On the 15th, at eight o’clock in the morning, her trial began before the Revolutionary Tribunal. A murmur ran through the hall as she appeared in her gown of grey-striped dimity, composed and calm—always calm. The trial opened with the examination of witnesses; into that of the cutler, who had sold her the knife, she broke impatiently. “These details are a waste of time. It is I who killed Marat.” The audience gasped, and rumbled ominously. Montane turned to examine her. “What was the object of your visit to Paris?” he asks. “To kill Marat.” “What motives induced you to this horrible deed?” “His many crimes.” “Of what crimes do you accuse him?” “That he instigated the massacre of September; that he kept alive the fires of civil war, so that he might be elected dictator; that he sought to infringe upon the sovereignty of the People by causing the arrest and imprisonment of the deputies to the Convention on May 31st.” “What proof have you of this?” “The future will afford the proof. Marat hid his designs behind a mask of patriotism.” Montane shifted the ground of his interrogatory. “Who were your accomplices in this atrocious act?” “I have none.” Montane shook his head. “You cannot convince anyone that a person of your age and sex could have conceived such a crime unless instigated by some person or persons whom you are unwilling to name.” Charlotte almost smiled. “That shows but a poor knowledge of the human heart. It is easier to carry out such a project upon the strength of one’s own hatred than upon that of others.” And then, raising her voice, she proclaimed: “I killed one man to save a hundred thousand; I killed a villain to save innocents; I killed a savage wild-beast to give repose to France. I was a Republican before the Revolution. I never lacked for energy.” What more was there to say? Her guilt was completely established. Her fearless self-obssession was not to be ruffled. Yet Fouquier-Tinville, the dread prosecutor, made the attempt. Beholding her so virginal and fair and brave, feeling perhaps that the Tribunal had not had the best of it, he sought with a handful of revolutionary filth to restore the balance. He rose slowly, his ferrety eyes upon her. “How many children have you had?” he rasped, sardonic, his tone a slur, an insult. Faintly her cheeks crimsoned. But her voice was composed, disdainful, as she answered coldly: “Have I not stated that I am not married?” A leer, a dry laugh, a shrug from Tinville to complete the impression he sought to convey, and he sat down again. It was the turn of Chauveau de la Garde, the advocate instructed to defend her. But what defence was possible? And Chauveau had been intimidated. He had received a note from the jury ordering him to remain silent, another from the President bidding him declare her mad. Yet Chauveau took a middle course. His brief speech is admirable; it satisfied his self-respect, without derogating from his client. It uttered the whole truth.