A noise of voices raised in the outer room invaded the quiet in which he was at work, and gradually penetrated his absorption, until it disturbed and irritated him. He moved restlessly in his bath, listened a moment, then, with intent to make an end of the interruption, he raised a hoarse, croaking voice to inquire what might be taking place. The door opened, and Simonne, his mistress and household drudge, entered the room. She was fully twenty years younger than himself, and under the slattern appearance which life in that house 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, chére amie! Help!” he cried, and was for ever silent.