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.
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