In his bath, then, sat the People's Friend on that July evening,
immersed to the hips, his head swathed in a filthy turban, his
emaciated body cased in a sleeveless waistcoat. He is fifty years
of age, dying of consumption and other things, so that, did
Charlotte but know it, there is no need to murder him. Disease
and Death have marked him for their own, and grow impatient.

A board covering the bath served him for writing-table; an empty
wooden box at his side bore an inkstand, some pens, sheets of
paper, and two or three copies of L'Ami do Peuple. There was no
sound in the room but the scratch and splutter of his quill. He
was writing diligently, revising and editing a proof of the
forthcoming issue of his paper.

A noise of voices raised in the outer room invaded the quiet in
which he was at work, and gradually penetrated his absorption,
until it disturbed and irritated him. He moved restlessly in his
bath, listened a moment, then, with intent to make an end of the
interruption, he raised a hoarse, croaking voice to inquire what
might be taking place.

The door opened, and Simonne, his mistress and household drudge,
entered the room. She was fully twenty years younger than
himself, and under the slattern appearance which life in that
house had imposed upon her there were vestiges of a certain
comeliness.

"There is a young woman here from Caen, who demands insistently
to see you upon a matter of national importance."