Screams of "Long live Robespierre!" thunder in my ears. "Death to traitors!" The look of hatred on the anonymous faces in the crowd is a mixture of heartbreaking and comical. I have done nothing to earn their ire - why are they so angry with me?
My blade cart seems to ride over every last bump. Between this rough ride and my nerves, I'm not sure I can keep down my breakfast of country loaf and jam.
Our blade cart stops. Even though I fear what the next few moments will bring, I'm grateful for this ride to end. The two gendarmes who drove the blade cart now walk toward me. I'm scared of them despite their kindnesses. They offered comforting words when I was delivered to their charge and remained so during my brief imprisonment. Even in these last few moments of my life, they are merciful. They allowed me to undergo the journey from jail to the guillotine without binding my hands together.
The taller of the two gendarmes helps me out of the back of the blade cart. "Pardon, la demoiselle ...I mean citizen", but I need to tie your wrists". He smiles weakly. His small grey eyes appear almost pleading. I nod - I am far too nervous to verbalize an answer.
The gendarme then places my hands behind my back. The rope pierces my skin as he binds my hands together. He apologizes after each knot he twists.
By now my heart is beating so fast I can actually hear it. The guillotine's steps are less than 200 feet away, but I'm not sure I can make it. I feel faint as we walk towards the monster. I want to collapse.
I want to cry. But the screaming crowd hardens my resolve. Papa told me to always be strong. Oh no, Papa! I scan the crowd to find him but he's not here. How will he go on? I'm all he has left. Maman died from the flu last winter. Famine prevented us from providing her with good food to rescue her from the horrid illness. With me gone he'll have no one.
Papa was devastated the night they arrested me. He pleaded with the guardsmen to take him instead. They pushed him to the ground and spirited me away. I could hear his cries as they took me away.
The angry July sun is glistening off of the guillotine's blade. Its shine is blinding. As we get closer, the ghastly machine of death comes into focus. I see a basket underneath the platform. Blood is everywhere. I throw up a little in my mouth.
Imagine all that I'll miss? Never to bear children of my own. Never to have a husband to love. How could this have happened?
We march up the stairs. The shorter gendarme whispers in my ear "God be with you. I start to tear-up.
The executioner walks towards me. I pictured him to be a beastly demon. Instead, he is an old chubby, fatherly man with an overgrown white moustache. He is bald with a thin strand of grey hair forming a semi-circle just above his ears. His sad blue eyes indicate that he loathes his work.
"Are you Citizen Petain?" He asks in a concerned tone.
"Oui Monsieur" I respond, unable to look him in the eye.
"Mon Dieu!" He responds in a disbelieving tone.
He pulls a scroll from underneath his armpit and holds it close to his face to read it. "It says here that you have been convicted under Law 22 Prairial. That you conspired to assist foreign enemies. How can this be? You cannot be older than 19 years old? Is this a joke?"
"Non, Monsieur, it is no joke. A neighbour accused me of this horrible crime. I am no counter-revolutionary, but The Tribunal found me guilty and sentenced me to..sentenced me too.." I cannot finish the sentence.
I'm finally able to look my executioner in the eye. We both start to tear-up. His bottom lip trembles. His breathing becomes heavy. He closes his eyes and, after taking a long, slow, deep breath, is able to compose himself.
He flashes me a sympathetic look. "it will be quick and painless. I will be respectful and not show your head to the crowd" he assures me. As scared as I am, I amuse myself by wondering just how he could know the level of pain his instrument of death could cause.
"Any last words?" he asks. I bow my head. "Non." He nods. "You will be in my prayers" he softly whispers.
He gently ushers me onto the plank and places my head between two blocks. The crowd is now deathly silent. Old women have stopped knitting. Even those who demanded my blood are now silent - the realization that they could be next sets in.
I cannot see my executioner, but I hear him behind me. I look down into the wicker basket and start to pray. I hear a loud sound and...
My blade cart seems to ride over every last bump. Between this rough ride and my nerves, I'm not sure I can keep down my breakfast of country loaf and jam.
Our blade cart stops. Even though I fear what the next few moments will bring, I'm grateful for this ride to end. The two gendarmes who drove the blade cart now walk toward me. I'm scared of them despite their kindnesses. They offered comforting words when I was delivered to their charge and remained so during my brief imprisonment. Even in these last few moments of my life, they are merciful. They allowed me to undergo the journey from jail to the guillotine without binding my hands together.
The taller of the two gendarmes helps me out of the back of the blade cart. "Pardon, la demoiselle ...I mean citizen", but I need to tie your wrists". He smiles weakly. His small grey eyes appear almost pleading. I nod - I am far too nervous to verbalize an answer.
The gendarme then places my hands behind my back. The rope pierces my skin as he binds my hands together. He apologizes after each knot he twists.
By now my heart is beating so fast I can actually hear it. The guillotine's steps are less than 200 feet away, but I'm not sure I can make it. I feel faint as we walk towards the monster. I want to collapse.
I want to cry. But the screaming crowd hardens my resolve. Papa told me to always be strong. Oh no, Papa! I scan the crowd to find him but he's not here. How will he go on? I'm all he has left. Maman died from the flu last winter. Famine prevented us from providing her with good food to rescue her from the horrid illness. With me gone he'll have no one.
Papa was devastated the night they arrested me. He pleaded with the guardsmen to take him instead. They pushed him to the ground and spirited me away. I could hear his cries as they took me away.
The angry July sun is glistening off of the guillotine's blade. Its shine is blinding. As we get closer, the ghastly machine of death comes into focus. I see a basket underneath the platform. Blood is everywhere. I throw up a little in my mouth.
Imagine all that I'll miss? Never to bear children of my own. Never to have a husband to love. How could this have happened?
We march up the stairs. The shorter gendarme whispers in my ear "God be with you. I start to tear-up.
The executioner walks towards me. I pictured him to be a beastly demon. Instead, he is an old chubby, fatherly man with an overgrown white moustache. He is bald with a thin strand of grey hair forming a semi-circle just above his ears. His sad blue eyes indicate that he loathes his work.
"Are you Citizen Petain?" He asks in a concerned tone.
"Oui Monsieur" I respond, unable to look him in the eye.
"Mon Dieu!" He responds in a disbelieving tone.
He pulls a scroll from underneath his armpit and holds it close to his face to read it. "It says here that you have been convicted under Law 22 Prairial. That you conspired to assist foreign enemies. How can this be? You cannot be older than 19 years old? Is this a joke?"
"Non, Monsieur, it is no joke. A neighbour accused me of this horrible crime. I am no counter-revolutionary, but The Tribunal found me guilty and sentenced me to..sentenced me too.." I cannot finish the sentence.
I'm finally able to look my executioner in the eye. We both start to tear-up. His bottom lip trembles. His breathing becomes heavy. He closes his eyes and, after taking a long, slow, deep breath, is able to compose himself.
He flashes me a sympathetic look. "it will be quick and painless. I will be respectful and not show your head to the crowd" he assures me. As scared as I am, I amuse myself by wondering just how he could know the level of pain his instrument of death could cause.
"Any last words?" he asks. I bow my head. "Non." He nods. "You will be in my prayers" he softly whispers.
He gently ushers me onto the plank and places my head between two blocks. The crowd is now deathly silent. Old women have stopped knitting. Even those who demanded my blood are now silent - the realization that they could be next sets in.
I cannot see my executioner, but I hear him behind me. I look down into the wicker basket and start to pray. I hear a loud sound and...
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