I’m going to Paris. I can’t stand this any longer. I’ve had enough of sitting around at home with my dear cousin hearing rumours of heads rolling and wondering which friend will be next. The Girodins have gone into hiding, hiding from that wretched beast of a man. Jean-Paul Marat, the name of the devil incarnate. A malevolent puppeteer, He pulls the strings behind the mob, manipulates their minds, and turns them against their fellow countrymen. Everyday, I read his newpaper, Ami du peuple, and everyday I’m more and more repulsed by the hatred seeping through the pages. Friend of the People, and a Friend of Death. An odd and devilish combination. Years ago, when I dreamed of this revolution for years in that convent, I dreamed of freedom from tyranny, glory, and heroic deeds as the people of France rose up and reclaimed their homeland from the corrupt. Not this fury and hatred. We’ve only replaced one tyrant for another, replaced the apathetic, oppulent monarchy for a dark and murderous republic. Neither care for their people, but at least with the monarchy it was obvious. The committee of Public Safety maintain the illusion of heroes, and France cannot see through it. They maintain that it’s still better now than under the King, even though he didn’t outright murder them. He at least tried.
This week the guillotine devoured twelve new victims, and all Marat said in his paper was the “celebration of the elimination of counterrevolutionaries.” Counterrevolutionaries. The word seems to have a new definition every day. First, it was supporters of the monarchy. Then, those who didn’t want the king dead. But now? Now it’s whoever so much as steps a toe out of line, who disagrees with them on the slightest issue, who has the slightest qualm of doubt- the list goes on and on and on and on with no end in sight. I have to do something. While Jean- Paul Marat lives, the heads will never stop rolling. It will go on until the entire population of France is dead and he sits upon his throne of bones and the emanciated bodies of children rot beneath him and looks fondly at the death beneath him saying “mon ami” until he chokes on his own blood. No, no I will not wait for that. I will not lower my head as he passes or pay tribute to the murderers who claim to act in our best interests. I will slaughter him as he’s slaughtered thousands of Parisians in front of the National Convention and see then if he’ll be such a friend of death. Will he stand tall and look me in the eye as so many Girodians did with Mr Sanson before they left this world? Somehow I doubt it. He will be revealed as the coward he is.
But what of your own life, you may ask? For surely Robespierre will not let the death of one of his favourtie cronies go unanswered for, even if the murderer is a quiet spoken 24 year old virgin. No, I surely will perish and follow Marat out of this world. But it is of no consequence. I am at peace with my God, which is more than Marat can claim, and will meet my death will an upright dignity. I can go knowing I’ve rid the world of such a snake as he, and with the hope that perhaps France can live in peace now that he’s gone to hell. My conscience is clear despite the blood that will soon stain my hands; I will kill one man to save thousands more. I fear no condemnation from God or man. This is the only way to save France, and I will carry with me the hope that my country will eventually see that. I leave for Paris in the morning. Farewell my friends. I will see you on the other side in a better place.