the Conciergerie Prison, to bear witness to the conditions of my incarceration. But, please, we’ve come a long way. You must first take a rest and a bit of nourishment at another hotbed of the Revolution: Le Café Procope.

Next...

Charlotte is tried and convicted to death by guillotine.

Listen to Charlotte tell her story in her own words.

Download her StoryApp here.

Image:

Charlotte Corday. Original steel engraving drawn by A. Lacauchie, engraved by Roze, 1849. Digital image courtesy of www.antique-prints.de.



The Climax, pt. 2: Chapter 19 - Marat's Bath

Chapter 19, pt 2...

In which, Charlotte steals into Marat's bath and dispatches him with a kitchen knife.

Simone took the letter and shut the door with a slam, leaving me alone on that drab, inhospitable landing. I could have turned around right there and then. But Marat was just on the other side of that door. I took a long, deep breath, and held it. Would I again be turned away? If so, so be it. Or would I meet the monster Marat at last?

I met my enemy in a small, square room with a brick-tiled floor. A map of France hung upon worn wallpaper. His tub was the shape of a sabot, an old wooden shoe. A board lying across it served as a writing table so that Marat could work on his articles and conduct his interviews even while soaking. To keep warm, he sat upon a linen sheet, the dry ends covering his bare shoulders. A second sheet, draped across the tub and writing table, offered him a bit of privacy from his visitors.

Marat was strange and unpleasant, thin and feverish.  His head was wrapped in a filthy, vinegar-soaked handkerchief.  On his skin were open lesions that reeked of decaying, rotten flesh.  My eyes began to tear, struggling so against the fumes of death and medicine that I did not at first notice Marat motioning me to take the chair placed beside his bath. I sat as requested, my head turned toward the window, searching the still, hot summer air for what little breeze might chance to come my way.  And in the gloom of evening’s waning light, Marat took great pleasure in scribbling down one by one, his head bent over his writing table, the names of each of my beloved Girondin friends. 

Once finished he raised his head, his blood-shot eyes met mine for the first time. He proclaimed viciously, hate dripping from his lips, “We’ll soon have them all guillotined in Paris!” 

At that moment I knew I had justly come.  I pulled out my knife and stabbed Marat right through the heart.

One blow was all it took. I felt the knife penetrate flesh, bone, muscle. It was shocking how easy it was. 

Marat died almost instantly. 

Next installment...

Charlotte is bound, captured and taken to prison.

Listen to Charlotte tell her story in her own words.

Download her StoryApp here.

Image:

David, Jacques Louis (1748-1825), (studio of). Death of Marat, 1793. Oil on canvas, 162 x 130 cm. Inv.: RF 1945-2. Photo: G. Blot/C. Jean. Louvre, Paris, France. Photo Credit: Réunion des Musées Nationaux / Art Resource, NY.

The Climax, pt. 1: Chapter 19 - Marat's Bath

Chapter 19, pt. 1...

In which Charlotte betrays her Girondin friends.

Here is the printing press where, until three days ago, on 13 July 1793 - until I killed him - Marat printed his revolutionary paper, Friend of the People. On an adjacent street, in an old house with a corner turret, Marat lived with his constant and faithful companion, Simone. While at the Palais Egalité, I learned that I was not the only person who hated Marat.  Indeed, he had many dangerous enemies as a result of the views expressed in his journal. He often had to go into hiding to keep from being killed. One such time he took refuge in the Paris sewers. While there, he contracted a terrible skin disease. 

After that his only comfort was soaking in a tub of cold water and medicinal herbs. On his worst days, when the pain was very great, he stayed in his bath all day.

On the evening of 13 July, I found Marat thus, in the bath at his apartment around the corner from his press. It was my third visit to his house that day. The first two times – once in the early morning, then at mid-day – I had been turned away by Simone. This time, however, I succeeded in gaining entry. I climbed the steps to Marat’s door, one heavy foot at a time, and plucked up the courage to knock yet again. I was confronted once more by a scowling and suspicious Simone, but before she could dismiss me a third time, I offered her, with a slightly trembling hand, a letter addressed to Monsieur Marat.  I had written the letter myself, in the heat of the afternoon after my second failed attempt to cross his threshold. The letter stated that I had come to name names; that I was prepared to give him information regarding the missing Girondin “Enemies of the Revolution” that he sought. 

Who would suspect a 24-year old girl?

Tomorrow: pt. 2...

In which Marat is dispatched.

Listen to Charlotte tell her story in her own words.

Download her StoryApp here.

Image:

David, Jacques Louis (1748-1825), (studio of). Detail from, Death of Marat, 1793. Oil on canvas, 162 x 130 cm. Inv.: RF 1945-2. Photo: G. Blot/C. Jean. Louvre, Paris, France. Photo Credit: Réunion des Musées Nationaux / Art Resource, NY.

Chapter 18 - Marat's Murder

Chapter Eighteen...

In which Charlotte buys her weapon, then hunts Marat down.

Like my Girondin friends, I read about the sham trial and condemnation of my king in Marat’s ill-named journal, Ami du people, or Friend of the People.  Marat made no secret of his views. He was thrilled at the death-sentence leveled at my king.  He demanded that the National Convention also find and sever the heads of the 21 Girondin delegates who had attempted to save poor “Louis the Last”.

I believed then, as I do now, that Marat, with his hateful Jacobin opinions, was the cause of the Reign of Terror now gripping my country. He was responsible for the desecration of the churches. He was to blame for the savage deaths of priests and nobles massacred in their prison cells. It is because of him that friend now denounces friend and neighbor denounces neighbor, all in an attempt to save their own necks. Because of Marat, we all live in fear; we are ruled by terror. Heads roll by the hundreds from the guillotines; their blades and the streets beneath them stained a perpetual blood red. Marat encouraged it all to happen through his ill-named journal, Friend of the People. He had to be stopped.

I decided to do it myself.  I would sacrifice my life to save France and my Girondin compatriots, to avenge my king and the peaceful Revolution. The moderate Girondin are the true saviors of France.  I had to kill Marat to stop them from being killed. This would be my contribution to creating a lasting peace in France. 

On 9 July 1793, I bade farewell to my childhood home after seeing all my friends and settling all my debts. I sent a note to my father telling him that I was leaving France for England, never to return. I begged his forgiveness that I did not call on him directly. I told him I was afraid that if I saw him again I would change my mind. I asked him to kiss my beloved sister for me. I gave my favorite sketchbook and pencils to the carpenter’s boy on the corner. I caught the coach to Paris, not daring to look back.

I arrived here in Paris two days later, on 11 July, and secured room no. 7 at the Hotel de la Providence, a small room on the 1^st floor with a window facing the street.  I went directly to the Palais Egalité to learn the latest political news and to find out what I could of Marat’s habits. 

Before the sun had set on July 12, I knew that Marat no longer went to the Convention.  He was ill, I discovered, and rarely left his home.  I resolved to find him there, though I had hoped to cut him down on the Convention floor.

At 6:00 on the morning of July 13, I left my hotel.  I found my way back to the Palais Egalité before the shops had opened for the day.  I walked slowly through the gardens one last time, with its rows of trees, green and cool in the clear morning air. I enjoyed the sounds of the city waking to a new day. The day dawned fresh. Birds sang with the advance of the sun. How bittersweet were those last moments of freedom.

By 8:00 the shops began to open, and I slipped into a cutler here at #177, Galerie de Valois. I bought a large knife for the cost of two francs. With the knife concealed in the bodice of my dress, I left the gardens at 9:00, resolved to track down the man I believe to be the murderer of the ideals of the French Revolution.  I left in search of Jean-Paul Marat. 

Follow me on the journey to end of Marat’s life…and mine…

Return for our next installment,

Chapter Seventeen...

In which Charlotte wields her knife.

Listen to Charlotte tell her story in her own words.

Download her StoryApp here.

Images:

Jean-Paul Marat. From Adolphe Thiers, Histoire de la Révolution française (10 tomes). Paris: Furne et Cie Libraires-Éditeurs, 1865 (13th edition, collection of Y.- A. Durelle-Marc). Digital image courtesy of le Centre d’Histoire du Droit de l’Universite Rennes 1.

Robert-Fleury, Tony (1838-1911). Charlotte Corday at Caen in 1793. Oil on canvas, 2.100 x 1.250 m. CM177. Photo: R.G. Ojeda. Musée Bonnat, Bayonne, France. Photo Credit: Réunion des Musées Nationaux / Art Resource, NY.

Time Traveler Tours go to Bologna

On March 22, 2010, at the acclaimed Bologna Childrens' Book Fair in Italy, Sarah read from the prototype historical itinerary of the Time Traveler Tours, Beware Madame La Guillotine, to rave reviews:

On the evening of 13 July 1793, I found Marat thus, in the bath at his apartment around the corner from his press. It was my third visit to his house that day. The first two times – once in the early morning, then at mid-day – I had been turned away by Simone. This time, however, I succeeded in gaining entry. I climbed the steps to Marat’s door, one heavy foot at a time, and plucked up the courage to knock yet again. I was confronted once more by a scowling and suspicious Simone, but before she could dismiss me a third time, I offered her, with a slightly trembling hand, a letter addressed to Monsieur Marat.  I had written the letter myself, in the heat of the afternoon after my second failed attempt to cross his threshold. The letter stated that I had come to name names; that I was prepared to give him information regarding the missing Girondin “Enemies of the Revolution” that he sought. 

Who would suspect a 24-year old girl?

Simone took the letter and shut the door with a slam, leaving me alone on that drab, inhospitable landing. I could have turned around right there and then. But Marat was just on the other side of that door. I took a long, deep breath, and held it. Would I again be turned away? If so, so be it. Or would I meet the monster Marat at last?

I met my enemy in a small, square room with a brick-tiled floor. A map of France hung upon worn wall-paper. His tub was the shape of a sabot, an old wooden shoe. A board lying across it served as a writing table so that Marat could work on his articles and conduct his interviews even while soaking. To keep warm, he sat upon a linen sheet, the dry ends covering his bare shoulders. A second sheet draped across the tub and writing table offered him a bit of privacy from his visitors.

Marat was strange and unpleasant, thin and feverish.  His head was wrapped in a filthy, vinegar-soaked handkerchief.  On his skin were open lesions that reeked of decaying, rotten flesh.  My eyes began to tear, struggling so against the fumes of death and medicine that I did not at first notice Marat motioning me to take the chair placed beside his bath. I sat as requested, my head turned toward the window, searching the still, hot summer air for what little breeze might chance to come my way.  And in the gloom of evening’s waning light, Marat took great pleasure in scribbling down one by one, his head bent over his writing table, the names of each of my beloved Girondin friends. 

Once finished he raised his head, his blood-shot eyes met mine for the first time. He proclaimed viciously, hate dripping from his lips, “We’ll soon have them all guillotined in Paris!” 

At that moment I knew I had justly come.  I pulled out my knife and stabbed Marat right through the heart.

One blow was all it took. I felt the knife penetrate flesh, bone, muscle. It was shocking how easy it was. 

Marat died almost instantly. 

Image:  Baudry, Paul-Jacques-Aimé. Charlotte Corday. 1860. Musée des Beaux-Arts, Nantes.