M. Roland was at this time in safety in Rouen, but when he heard of the death of his noble wife, he resolved to give himself up at once to the authorities.  The interests of his child, however, tempted him to another course.  Should he give himself up he would certainly perish, and by the law of France his possessions would be confiscated, and would not, therefore, descend to his child.  Were he to die, even by his own hand, the case would be different—­he would save the property for his child.  Five days after his wife perished upon the scaffold, he fell upon his sword on a high road near Rouen.  The following lines were found upon his person: 

“The blood that flows in torrents in my country dictates my resolve:  indignation caused me to quit my retreat.  As soon as I heard of the murder of my wife, I determined no longer to remain on an earth tainted by crime.”

I had occasion often while in Paris to cross the street of the Ecole de Medicine.  It is a rather pleasant street, and leads into the street of Ancienne Comedie, named so after the Theater Francaise, which was formerly located upon it.  Just opposite it is a cafe which Voltaire used to frequent, and I have stopped to take a cup of chocolate in it.  But one day I hunted up number eighteen of the street of Ecole de Medicine.  The house was one which Marat used to occupy in the time of the great revolution.  We paused a moment upon the threshold, and then passed up a flight of stairs and entered the room where Marat used to write so many of his blood-thirsty articles.  A little room at that time opened out of it, and in the apartment was a bath-room.  He often wrote in his bath in this room.

The last day Marat lived, was the 13th of July, 1793, and it was spent in this little room.  He was the monster of the revolution, loved the sight of blood as a tiger does, and his influence over the multitude gave him power to sacrifice whoever he pleased.  If he but pointed his long finger at a man or woman, it was death to the victim.  No one was safe.  Under his devilish prompting, already some of the truest republicans in France had been beheaded, and every hour some unfortunate man or woman fell beneath his hellish ferocity.  Should a fiend be allowed to personate liberty longer?  Should a wretch whose very touch scorched and blistered, whose breath was that of the lake of fire, any longer be allowed to pollute France with his presence?  These were the questions which presented themselves to the mind of a young country-girl.  Who would have thought that the young and beautiful Charlotte Corday would have taken it upon herself to answer these questions and avenge the murdered innocents?