Among the letters written by her during those "days of
the preparation of peace "--as she calls that period, dating in
such terms a long epistle to Barbaroux--was one to the Committee
of Public Safety, in which she begs that a miniature-painter may
be sent to her to paint her portrait, so that she may leave this
token of remembrance to her friends. It is only in this, as the
end approaches, that we see in her conduct any thought for her
own self, any suggestion that she is anything more than a
instrument in the hands of Fate.
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.
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