MARAT

 

Marat was lying in the bathtub at home

tormented by the itch caused by his

skin disease prurigo, with his head

wrapped in a turban of compresses

with vinegar, black because of dirt;

he was proofreading the columns

of the number 242 of the newspaper

“Publiciste français” sporadically

thinking about the origin of the light;

towards evening a young woman

citizen came to the courageous

and cowardly man and demanded

to speak to him in relation to

a Girondin plot. “Plot? Tell me

immediately the names of the enemies

of the country. Who are they?”

The young woman, without hesitating,

enumerated the names of her friends

knowing the monster would be

dead in a moment. Abruptly she

produced a long knife from under

the rosy scarf and thrust it into him

as far as the handle cutting his carotid

he cried, “Help!” to his life companion

Catherine Evrard, the water turned red

he received other swift stabs accompanied

by accusations: this one because you

cheated as a doctor, this one because

you pretended to be a journalist, this

one because you cheated believing

yourself to be a scientist this one

because you turned into an assassin

without being a revolutionary, now

hoax the death, you rogue – without

becoming confused the hit woman

took the knife from his corpse, put

it on the edge of the bathtub and got

unhurriedly out of the room in the hallway

she got grabbed hold of by Catherine Ervard.

The name of the hit woman was Charlotte

Corday, the niece of Corneille. With great

pomp his human remains were transferred

to Pantheon five months later Marat was

taken out of there like the last man. His

corpse was burnt and thrown into the sewer

with shouts of “Marat, here is your Pantheon!”

Throughout his life he had been dreaming

about a great tomb.