My dearest Brigitte,

When Monsieur Brissot wrote me earlier this year, I expected to arrive in Paris and find him holed up with some of his Girondist friends- perhaps a little worse for wear, but alive and well.

I know now that I was incredibly wrong.

I arrived a week before the end of June only to find our old friend had been imprisoned, along with many of his friends. I learned he had tried to escape, that he had fled but was captured at Moulins. They returned him to Paris where he rotted in prison for nearly five months.

I write this to you with a heavy heart and a guilt that has sucked the light from my soul. On October the 31st, Jean-Pierre Bissot and twenty-one of his partners were executed.

My hands tremble at the memory. I watched as the guillotine brought his life to an end, I witnessed his head fall from his body and the blood pour from his veins. There was nothing I could do. My sister, I've never felt so helpless.

But you must think it strange of me, to have such a profound reaction to watching a man's death, when I myself have ended the lives of many. I cannot explain it. I think that perhaps it is guilt. I should've come immediately when he called. Instead, I waited and now he is dead.

Despite the emptiness I feel, there is something that has been lit within me- a fire burning in my gut that pushes me forward. My duty as an assassin is not yet done here. I pray that I find out soon, I can't stand the thought of someone else dying when I could've prevented it.

Give Papa my love and take care of yourself.

Your loving sister,


November 17, 1793