by Kate Quinn
“Oui, it was I who killed him!” I shouted, interrupting them all. “I wished to sacrifice him for the greater good of the country.”
I’d bested them at the first Tribunal. But they were wiser now and breaking down my defenses. The next assault was made by showing me the knife with which my deed was done, still stained with Marat’s blood. “Do you recognize this?”
Bile rose in my throat, and emotion swiftly carried me over the edge of my serenity. I’d managed to remain mostly calm until now. Still believed wholeheartedly in my cause, but at the base root of my soul, I was not a murderer. And I was still a Christian. So the sight of the crusted blood on the blade . . . “Oui, of course I recognize it.” I shuddered.
“Oh, what practice you must have taken to hit such a vital spot to have killed the man so proficiently. Who did you practice on?” Montané taunted.
I leaned over the bar looking the man right in the face, fury coursing through my veins. “Oh, you’re a monster! You accuse me of being some common killer, stabbing anyone without discrimination. But that is not who I am. I am a woman of God and a soldier for the people.”
The president sneered and pulled from his coat folded slips of paper. My letters. The ones I’d written in prison. The ones they’d never sent. I had expected that they would read my letters, but I hadn’t considered the possibility that they would not send them.
He read them aloud to the great delight of the crowd, and when he came to the words I’d written my father, bitter tears clouded my eyes. I raised my head, fighting down the sobs, and stared at every face before me, willing him to be there, to acknowledge his daughter. Once again, I was left disappointed.
But then Montané reached the last line, reading it louder than the rest, “The shame lies in the crime, not in the scaffold. What does that mean, citizeness?”
Hearing those words of my ancestor Corneille, my spirits were strengthened. All my tears dried up, replaced by a surge of pride. “I was a republican before the Revolution started, and I have always been willing to sacrifice myself for my country. Does a soldier commit a crime when he executes an enemy? I have committed no crime. I have no shame. And I die with honor.”
I thought for a moment that Montané might leap up over the bar and attack me. When he spoke, spittle flew from his lips, “Is there anything you wish to add to these letters, citizeness?”
My gaze swept the room as I sought to meet each pair of eyes one more time. They wanted to break my spirit, this mob, but I would not let them. Then I stared at each of the officials presiding over my trial in turn. They could take their powdered hair and go to the devil.
“Oui, there is one last thing I would like to add, and it is this: the leader of anarchy is no more. France shall now have peace.”
“We shall have your head.” His viciousness, the sneer that peeled his lips back could’ve sent me over the edge, had I not seen my counsel regarding me with what could only be called respect. Perhaps I was not wholly surrounded by enemies after all.
At last, one of my prosecutors announced to the Tribunal that this folly had come to an end.
I watched de la Garde stand, his eyes on me. I wondered what he was going to say. I did not want a defense, but after all he had been assigned to give me one.
Those of the Tribunal had tried to portray me as if I were mad. Did they want my defender to agree? Was that the condition under which he had been appointed? I looked at their faces and thought, yes, they want him to tell everyone that. They wanted him to state that a woman killing for political reasons was proof of insanity.
They wanted my defender to agree in an effort to save my life—a useless effort since my prosecutor had all but guaranteed my death.
I held my breath. Would this man aid in the mockery of me, assist men in degrading and diminishing me?
He cleared his throat, stepped away from his chair. “The prisoner confesses with great calmness the horrible crime she has committed. She confesses calmly having premeditated the deed. She confesses its most dreadful details. In a word, she confesses everything and does not even seek to justify herself other than to say she wanted to save the people of our great nation from tyranny.” He glanced back at me, and I worked hard to keep my face impassive. “That, citizens, is her whole defense. This imperturbable calm, this entire rejection of remorse, even in the very presence of death itself, this sublime calm under such circumstances are contrary to nature. They can only be explained by the excitement of political devotion that armed her hand.”
De la Garde had not betrayed me! He’d let me retain my purpose, my dignity. And the outrage on Montané’s and Fouquier-Tinville’s faces was telling. But I blessed him and silently prayed that his brave actions would not result in his ruin.
I was not surprised when they ordered my death. I dearly hoped that all France would be told of my defense, of my last gift to them all.
THEY SENT A priest—a constitutional clergyman, a man sworn to the republic not to Rome. To my mind such a nonjuring clergyman was no priest at all.
“Sir, I do not require your ministrations.”
He seemed quite astounded. “Citizeness, allow me, s’il vous plaît, to hear your confession and administer a blessing.”
“No.”
Shortly after he left, the portraitist from the Tribunal arrived. He’d painted me while I stood at the bar, and I’d requested to see the likeness. The miniature was fascinating, and accurate: even down to the soft chestnut curls around my ears.
“You are very good, monsieur.” I’d given up on the pretexts of revolutionary addresses now that I’d been consigned to death. I met his gaze, hoping he’d show mercy on a woman about to die. “Will you paint me again now? Something for my father?” A portrait of me, so he might see what I’d become, and know that despite his having forsaken me, I was still proud.
“Oui, citizeness.”
I stood by the window so the light would touch my face, and he sat at my writing desk, setting out his paints. He sketched my face and then painted what he’d drawn. When he was finished, he gestured me closer.
“Looks like me,” I mused, delighted in the way he’d been able to manipulate the colors to show the sun upon me.
The door to my cell opened to reveal the formidable figure of the executioner dressed all in black with a sash across his middle in red, white, and blue. My face paled, and I whispered, “What, already?” feeling a small pang of anguish for those I’d not been able to say good-bye to.
Charles-Henri Sanson was legendary throughout France. He’d inherited his position from his father before him and was fourth in a long line of executioners by the same name. The tall, broad-shouldered man before me performed his duty with infamous talent—even helping to design the instrument of my death. I’d heard he could execute upwards of a dozen people in nearly the same number of minutes. How many souls had he collected so far?
“We bid you au revoir, citizeness.” His voice was deep, gravelly, as though his throat were constantly tight. And why wouldn’t it be? He was the principal soul-taker in all Paris. Sanson was Death.
The executioner held out a red linen overgown, which they made all the condemned wear to disguise the blood. “I’m sorry to make you wear this, mademoiselle, but it is the law. And we must cut your hair.”
“Red flatters me,” I replied, moving my chair to the center of the room for the man to begin his work. Seated, I tugged off my white linen cap. My long hair fell around my shoulders. He hacked away with terrifying sheers. When it was done, I could have sobbed at the lightness, the coldness of the loss, but kept a brave face.
“A lock of my hair for you, monsieur,” I picked up a curl from my lap and held it out to the painter. “For you have troubled yourself much on my behalf. Please accept it as a keepsake.” The portraitist stared at my outstretched hand, uncertainly. “Do not fret, monsieur, I am at peace.”
The men left me alone for a moment. I stood, praying my knees would hold me, and with slightly trembling hand
s, I pulled the crimson gown—the gown of my death—over the top of my white dress, my breath catching as I realized this would be the last time I dressed myself. A great shudder racked my body, and I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to breathe steadily and finding my body did not cooperate.
The executioner returned. “It is time.”
Time for me to die. Time for me to offer up the greatest sacrifice anyone can give—their life. And I wanted to do it like a patriot, which meant, freely. “Please, monsieur, do not bind me.”
But of course, even the king had been bound at the last moment with his own handkerchief. And no exception could be made for me. So I held out my hands to show the bruises that still marred my flesh from my capture. “May I at least be allowed to wear gloves to prevent pain?”
“You may wear gloves, but I promise I will not hurt you as they have.” His eyes widened, and he stared at me for a moment with a look of shame for what he’d said.
Not hurt me? He was only the man who would take my life . . .
I smiled, though my lips trembled with fear. “I would guess you have more experience than they do.”
“Perhaps, mademoiselle.”
There was kindness in Sanson. And a deep respect I would not have expected from a man who had taken so many lives. Knowing that he had to live with the guilt of what he did, I wondered, did he worry that on the day of his death God would send him to the bowels of hell for taking so many innocent lives?
He was gentle just as he’d promised, and when he finished binding my wrists, I looked into his eyes, smiled, and said, “I am ready. Lead me now to immortality.”
* * *
Pauline
Paris, July 17, 1793
The Corday bitch stood stoically in the back of the tumbrel, her hands tied. It had rained steadily through the night, and there seemed to be no end to it. The Angel of Assassination kept her back straight, and even though she wore condemned red, she somehow made us feel like sinners. The rain soaked through her garments, flattened her cap, dripped from the tip of her nose, and still she smiled.
I took hurried steps to keep up with the wagon, water sloshing in my clogs. I wanted to see her to the very end.
Her hair was shorn, and I couldn’t help but wonder what had been done with the discarded locks. I hated that every last strand would soon be a prize. That all her worldly possessions would be coveted.
Because she was infamous.
Her name filled the papers. Théo had taken up Marat’s position publishing L’Ami du Peuple, adding According to Leclerc as a subtitle, and he had become obsessed with her. He talked of her endlessly. He wrote that she was heinous to behold, that she was a wicked fornicator, that she had been the lover of every Girondin, royalist, and traitor. But even when he was writing these things, or saying these things, I saw in his eyes a great lust; he wanted to possess her.
Claire did not seem to see it. But I had long begun to suspect that I knew her lover better than she did. And when I drew her attention to it, she said that of course every man lusted for her, that was what men did. Crowds filled the street, making it difficult for the executioner’s cart to roll over the cobbles. They shouted at her and threw rotten fruits and vegetables. We marched for over an hour, and all the while I held Marat’s bloody shirt on a pike in the air for all to see.
“Harlot!” I screamed at her. “Murderess! Sinner! Shame!”
My words did not seem to bother her any more than the words of the others. Not once did she flinch at our insults or even when hit by some foul object. It was as if she already floated in a heaven we all knew didn’t exist.
At the place of execution, she climbed out of the cart without assistance and up to the scaffold as though she were climbing the stairs to a dais. The executioner took her elbow, gently guiding her. He smiled kindly, and I was even more disgusted. It seemed the vile traitoress had won the heart of the man who must end her.
I shoved my way to the front of the crowd with Théo at my side.
As Sanson turned to prepare, the assistant grasped the fichu covering Corday’s breasts, and tore it away with such violence he ripped part of her gown. The action incited the crowd to surge forward. The whore’s face reddened, her mouth gaping open, and she jerked as though to cover herself, but it was useless as her hands were tied behind her back. Her humiliation was acute.
And I enjoyed it.
The crowd cheered. And all that creamy white flesh exposed had my own breath catching. The woman was perfection. And as if the sky above mocked us, the rain ceased, the clouds parted, and the sun beamed down on her.
Corday opened her mouth to say something. Why wouldn’t she just die and let her words die with her? She was cut off by the steady beat of the drums and the demands of the crowd for her head. And when it was clear that they wouldn’t be silenced, I shouted, “Vive la république!” But soon my throat was too tight to do more than mouth the words.
The assistant shoved Corday forward, and as she reached the bench, the sun glinted off the metal of the angled guillotine blade, casting her in a light that only served to call more attention to her serene countenance. Did it make the others present question whether we were right to shun God? The question certainly came to my mind.
Théo breathed heavily beside me, lusting for blood, or perhaps, even in this moment, for carnal possession of the woman on the scaffold. I could have shoved him to the ground and stomped on his heart.
The crowd quieted, taken in by her beauty, by her smile. How could she smile like that, as though she’d won, when she was about to die? Angry tears threatened to spill from my eyes, but I forced them back and pinched my forearm to refocus myself.
Corday knelt on the bench before the block, then jerked back when the executioner went to pull her feet, lengthening her legs so she lay flat on her belly. I could almost feel the scrape of the wooden bench on my own knees, the rope at my wrists, and when she laid her pretty head down for the last time, I, too, felt the sun-warmed wood on my cheek. Saw the waiting, bloodied basket, hungry for my head.
I held my breath in anticipation, all while Théo panted.
Then the guillotine screamed as it dropped, as if in protest for what it must do. A jolt of satisfaction went through me as the blade made its clean cut.
As soon as the assassin’s delicate head was in the basket, a man hired to assist with the guillotine lifted it up by the shorn hair showing it to the crowd, and then slapped the peacefully smiling face hard on each cheek. Beside me, Théo gaped with shock, and I did too. Because at this insult, the disembodied head of Charlotte Corday reacted. Her cheeks reddened, her mouth thinned in outrage, and her eyebrows dipped with consternation, as though she were still very much alive and offended.
As I said before, she would not die.
I STORMED THROUGH the doors of Hébert’s Cordeliers Club and went in the direction of Saint-Germain, having had enough of Théo and his impassioned hypocritical speeches. The long walk would do me good. I ached to be home surrounded by the scents of chocolat, the warmth of my siblings, and quiet.
“Pauline!” Théo’s voice came from behind me.
I quickened my pace, ignoring him, and rushed past the few men and women still out at this hour. Long fingers gripped my elbow and he tugged me into an alleyway, pressing me against the wall, caging me in with his hands pressed to the brick on either side of my face. The possessiveness of his move, the way he effortlessly positioned me made me furious.
“What are you doing?” Even in the dim light cast off by the streetlamps I could read the accusation of desertion in his eyes.
“Going home, what did you think I’m doing?”
“Running away.”
“What have I to run from?”
“Me.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, hoping to mask my uneven breaths. “Why would I run from you? You are no threat to me.” But that was a lie. Fear gripped me, deep in my gut. No woman was safe in all this. No matter what we’d tried to accomplish, on
e false word from a man could tear us down. He was a threat, all men were.
“Did you not like my speech? I wrote it for you.”
I rolled my eyes and glanced toward the street. “I thought it well done for a hypocrite.”
Théo jerked back as though I’d slapped him. “What do you mean?”
“You speak of patriotism and inciting the fairer sex to rise up, and yet no one believes that Charlotte Corday could have acted on her own. None of you truly believe that we women, myself and those of my society, can either. Knowing you do not believe makes your speech, your support, nothing but patronizing.”
“That is a lie, Pauline.”
But I didn’t stop. “They believe us all to be whores at our core, so much so they subjected her body to an examination. Did you know that? Her headless body! She had no lover whispering in her ear to kill Marat. She was no whore.”
“That bitch was virgo intacta?”
I pursed my lips to keep from railing even more. The news of Charlotte Corday’s innocent, lustless body had crushed me. We were exact opposites in nearly every way. Though she was dead, she still had the power to torment me. To show me all my own failures.
I hated the danger that Charlotte Corday’s execution meant for other women. The way they humiliated her. The way they lusted for her. Les Enragés, the Jacobins, they might all say they were on our side, but were they really? Or were we all just pawns in the games they played? Fear made me shudder.
Théo narrowed his eyes, the muscle in his jaw clenching. He wanted to say something, but kept silent. Good. Because I had nothing more to say to this man whom I’d once thought held me in such high regard.
I turned my back on him and walked away.
* * *
Paris, September 5, 1793
