Ribbons of Scarlet

by Kate Quinn

  Inside the residence and up the stairs I went, as though I belonged. How odd it was that when you believed you belonged, others did too. People were coming and going from a door on the first floor, and I determined that to be my destination. But a woman stopped me at the threshold. Sweat caused the hair at her temples to stick to her skin. She was plump, and her gown threadbare.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked.

  “I need to speak with Marat.”

  “He is unavailable.”

  I could tell by the way she looked at me that she thought Marat had better things to do. Perhaps if I’d come wearing a bonnet rouge and spouting hatred she might have thought otherwise. Perhaps if I’d come dressed like a man. Perhaps if I’d come shouting at the injustices of the world and laying them at the feet of a child, the dauphin, whom they wanted to murder next.

  “It is quite an important matter,” I insisted, not taking my eyes off hers. I could tell by the way she fidgeted that she didn’t like how direct I was. Most people didn’t. “I sent him a note mentioning that I would come today at one o’clock. My name is Citizeness Corday.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. “He gave no instruction to admit you.”

  “I come to report on a Girondin uprising in Caen, which I referenced in my letter.”

  That grabbed her attention. “He is in his bath, citizeness, quite ill, but I will tell him,” she said.

  Unfortunately, because it was a name she didn’t know, she looked dubious about the possibility that I might have information worth sharing. She dismissed me then, but I wasn’t giving up, I would keep going back as many times as it took.

  “I will return in a few hours when he is no longer indisposed.”

  Two hours later, after pacing the surrounding streets of rue de Cordeliers, I returned, and she once more barred my entry.

  Two days had passed since I’d arrived in Paris and I had nothing to show for it other than a knife in my purse. Was it bad luck? Bad planning? The woman was an unexpected obstacle, and I was now convinced by her presence and the protective possessiveness she showed for Marat that she must be his mistress.

  No matter. Tonight, I would make his mistress let me in. Or she might find herself another sacrifice on the altar of peace.

  After eating a small meal to alleviate my gnawing hunger, I pinned my letter to the people of France along with my baptismal papers into the folds of my fichu, in case I did not make it out of Marat’s residence alive. My letter would show what a delicate hand could accomplish when driven by self-sacrifice. If I should fail, I would have at least shown the people the way.

  “Dear God, may none of my family or friends suffer for my act, for none knew of my plans,” I murmured, crossing myself.

  Again I traveled through the streets, this time in a hired cab, for my feet were sore from all the walking earlier in the day. The way was familiar now. I watched the starving children, pushing in and out of the crowds, begging, stealing. I noticed how every man and woman I passed looked haggard, starved, tired. And this suffering bolstered me and steadied my resolve.

  When I arrived, there was a man delivering a package and no gatekeeper. I snuck through the door only to be stopped at the last minute by the buxom figure I’d come to know so well these last days.

  She openly rolled her eyes at me. “You again? I told you before he is ill. Why do you continue to pester him?”

  I swallowed away my nerves, hoping to come across as confident. This time, I wasn’t leaving without an audience. “Because I must speak to him. We cannot let the Girondins regain their power.”

  She hesitated. She clearly hated the Girondins, and why wouldn’t she—it was the fashion at the moment. But she did not stand aside. Doubtless she still thought I might just be one of Marat’s admirers, like the femmes sans-culottes I’d passed again outside.

  “Please, citizeness, allow me to speak to him. Our glorious victory over the Girondins may depend on it.”

  Before she could reply, from somewhere in the apartment, a man’s voice called out, “Let her in, mon amie, that she might leave us in peace.”

  My heart skipped a beat. My mouth was suddenly dry and a thrill rushed through my veins. The woman visibly gritted her teeth and glowered. “Make it quick. We are to dine soon, and he is still in his bath.”

  “I will be quick,” I assured her.

  And you will dine alone.

  Marat’s mistress led me through their apartment. With every step, I felt my toes going numb, my neck hot.

  She opened a door to reveal a bathing room. A man sat in a copper, boot-shaped tub. “Merci, mon amie,” he said, smiling at her, the gesture grotesque on him. “Leave us.”

  “Quickly,” she hissed at me as she backed out of the room.

  I stood staring at him. The overwhelming scent of the room was of sulfur and rotting flesh. Through the linen of his shirt, I could see the outlines of scaly sores, some of them oozing blood and pus that bled through. His hair was thinning and greasy, and his face was lined with deep unforgiving grooves.

  This man, this invalid, was the powerful devil who had so outrageously been able to turn an entire country on its head?

  It was almost impossible to believe. Had he been left out in nature, he would not have survived. He would’ve been mauled and left for dead, his pain ended long ago. The tender part of me—yes, there was such a part—felt sorry for him. And perhaps what I would do was a mercy not just to France, but to its monster too.

  “Come inside,” he murmured, one long, thin arm gesturing toward a chair in the corner. He seemed quite comfortable receiving guests in his bathroom, as if he made a habit of it. His gaze raked my form, causing my skin to crawl.

  He held a copy of his own newspaper, and he was making comments in the margins, grasping the pen in shriveled, spindly fingers, tipped with long, sharpened nails and covered in black ink stains. His inkwell sat atop an overturned wooden box set on the tub like a desk. As I watched, a wet knuckle brushed the paper, leaving a damp line. The same paper that had been stirring up the crowds in Paris and now Caen. The paper that incited the violence and death of not only the September Massacres but so many others.

  I thought when I first saw him I’d be scared. But I wasn’t. An intense feeling of calm filled me. All the days, no, weeks, of planning had finally come to a head. The cool steel of the knife against my breast was reassuring. I wasn’t even trembling; instead, I was incredibly still and knew exactly what I had to do.

  Marat studied me as though I were some foreign creature. “So you are Charlotte Corday, of Caen. The little bird from the north. I got your earlier missive.”

  I nodded, trying not to bristle at his description of me as a little creature he could crush in his hand.

  “I didn’t think this day would come,” I said a little breathlessly.

  He grinned, showing crooked yellow teeth, taking my words for flattery and having no idea of my true purpose. “I am glad you saw fit to do your patriotic duty, and I’m impressed you would travel all this way rather than merely writing.”

  I swallowed to loosen my tongue where it was stuck to the roof of my mouth. “I thought what needed to be relayed was too important to leave to the care of paper and quill.”

  “Well then, let’s hear it. What of this Girondin plot?”

  I glanced down at the damp floor, knowing that I’d have to step closer to thrust the knife deep. My pulse thundered in my ears, making every word spoken from both him and myself sound far away. “I know where the escaped Girondins are.”

  He narrowed his eyes at me. “Why would you give them up?”

  Undoubtedly, Marat had spoken to many liars. Could he see through me? I willed my hands to still. “They are traitors and deserve to die a traitor’s death.” I stepped forward, steady.

  “Indeed they do. So, tell me then.”

  I could barely breathe, not because I was nervous, but because the air was so thick and hot in the stifling room. Neverthe
less, I found the air to speak the names of the patriots he had helped to condemn: the members of Madame Roland’s faction, her husband included. Perhaps with Marat’s death, they’d be released. With each name I took another small step forward. All the while my gaze was trained on the softly thumping center of his chest.

  I stopped very close to the tub. “They are in Caen. I saw them with my own eyes.”

  “We’ve been searching all through France for them. And to think they were so close all along.” His gleeful laugh scraped unpleasantly down my spine. “We’ll bring them back to Paris and they’ll be guillotined within a week. We’ll paint the streets of Paris with their blood.” As he spoke, he licked his lips with what I took for demonic hunger.

  I couldn’t comment, for fear my voice would crack with the emotion his gleeful declaration of death evoked in me. Instead, I reached into my bodice and pulled out the knife, letting the sheath that protected the blade fall to the floor. He looked up at me strangely, his eyes on the knife.

  “What are you—”

  Before he could say more, I raised the weapon up over my head. Time seemed to stand still as my body arced over his. Marat’s voice faded to a silent scream and he dropped his quill into the water. The paper fell to the side, halfway over the tub. I cut my knife through the air thick with steam and stench, plunging the blade into his chest exactly in the place I felt my own heart beat. There was a sickening thunk as it pierced him. My forearm jarred painfully as I sank the knife through bone and sinew, all the way to the hilt.

  His mouth grew wide, pain etched his features, and a guttural sound issued from his throat. “Help, mon amie!” he managed to cry.

  A weak hand moved to the hilt, as though he might pull it out, but then quickly fell away, as the life bled out of him in ribbons of scarlet.

  I took a shuddering step back, my hands jerking to my sides, fists clenched and slick with his blood. A moment of relief filled me. As though I were no longer in the room, but floating overhead. It was done. I stared at the slowly growing splotch of bright red on the wet fabric of his shirt. A wash of heat pulsed through my arms, my chest, up my neck to face. I watched in exultant fascination.

  Footsteps pounded. But it was too late. Too late for Marat. And too late for me, too, for soon they would be upon me. I could try to escape. But, looking at the small window above his bath and hearing the shouts of the sans-culottes on the street below, I realized that I would rather die at the guillotine’s mercy than let myself fall into such hands as Princess Lamballe had. I’d used up all the bravery I had in that one act and was afraid I might not find it again.

  But I must. I drew upon the wisdom of my favorite philosopher Plutarch once more. “Those who aim at great deeds must also suffer greatly.”

  I touched the papers pinned in my fichu. Would I ever get to say those words aloud? No matter. The sacrifice of my life would be my most eloquent oratory. I stepped into the corner of the bathroom and waited for the doors to open, determined not to be afraid.

  Only a breath more, and they were there. Marat’s mistress and another woman, a maid perhaps, rushed in. “Jean-Paul,” his mistress cried, dropping to her knees, grabbing his hand, clutching it. “Mon Dieu! What has she done to you?” I found it ironic that a godless woman would take the Lord’s name in vain. No one could save him now. Not even the devil.

  Marat’s eyes focused briefly and he reached out for her but his touch fell short. And then he was nothing.

  “You killed him!” she turned her wide eyes on me.

  I nodded. I wasn’t afraid or ashamed. Only relieved. I’d been brave enough to see it through.

  A man burst through the door. “What happened?” He let out a curse when he saw Marat’s lifeless body.

  More men came. They pulled Marat’s lifeless body from his tub and carried him away. Then and only then did one of the men lunge for me and toss me to the ground as if to keep me from fleeing. Overtaken with rage and vengeance he lifted the wooden chair from the corner, bringing it down on my side. Pain crushed through my body as the chair cracked against my ribs again and again. He didn’t stop even when the chair was broken. Instead, while I moaned in agony, he raised the pieces in his hand to beat me again, standing over me like a dog of hell, foaming at the mouth.

  “Arrêtez!” Two guards pulled the rabid man from me, and I sat up, pain ricocheting deep inside my body. I fought down the urge to return the man’s blows. My fingers flexed against the soft carpet covering the hard floor, as I glared up at them, refusing to be sorry for what I’d done.

  “Commissioner, she has murdered Marat,” the hound-man cried, swiping at sweat upon his brow to a third man who entered.

  Blood rushed in my ears as I was lifted, moaning, from the ground. They dragged me into Marat’s salon and tossed me onto a chair. My mind was blank, the sounds of men and women rushing to and fro muted by a whirring noise in my ears and the screaming of my ribs. Several officers came into the room, their white knee breeches blinding, and the candle’s reflections shone in the gleam of their boots and gold buttons on their blue coats. I focused on their shiny buttons and not on the next beating that was sure to come.

  “Do not move,” the commissioner barked.

  “Where would I go?” A little part of me threatened to shatter inside. Murder was a cardinal sin. I’m a soldier, executing an enemy of my country. If God had not wanted me to do this, I would have been turned away again. But Marat himself had invited me in. I gathered up the pieces of my insides, trying to put them back together as the men stared at me as if I were an indecipherable puzzle.

  While one of the officers loomed behind me, standing guard should I bolt, the commissioner tasked one of the other men to take notes. So I was to be questioned.

  “What is your name?”

  They would only listen if I remained calm. Oh, but how hard it was to do that. Taking a ragged breath, I straightened in my chair as best I could. The rungs of the back pressing against me heightened the ache from the beating, but I would not slump before such men. “Marie-Anne Charlotte de Corday d’Armont is my full name, but I am called Charlotte.”

  They asked me other mundane questions. But their last question was the one I’d been waiting for them to ask.

  “What possessed you to kill Citizen Marat?”

  I glanced up with confidence and righteous. “For love of my country! Marat has threatened our republic from where he has stood again and again on the opposite side of the law. And you would condemn me? Civil war is breaking out all over France with him at the helm of every wretched tragedy. Someone had to stop him. I waited for a man to do it, and I watched as many people died at Marat’s instigation. So I determined I must sacrifice my own life to save France.”

  My interrogator frowned, then blinked, then shook his head as if to dismiss my confession. “Who commissioned you to do this? A father? A brother? A lover?”

  How dare they think that I, a woman, could not be capable of such heroism without a man to put the idea in my head. “I assure you, it was my enterprise alone.”

  “Search her.” The commissioner ordered one of the officers. He dumped my purse, revealing a silver thimble that was once my mother’s, white thread, my passport, and some money.

  Still hidden within my bodice, pinned to the inner folds of my fichu, was the letter I’d written. I’d planned for them to find it when they disposed of my body. Now I wanted to hold it close, unsure of whom to entrust it to.

  Unsatisfied with what his officer found, the commissioner came close, bending to eye level with me. “Tell us who sent you.” His voice was threatening, but for the first time in my life, I refused to hide behind a façade of calm humility.

  Curling my lip with distaste, I said, “No one sent me. I made up my own mind. I came for the people of France.”

  I WAS NUMB, both in mind and aching body. Hours had passed and I was still at Marat’s, trapped.

  “This woman came to my house this morning!” an older man exclaimed, his body w
iggling with unrestrained excitement as he pointed at me. I’d never seen him before. “She would’ve killed me had I not seen the viciousness in her eyes and barred the door against her.”

  I raised a single, ironic brow and muttered, “You are mistaken, citizen.”

  “I am not,” he sneered, and I could see by the set of his thin-lined mouth that he wanted blood. My blood.

  I sat up taller. “A man such as yourself is not capable of being a leader, and therefore of being a tyrant dangerous to this country, monsieur,” I said, licking my dry lips, for I was parched. “Do not flatter yourself. You would not have been worth my life. I only had intentions of striking Marat.”

  My accuser’s double chin jiggled, his gray hair seeming to rise up at the roots. I could clearly see the desire to strike me in his rheumy eyes.

  But I would not be cowed. I was still not afraid.

  “How did you know to strike so accurately at his heart?” one of the men asked.

  “The indignation that swelled in my own breast showed me the place.” I could have offered a better answer, but why give him the satisfaction?

  At that moment, Chabot, a defrocked Capuchin monk and another of Marat’s sycophants, reached forward, gripping the gold watch dangling on a chatelaine around my waist. He tugged hard enough to jar my already abused body. The watch came free and he pocketed it.

  “Have you forgotten that you are supposed to be under a vow of poverty?” I asked, accusing him of thievery. Such a reminder would strike at his heart and humiliate him in present company. If I’d been a woman with something to lose, I might not have goaded him, but he’d just stolen my watch, my one last possession, which had belonged to my mother.

  “You are bold, citizeness,” he said, eyes roaming over my figure.

  “As are you,” I retorted.

  Chabot came close once more, tugging on a lock of my dark hair. “Where is your lover hiding?”

  Indignation filled my heart and I jerked away. “I am no harlot.”

  “That is what all harlots say.” Chabot nodded to one of the guards. “Give me rope to bind her.”