Mon Dieu, how frightened they must be. How they must blame me. Perhaps it was better to keep apart. Here with me was Marc’s sister, my cousin the duchesse de Duras. A staunch royalist, she might have rained down curses upon my head, but instead she embraced me. Even when it fell to me to deliver the worst possible news. “Your parents . . .” How could I say more? After all my quarrels with Aunt Claude, it did not seem possible she could be gone from this world. Butchered. Murdered. I wondered, as they led Madame Etiquette to the scaffold, did she spit at the rabble? No. I believed my aunt would have preserved good form to the end.
Would I be brave when my turn came? There were rumors I would be called to the guillotine in the morning. Then a priest I passed in the courtyard confirmed it, whispering, “I saw your name on the list. You will be called in the morning, child. Prepare yourself.”
I thanked him for helping ready me to meet my fate. I prayed only that God spare the rest of my loved ones. Yes, I still prayed. One might be excused for thinking Madame Guillotine was the thirsty goddess to which we now paid tribute, but faith in my husband and my God was the only thing the murderous Jacobins could not take from me.
Oh, Lord, thou hast been my help and my strength; do not forsake me, and I shall fear nothing even in the shadow of death.
At sunrise I washed my face; it would not do to meet God in a state of dishabille. They said the blade was humane—death came swiftly, and painlessly, despite the blood. It was only terror one felt in having one’s hands bound, in having one’s gown opened to expose the neck, in being laid down upon the plank . . . I imagined these things vividly so they might be familiar and less frightening when my time came.
Then I was led to the courtyard to hear my name—a name that was precious to me. A name through which I would find the courage to meet my death. But when I reached the courtyard, someone was saying, “Robespierre is dead . . .”
That hardly seemed possible, but now everything was in confusion. No names were called, and I felt a faint flicker of hope. I began to breathe air again and like its taste. A few precious gulps filled my lungs before I began to dream this nightmare could be over. That soon I could be reunited with my husband and our family. The mere thought of holding our children in the circle of our embrace made me smile at my fellow prisoners and even my guards . . . until I realized that no one would meet my eyes.
If I were not to die today, then why would no one look at me?
A numb horror came over me as I asked, “What’s happened—is it my husband?”
“Your mother,” someone finally had the mercy to say. “She was guillotined.”
These words hit the center of my chest and I curled inward. “Maman?” I gasped, then could not catch my breath. I nearly swooned again before pleading desperately, “What of my sister? What of Grand-mère?”
Silence was answer enough.
No. No. No! Not Maman. Not Louise. Not Grand-mère. I would have fallen prostrate with grief, but someone might try to help me, and I could not bear the slightest human comfort. For in my howling despair I did not feel human—I felt like a creature in the jaws of a predator. I fled, taking the stairs back to my prison cell as swiftly as I was able, collapsing to my knees there, where I screamed at God, demanding to know why. Why was I still alive when they were dead? Why would our enemies kill my grandmother, whose mind was enfeebled? Why kill my mother, who had never taken part in politics? And Louise . . . Louise . . . who had been a finer patriot and daughter and sister than me. Dutiful Louise had stayed in France for her family when she could have fled to America with her husband. In her place, to be with Gilbert again, I would have gone. So how could she be dead whilst I lived?
The injustice could not be borne. It was so much more than my mind could withstand that my sobs cut off abruptly. Then I rose, almost like a marionette, drawn inexorably to my window, which hovered five stories above the pavement. And there I felt a powerfully seductive impulse.
It is the only escape from your shame, said some voice, unbidden. The only justice. The best way to protect your children. They will be safer when you’re dead . . .
I would not be the first person to jump—to deprive the mob of satisfaction. The Bible taught it was a sin to take one’s own life, but my God was forgiving. If I leapt from this window, he would surely reunite me with my loved ones in a world less wicked than this one.
My fingertips found the cold latch. My hand gripped the wooden frame. My foot found the ledge. One push is all it would take. Let it be done swiftly before fear stopped me.