ouse had imposed upon her there
were vestiges of a certain comeliness.

"There is a young woman here from Caen, who demands insistently to see
you upon a matter of national importance."

The dull eyes kindle at the mention of Caen; interest quickens in that
leaden-hued countenance. Was it not in Caen that those old foes of his,
the Girondins, were stirring up rebellion?

"She says," Simonne continued, "that she wrote a letter to you this
morning, and she brings you a second note herself. I have told her that
you will not receive anyone, and..."

"Give me the note," he snapped. Setting down his pen, he thrust out an
unclean paw to snatch the folded sheet from Simonne's hand. He spread
it, and read, his bloodless lips compressed, his eyes narrowing to
slits.

"Let her in," he commanded sharply, and Simonne obeyed him without more
ado. She admitted Charlotte, and left them alone together--the avenger
and her victim. For a moment each regarded the other. Marat beheld
a handsome young woman, elegantly attired. But these things had no
interest for the People's Friend. What to him was woman and the lure of
beauty? Charlotte beheld a feeble man of a repulsive hideousness, and
was full satisfied, for in this outward loathsomeness she imagined a
confirmation of the vileness of the mind she was come to blot out.

Then Marat spoke. "So you are from Caen, child?" he said. "And what is
doing in Caen that makes you so anxious to see me?"

She approached him.

"Rebellion is stirring there, Citizen Marat."

"Rebellion, ha!" It was a sound between a laugh and a croak. "Tell me
what deputies are sheltered in Caen. Come, child, their names." He took
up and dipped his quill, and drew a sheet of paper towards him.

She approached still nearer; she came to stand close beside him, erect
and calm. She recited the names of her friends, the Girondins, whilst
hunched there in his bath his pen scratched briskly.

"So many for the guillotine," he snarled, when it was done.

But whilst he was writing, she had drawn the knife from her fichu, and
as he uttered those words of doom to others his own doom descended upon
him in a lightning stroke. Straight driven by that strong young arm, the
long, stout blade was buried to its black hilt in his breast.

He looked at her with eyes in which there was a faint surprise as he
sank back. Then he raised his voice for the last time.

"Help, chere amie! Help!" he cried, and was for ever silent.