It was now July. On the eleventh of that month, Charlotte Corday reached Paris. At five in the afternoon she retired to rest in a public-house, and slept until next day, when she presented her letter at the house of the Conventionist, Duperret. When she saw him, she vaguely entreated him to flee from Paris. “After to-morrow evening,” she said, “it will be too late.” Duperret spoke of her as a beautiful girl, slightly deranged. Her great desire was to remain unknown by name in connection with the death of Marat. With this view, she determined to kill him before the people, so that she might at once be torn to pieces, and her mutilated face be beyond recognition. But she learnt that Marat was so ill that he could not appear in public again. He still issued, daily, stronger and more defiant demands for men’s lives. It was said he remained at home from fear of assassination. Charlotte Corday resolved to seek him in his home. She wrote this letter:— “I have just arrived from Caen. Your patriotism allows me to be presumptive enough to hope that you will hear privately what I have to say concerning events in that city. I shall present myself at your door about one o’clock. I pray you for the good of all France—receive me!” She went to his house, and was refused admittance. She wrote another letter:— “I cannot believe that it was you yourself refused me admission: you are too good a patriot. I repeat, I have important news to tell you; that I have just arrived from the north, and I have secrets to disclose. I am persecuted. Will _you_, then, not aid me?” At seven the next morning she dressed herself very carefully. She wore a white dress, with a silk scarf crossed over the breast and knotted behind—a white Normandy cap, bound with a green ribbon—her hair falling over her shoulders. Her face was bright, fresh-colored, her countenance smiling. Thus she presented herself at the house occupied by Marat, who happened to be in his bath, which he used, not for its cleanly offices, but because it reduced the bodily inflammation which had now become habitual to him. The house, which bore all the aspects of that poverty in which Marat was really plunged, was jealously guarded. But what men could suspect a beautiful girl, clothed in brilliant white, her face flushing with youth and beauty? Charlotte Corday stepped from her coach, and approached the house. She reached the outer door of the apartments in which Marat lived, and there her entrance was jealously opposed by Albertine, Marat’s mistress, and a female friend. Marat, hearing the altercation, and associating the pleading voice with the letters he had received, imperatively ordered the applicant to be admitted. Now mark what occurred. The woman Albertine, offended, walked away, her friend followed her, and Charlotte Corday was alone with Marat.