Just before the commencement of the Reign of Terror in France, there might have been seen in a quiet corner of a quiet old street in Caen (that city in Normandy so much mixed up with the early history of English), a quiet old house, called the Grand Manor—a house around a court-yard, in the centre of which was a mossy fountain. Near this fountain, through the sunny hours, might frequently be seen a very beautiful girl, the niece of an aged woman, who was the maiden’s aunt. This was Charlotte Corday. Fair of skin, and grey of eye, her hair was what had not inaptly been termed gilded-black. In other words, it was black hair, golden-tipped, with golden lines veining it. She was always dressed plainly, in brown cloth, and her voice was sweet and lingering. No man has ever breathed a word against her character. By a peculiar course of study—which it is needless to analyze—she had brought herself to that condition of mind when the sufferer experiences the belief that a self-sacrifice of some nature must be made, in order to appease an inexplicable, unknown longing to do some good—a something which is supposed to be good—in the world. She was essentially a Republican; but gradually, slowly, the conviction enchained her, that Marat was its monster, and that he must die. Her resolve appears to have been hastened by the departure of her lover, who joined the Caen volunteers. This gentleman, one Franquelin, was, it is said, accused by Marat as a conspirator against the republic, and assassinated by villains hired for that purpose. He did not die on the spot, as it was at first reported, but returned home after Charlotte Corday’s execution. His last words were an entreaty to his mother to bury with him Charlotte’s portrait, and all the letters she had ever written to him. Supplemental to the latter motive, Charlotte Corday believed Marat was ruining all France. Here she believed truly. She obtained a letter to one of the Conventionists. No one had the slightest idea of her intentions. She retained a sweet, soft gaiety, which was quite natural to her, and which accompanied this lady to the scaffold. An anecdote is very characteristic of her life. Just before she started for Paris, passing a _café_, outside of which some men were card-playing, she said, “Cards! Do you know your country is dying?” Taking a sheet of drawing-paper one morning, she said, “Aunt, I am going to sketch the hay-makers—kiss me.” Going out, she met a child, of whom she was very fond. “Here, Robert,” she said, giving him the drawing-paper; “kiss me, and be a good boy. You will never see me again.” She chattered in the coach most of the way to Paris. One young man fell in love with her, and asked to apply to her friends. She mirthfully repulsed him, and told him to wait, at least for some days.