Caroline Misner

 

 

Caroline Misner says “I am a graduate of Sheridan College of Applied Arts & Technology with a diploma in Media Arts Writing.  My non-fiction has been previously published in Cottage Life magazine, Writers’ Journal, GreenPrints Gardening Journal and The Cottage Magazine. My fiction has been published on line at www.bewilderingstories.com as has my poetry at www.truepoetmagazine.com.  I’ve also had short stories published in Storyteller and Genuine Canadian Stories.  My poems have appeared in Ideals magazine as well as Penwomanship, Quills, Leaf Press, Poetry Canada, The Litchfield Review, Perigee, Fresh Boiled Peanut, Aim Magazine, Pangaia, Prairie Journal  and The Aroostook Review; I have also been published in the UK in Dreamcatcher literary journal.  My short science fiction story has been published in Challenging Destiny and my literary stories have been published in The Windsor Review and A Room of One’s Own as well as two additional poems.  An excerpt from my novel has been published in ProseAx Literary Journal under the title Skin of a Peach. That same novel was a semi-finalist for the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Award.” 

 

 

The Blood Apprentice

 

            Even the queen displayed more dignity as she was led to the scaffold where the guillotine awaited her.  With her hair shorn and her wrists bound at the small of her back, she ascended the steps on her own, her chin raised, and her eyes looking forward but never directly at the jeering crowd.  Rosalie, the young peasant girl entrusted to assist her, lifted the ragged hem of the queen’s skirts as she placed one trembling foot before the other.  Even when she stepped upon the executioner’s foot, the queen displayed the same decorum that made Pascal’s chest swell with admiration.

            “Monsieur, I beg your pardon,” she said.  “I did not mean it.”

            It had been one of Pascal’s first executions.  He had been given to the executioner as an apprentice less than a week before.  La Grande Revolution apparently did little to help the plight of wretches such as him, but he dared not complain or show too much admiration for the doomed queen lest his head be the next to fall.  

            This wastrel who approached the guillotine took one look at the apparatus and promptly pissed himself.  Two guards tried to restrain him, but he was incredibly strong, even with his hands bound behind his back.  He fought valiantly, howling and slipping in the puddles of blood left by those who had come before him. 

            “Je suis innocent!” he wailed over the catcalls and taunts of the mob that encircled the scaffold. 

            “Hurry up,” Pascal muttered under his breath.  It was the last execution of the day and the smell from the carts of the food venders made his stomach growl.

            The condemned man was finally dragged on his knees toward the guillotine and placed in the bascule.  Even in his final moments he fought against his restraints.  Pascal reached his body through the guillotine, hoping his master would not activate the blade prematurely and slice him in half, and pulled the man’s head forward.  He was openly weeping by then and beseeching him for mercy as Pascal lowered the demilunette over the neck.

            Pascal looked up at his master, the executioner known only as Monsieur Hubert.  Like Pascal, he wore a black cloak and a black hood; the eyeholes drooped so low it gave his master a look of perpetual sorrow.  In the brief time he had served as his apprentice, Pascal had never known him to show any remorse for his profession. 

            “Vasy, Monsieur Executioner!” Pascal called and the blade fell.

            The blubberings were immediately silenced.  Pascal caught the head, feeling the involuntary twitches around the mouth and eyes.  He rose, and as was his duty, held the head by the hair over the roaring crowd.

            The body spasmed and spurted blood across the platform.  The two guards heaved it over their shoulders and launched the body into the wagon where the other headless corpses waited for the ride to the mass grave.  The spectacle was over for another day.  Pascal tossed the man’s head into the wagon.  It rolled over the body of a young woman and came to rest on the torso of another man.  He wiped his hands in his black cloak and descended the steps behind Monsieur Hubert.  The guards were laughing and clapping one another on the back. 

            “Good show today!”  One of them said and scanned the dispersing crowd.  “Lots of people came to watch.  It will be good for the businesses.”

            “That last one was a fighter,” replied the other.  “Makes for good entertainment.”

            Pascal turned away, disgusted.  It was not they who had to hold a condemned man’s head in his hands or clean the blood that sluiced across the boards or sharpen the blade for the next day’s executions.

            “I’m hungry,” he said, his voice muffled from the hood.

            “Finish your chores first,” Monsieur Hubert replied. “Then you may eat.”

            Pascal lifted the bucket of water at the foot of the stairs and ascended the scaffold, grumbling as loudly as his stomach.  It was a chore he performed daily.  First he scrubbed the platform clean of blood with a stiff brush, then he lifted and secured the blade so he could clean the bascule and demilunette. The guillotine stood vigil day and night in the Place de la Revolution; it served as a warning to the enemies of the state and a reminder to the rest of the rabble of the next day’s entertainments.  Below him in the courtyard, a man weaved through the thinning crowd waving programs over his head that listed the names of the victims for the following day. 

            He spotted her as he descended the stairs after dousing the scaffold with the last of the water.  She was in a wagon being drawn through the streets, her hands shackled in front of her and tethered to three other women.  Two of the women, who appeared to be sisters, huddled like mice in the corner, identical looks of dread on their faces.  The other woman was an elderly nun, stripped of her habit and pinching a rosary between two fastened fingers.  This woman was young, perhaps not much older than Pascal.  She stared straight ahead, oblivious to the taunts and laughter that followed her.  She was a woman of high standing, dressed in a fine lace and silk gown.  A dark bruise clouded her left cheek.  Her mouth was clenched into a smirk of indignation, hardening her delicate features.

            A rabble of young boys ran alongside the cart as it made its way to the Conciergie Prison, spitting upon the women and launching pebbles at them.  One boy snatched the wig from the girl’s head and hooked it on the end of a broomstick his companion carried.  The boys lifted the effigy over their heads and ran laughing down the courtyard, the wig spinning at the end of the stick.  With chains clanging about her wrists, the girl lifted her hands and pulled the pins that secured her hair.  She shook her head slowly, as though relieved to be free of such a cumbersome burden, and locks of shiny copper coloured hair tumbled down her shoulders. 

            Pascal was captivated.  He quickened his step until he was running behind the cart.  The two sisters turned at the sound of his footfalls and screamed.  Pascal stopped short and realized he still wore the black hood of his profession.  He was forbidden to remove it in public, though everyone knew who he was.  The girl with the auburn hair met his gaze and smirked at him in defiance.  The cart jostled around a corner and was out of sight.

            “Programs!” shouted the man behind him.  “Only two denier each!”

            “Give me that!” Pascal turned and snatched the paper from his hand.

            “Oui, Monsieur Executioner,” the man agreed and bowed slightly in his direction.  Pascal was always amazed at how he intimidated just about everyone he came across whenever he wore his hood.  “For you it is free.”

            Pascal scanned the names scribbled on the pamphlet. Only two women were scheduled to be executed the next day, both for conspiracy against the republic. 

            “Who was that woman in the cart?” Pascal asked the man before he turned away.

            “Which one?”

            “The one who lost her wig.  The one with the long red hair.”  Pascal’s heart bucked against his chest.

            “I don’t know.” The man’s eyesight was poor and he had to squint at the writing on the paper. 

            “Never mind.” Pascal shoved the leaflet into the man’s hand and ran past him toward the prison.  He would have to find out on his own.  Before it was too late.

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            “Why would you want to know something like that?”  Monsieur Hubert sat at the fire in the small apartment they shared behind the Conciergie.  Without his cloak and hood he was a rather innocuous looking man with long white hair surrounding his balding pate and a round belly that bulged over his breeches.

            “I’m curious,” Pascal replied.  He leaned closer and stirred the potage that simmered over the coals.  “I think maybe I can help her.”

            Monsieur Hubert chuckled and his chair creaked as he leaned back in it.

            “That’s not for you to decide,” he said.  “It is the duty of the tribunal to find a person innocent or guilty.  Your duty is to carry out their orders.”

            “But what if she’s innocent?” Pascal asked.

            “Then she will be released,” Hubert replied and twined his fingers over his prominent gut.

            “Not all that stick their necks under our blade are guilty,” Pascal said.  “The tribunal is making a mockery of justice…”

            “Stop!” Hubert barked and his expression darkened.  “I could turn you into the Comite de salut public for what you just said.”  He leaned closer so he voice was a whisper against Pascal’s cheek.  “Are you mad?  Never say such things aloud.  There are spies everywhere.  I know a dozen lads like yourself who would gladly dispose of you so they may take your place.”

            A sudden rap at the door jolted them both and Pascal’s heart froze in his throat.

            “Yes!” Pascal called.  “Who is it?”

            “There is a young woman who wishes to speak to Monsieur Executioner,” a guard’s voice called through the heavy wooden door.

            “No one is to speak to him without his mask,” Pascal replied.

            He rose from his stool by the fire and pulled the door open.  The guard stood in the dim corridor fingering a handful of coins.

            “She was quite insistent,” the guard grinned.  “It may be worth his while to see her.”

            “I’ll go,” Pascal sighed and glanced over his shoulder at Hubert who nodded his consent.  He snatched his hood from where it hung on a hook on the wall and followed the guard down the narrow stairs to the foyer.

            A tall woman paced the floor warily, the hem of her finely made expensive dress brushing across the dusty stone.  She turned as he approached and Pascal saw her otherwise pretty face was pocked with lesions from a previous bout of smallpox.

            “Monsieur Executioner?” she asked.

            “No,” Pascal replied.  “He’s indisposed at the moment.  I’m his apprentice.  What can we do for you?”

            The woman’s eyes darted back and forth as though searching for eavesdroppers.  Her voice fell to a whisper as she continued.

            “I’ve come to ask a special favor,” she said. “My sister was brought here today.  Her name is Danielle Flaubert.  Her trial is scheduled for tomorrow.”

            Pascal’s heart quickened its beat and he smiled beneath his hood.

            “Is she a young woman with long red hair?” he asked.

            “Yes!” The woman’s eyes widened.  “Do you know her?”

            “I saw her being brought in on the tumbrel this afternoon,” Pascal said.  “She’s quite striking.”

            “Yes,” the woman agreed. “And too obstinate for her own good.  That’s what brought her to such a dreadful place.”

            Her eyes scanned the stone walls and high arched ceilings where the lamps cast their gloomy yellow light.  She took Pascal’s hand and pressed several heavy gold coins into his palm before wrapping his fingers around them.

            “This is for your master,” she murmured and peered through the eyeholes of his hood as though beseeching his trust.  “Please ask him to sharpen the blade and make sure my sister’s death is as swift and merciful as possible.”

            “Are you so sure she’s guilty?” Pascal asked.

            “I know she’s not,” the woman replied.  “But no one who ever comes here goes anywhere else but the guillotine.”

            “I will tell Monsieur Executioner to sharpen the blade,” Pascal promised and dropped the coins back into the woman’s hand.  “And you keep these.  You need them more then we do.  I will personally ensure Mademoiselle Flaubert’s execution will be swift and painless.  If it will happen at all.”

            “Merci!” the woman cried and kissed his clasped hands before scurrying down the corridor to freedom.

            Danielle Flaubert!  The name skipped through his mind like a gem.  Whenever he said her name aloud it felt as though the most succulent wine in the world dribbled across his tongue.  Pascal closed his eyes and envisioned her long shiny hair, her dark intelligent eyes, her sweet mouth curved into a smile intended only for him.

            When he arrived back at his chambers, Hubert was waiting for him, his hand outstretched.

            “Well?” Hubert demanded.  “Where’s the bribe?”

            Pascal stopped short.  All thoughts of monetary allurement had escaped his mind.

            “She didn’t have any money,” he lied.  “She gave it all to the guard.  She was offering other…services instead.”

            Hubert chuckled knowingly and turned back to his bowl of potage on the table.

            “Ah, the advantages of youth!” he said.  “It’s just as well you went instead of me.  I’m too old for that sort of thing anymore.”

            Pascal’s eyes fell upon the half eaten loaf of dark bread on the table.  Hubert poured himself a goblet of wine and motioned for Pascal to sit.

            “Are you going to finish that?” Pascal asked.

            “You can have the rest of the bread,” Hubert replied.  “The rest of the wine is yours, too.”

            “I’m not hungry,” Pascal said and gathered the loaf and the bottle into a basket.  “I’ll take this down to one of the guards before it spoils.”

            Hubert regarded him suspiciously. 

            “I thought you were famished,” he said.  “And since when do you care if the guards are hungry?”

            “We have a full schedule tomorrow.” Pascal headed toward the door with the basket swinging in his hands.  “I thought if I gave them some wine they would make it a little easier for us.”

            “Pascal!” Hubert barked and Pascal’s heart plunged to the lowest tier of his gut.  He slowly turned to face his master.

            “Yes?”

            “You can take your hood off now.”

 

*                      *                      *                      *                      *

Soft moans and sounds of weeping echoed down the dim corridors where the women were quartered while awaiting trial.  Some of the women glanced at Pascal through the bars of their cells with alternate looks of dread and expectation on their pale frightened faces as he passed them by.

            “Mademoiselle Flaubert!” he called and the women cast their eyes away.

            “Over here!” A small hand ringed by a lace cuff waved him over.

            Pascal approached slowly and reverently.  She stood in the centre of her cell, both hands balled into fists and thrust into her narrow waist.  She regarded him coolly. Even in the dim light he could see the hardness and defiance from the afternoon had melted into an expression of complacency, making her look even more beautiful than he remembered.

            “Who are you?” she demanded.

            Pascal’s breath stopped short in his throat.  How could she ask him that?  Didn’t she feel she had known him all her life, as he did her? 

            “My name is Pascal,” he said and held out the basket.  “I’ve brought you some food.”

            “Did Collette send you?” Danielle asked.

            “Your sister?  Yes.” Pascal replied.

            Danielle glanced at the contents of the basket and her expression soured.

            “With all the money I’d given her that was the best she could do?” she scowled.  “Half a bottle of wine and a torn up loaf of stale bread?”

            “It’s not from her,” Pascal explained, suddenly realizing she had mistaken him for the messenger of a professional cook hired to provide food for those jailed.  It was a common practice among those who could afford it.  “This is from an anonymous benefactor.”

            Danielle tossed her head back and laughed.  The sound was like bells chiming in his ears.

            “Do I look like someone in need of charity?” She stepped back and spread her arms so Pascal could see the full display of her expensive gown.

            “You look like someone in need of a meal,” Pascal replied.  “Even a humble one.”

            “You’re right,” she said.  “As long as I’m among the sans-culottes, I might as well eat like them.”

            Pascal passed her the bottle and the bread and she settled on a pile of damp straw in the corner.  He sank to the floor and sat with his brow pressed against the bars as he watched her eat, fascinated by her every gesture.  She tore small pieces from the crust with her slender fingers and delicately placed tufts of bread in her mouth, chewing slowly and deliberately.  When she drank she tipped her head back just far enough to fill her mouth and swallow.  It was a mouth Pascal longed to touch with his own. 

            Aware that she was being watched, she turned her back to him.

            “You can go now,” she said.

            “I’d like to stay if I may,” Pascal smiled.

            “Why?”

            “I thought you might enjoy having someone to talk to,” he replied.

            Danielle rose and regarded him suspiciously; her eyes narrowed into slits, her soft face hovering whitely in the dark.

            “Who are you?” she demanded.  “My confessor?”
            “No, nothing of the sort…” Pascal began but she cut in sharply.

            “Did the magistrate send you to coax a confession out of me?” she snapped. 

            “I’ve come here of my own accord,” Pascal said.  “I hope to be able to help you.”

            “Help me?” Danielle’s laughter clanged against the stone walls.  She shoved what was left of the bread through the bars.  “Take this back!  I’m not telling you anything.  You tell the magistrate or whoever this anonymous benefactor is that I’ll speak for myself tomorrow at the trial and not a moment before.”

            “Keep it.” Pascal pushed the bread back into her hand.  “I understand you can’t trust anyone in the situation you’re in right now, least of all a stranger like me.  But I promise I’ll do what I can to help you.”

            “Why?” she asked.  “What will you get out of it?”

            Spots of scarlet bloomed on Pascal’s sallow cheeks and he was grateful for the darkness so Danielle wouldn’t see.  He longed to tell her how taken he was by her whenever she tossed her head and her red luminous hair bounced against her shoulders, or the way his heart surged whenever she looked at him, or how harmonic her laughter sounded in his ears.  But his tongue remained clenched in his jaw.

            “Nothing,” he said.  “I just want to help.  But you must trust me.”

            He extended his hand through the bars.  Danielle hesitated, her eyes darting from his hand to his face and back again.  She guardedly placed her own hand in his palm and Pascal felt a jolt of pleasure race up his arm. Her hand was as soft as the breast of a sparrow against his skin. He smiled at her and she smiled back.

 

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            Pascal had been to the courtroom only once before in his brief career.  Monsieur Hubert had taken him to The Great Hall to witness the trials of the accused on his first day with him.  He wanted Pascal to see the procedures of the justice system, warning him not to develop any sympathy for the defendants; it would make his duty more difficult to perform when he had to catch their severed heads.

            Pascal joined the other spectators in the gallery, finding space on a narrow bench near the front where he could see the podium where the tribunal sat.  Most of the people there were witnesses summoned to testify; others were there to watch their loved ones on trial.  He spotted Danielle’s sister Collette sitting in the rear, her pocked face ashen, her eyes little more than swollen slits from crying and lack of sleep.  He waved to her but she only stared back at him curiously, not recognizing him without his hood. 

            The queue of defendants sat against the wall, their wrists bound behind their backs.  Danielle sat among them, her chin high and regal.  She spotted him over the heads of the spectators and hope tugged the corners of her mouth into a wan smile.  Pascal waved, though he had no idea what he could do to help her.  He had only managed to slip away from Monsieur Hubert by pleading illness; he was still expected back at the scaffold later that afternoon to prepare the guillotine for the day’s executions. 

            The judge was a fat somber man with small piggy eyes that gleamed with no remorse.  His thick lips were pinched into a permanent scowl and Pascal could see that the defendants would receive very little clemency from this man.  Discouragement settled in his heart like a lead weight.

            Danielle was the first to be called to the stand.  A guard grabbed her arm and thrust her before the podium with such force she stumbled over the hem of her skirts and almost fell.  Pascal gritted his teeth and rounded his fists, trying to restrain himself from leaping across the gallery and cuffing the guard in the mouth.

            The judge glanced up from the papers before him and scowled.

            “This wench is bare headed,” he said through the titters and catcalls that came from the spectators.  “This is a court of law.  Show some respect.”

            “I would,” Danielle said, “but one of your urchins snatched my wig yesterday and I don’t have another.”

            “Cover her head!” the judge bellowed.

            A guard dutifully shoved a filthy maid’s cap over hair, pushing it low enough so that one side covered her eye.  Danielle nudged it into place with a shrug of her shoulder and glared back at the judge.  Behind her, the gallery filled with taunting laughter.

            “Danielle Flaubert,” the judge continued, “you are charged with consorting with enemies of the republic.  How do you plead?”

            “I’m not guilty!”

            “We have a witness that claims you were the mistress of the Duc de la Camparie, a nobleman condemned in absentia as an enemy of the state,” the judge replied.

            The lead weight that had occupied Pascal’s heart dropped like a stone into the pit of his belly.  Of course she was the mistress of a nobleman.  She was too beautiful and cultured to be anything else.  But the thought of her in the arms of another man sent nausea surging through his gut.

            “Where is Madam Proulx?” The judge’s small eyes squinted toward the gallery.

            “I’m here.” 

            The dumpy old woman sitting next to Pascal rose from the bench, a smug vengeful smile creeping across her cheeks.  She was the homeliest woman he had ever seen.  Her face was covered with boils; the grey hair that poked from her maid’s cap was so greasy it appeared wet; she wore a stained apron and the scent of spoiled meat wafted around her like a rancid fog.

            “Do you know Mademoiselle Flaubert?” the judge asked.

            “Oui!” the woman replied.  “I was hired by the Duc de la Camparie as a maid in the house he provided for her, his mistress.” She thrust a fat sausage shaped finger in Danielle’s direction.  “I heard them conspiring to bring down the republic late at night after they finished doing the most beastly, unnatural acts I’ve ever heard.”

            “Liar!” Danielle hissed.

            The maid smirked with satisfaction, showing her remaining teeth: two lower incisors that jutted from her mouth like a pair of yellowed tusks.

            “Were you the mistress of the Duc de la Camparie?” the judge asked.

            “He was my benefactor,” Danielle admitted.  “Until the revolution.  Then he gathered his family and fled to the country.  He left me destitute, the coward!  I’ve done nothing wrong.  You should go after him.”

            “You are in no position to tell the tribunal anything,” the judge warned.  “Now tell me.  Were you the mistress of the Duc de la Camparie?”

            Danielle hesitated before replying.

            “No!”

            “She’s lying!” Madam Proulx shouted.

            “No!” Pascal didn’t know what prompted him to leap from the bench.  All eyes in The Great Hall turned and fixed on him.  “She’s telling the truth.”

            “Who are you?” the judge demanded.

            “My name is Pascal.”  He was so nervous he could barely speak.  “Mademoiselle Flaubert is innocent.  She is my mistress.”

            Danielle’s mouth dropped open as she stared at him, her delicate eyebrows creased with shock and a hint of amusement.  What was he saying?  His face reddened.  He realized the full folly of his words when the entire courtroom burst into gales of laughter.

            “Young man,” the judged warned.  “I don’t know what sort of game you are playing here, but this is a court of law.  I suggest you take your mischief elsewhere before I sentence you for obstruction of justice.”

            “Yes, sir.” Pascal sank back into the bench, wishing the floor would split open and swallow him whole.  The judge waited until the laughter subsided before turning his attention back to Danielle.

            “Mademoiselle Flaubert,” he said.  “I pronounce you guilty of consorting with enemies of the republic.  You shall be brought to the guillotine on 9 Brumaire, year I where you shall be executed by decapitation as an example to all enemies of the state.”

            “No!”  Pascal’s moans were drowned by the cheers that erupted from the gallery.  Sharp tears blurred his vision and he blinked, clearing his eyes just in time to see the guards haul Danielle toward the door.

 

            *                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            Danielle reached through the bars of the pailleux and slapped Pascal sharply across the face.

            “That’s it?” she shouted.  “You promised to help me and that was the best you could come up with?”

            “I’m sorry.”  Pascal stepped back, wary of another blow, and rubbed his scorching cheek.  “I didn’t know what else to say.”

            Danielle glared at him, her eyes burning with loathing and betrayal.  Pascal watched as they slowly dimmed like coals in a hearth of ash.

            “You have to think up something better than that,” Danielle said. 

            “I’m trying,” Pascal replied.  “I’m working on a plan, but it will take some time.”

            “I don’t have much time left!”

            Danielle’s eyes filled with tears, extinguishing the last of the fire that blazed within them.  The corners of her delicate mouth quivered as she sank to the filthy straw strewn about the floor, her skirts billowing up around her like a parasol.  Pascal noticed how tattered the lace appeared around the bodice, how grey it looked.  He kneeled and gathered her hand in his own.  She didn’t pull away, but squeezed his fingers.

            “I’m frightened, Pascal,” she said, her voice meek and quivering.  “Please help me.”

            “I’ve given the guards several bottles of wine,” he said.  “I put laudanum in them.  They’re outside the door right now, drinking and having a good time.  Once they’re asleep I can steal away their keys and unlock the pailleux.”

            “Then what?” Danielle asked.  “I can’t just walk out of here.”

            “Wear this.”  Pascal unwrapped the bundle he carried in his free hand.  Danielle’s eyes widened when she saw the black cloak and hood.

            “Where did you get that?” she gasped.

            “It’s not important.”  Pascal shook his head.  “Go first, and I’ll follow you a few minutes later.  Take the second door to the left.  It leads to a courtyard where I have a horse waiting for us.  By then it will be dark and no one will see us.”

            “Are you sure it will work?”

            “It’s our only chance,” Pascal replied, smiling inwardly.  He could almost picture the look on the guards’ faces when they awoke to find her cell empty.  The thought of escaping into the night with Danielle made him lightheaded and giddy.  They would inevitably become refugees from the law and there was always the chance of getting caught before they left Paris, but it seemed a small risk if it meant being with Danielle.

            “You’re so kind to do this,” Danielle said, her demeanor softening with every word.  “I still don’t understand why you would put yourself in such jeopardy for me.”

            Pascal longed to spill his heart to her, but couldn’t.  Now was not the time or place.  But surely she could see by the expression on his face, the way his eyes gleamed whenever he looked at her, how he felt. 

            He smiled and said, “I couldn’t let them do this to you.”

            And his heart spouted with joy when she leaned forward and softly kissed his mouth between the bars.

            “Merci,” she whispered and her breath tasted sweet against his lips.

 

 

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            “Pascal!”

            Hubert was in a foul mood. The insolent lad had wandered off again, mumbling excuses while the guillotine remained dirty and unprepared for tomorrow’s executions.  His stash of wine had disappeared and he was certain a few coins had been taken from the strongbox he kept hidden under his bed.  He stomped through the corridors of the Conciergie, grabbing at guards and demanding to know if they had seen Pascal scuttling about. 

            “No, Monsieur Executioner!”  They all replied.  “We have not seen him, only you.”

            Hubert was almost certain Pascal had gone to see that girl he was so enamored with.  He had warned the boy over and over again not to develop any feelings for the condemned.  But he was young, and like all men, he had his needs.  It was no secret that the guards on occasion would step into a woman’s cell and do as they pleased with her.  If that was the case then perhaps he could forgive Pascal for this one indiscretion.  But he would still receive a thrashing for not cleaning the guillotine.

            He entered the corridor that led to the women’s quarters and stopped dead in his tracks.  Three guards lay sprawled in the floor in what appeared to be puddles of blood.  Hubert crept closer.  A figure loomed over the bodies on its knees and he heard the jangle of keys.  He was about to open his mouth to summon help when he noticed the bottles clutched in the guards’ fists—his bottles, and smelled the wine.

            “There you are!” he bellowed.

            Pascal sprung to his feet, dropping the key ring. 

            “Please, master, it’s not how it looks…” Pascal stammered.

            “So this is where I find you!” Hubert shouted and kicked at the guard nearest his foot.  “Get up, you fools!”

            The guard moaned and licked his pasty lips as his eyes fluttered open.  The man beside him rose groggily to his feet, the empty bottle swaying in his hands.  The third guard rolled onto his side and released a loud snore that reverberated off the stone walls.

Pascal’s face whitened and he stepped back until he pressed against the door to the cells, the guilt clear on his frightened face.

            “Monsieur Executioner!” slurred the first guard.  “We were just having a little party.”

            “Is that what’s going on around here?” Hubert said and turned his attention to Pascal.  “I’ve searched everywhere only to find you down here carousing with the guards and having your way with that wench!” Hubert shouted and pointed down the corridor.  “Get back to the square and clean that blade before I stick your neck under it myself!”

            “But…” Pascal glanced over his shoulder beyond the door and winced.

            “Now, boy!” Hubert demanded. 

            “Oui, Monsieur.” Pascal dropped his gaze to the floor so Hubert and the guards couldn’t see the tears boiling up from his eyes. 

            “What’s this?” Hubert snatched the hood and cloak and from Pascal’s arms as he tried to scamper past.

            “It’s my…my hood.”

            The guards tittered drunkenly behind him.

            “Really, Pascal,” Hubert’s voice was laced with disgust.  “Isn’t that poor girl frightened enough without you having your way with her dressed in this?”

            “Oui, you’re right.  I’m sorry,” Pascal replied.  “May I go now?”

            “Go!” Hubert shoved the cloak and hood back at him.  “Do your duty.  And I never want to catch you down here again.”

            Pascal nodded.  A nodule lodged in his throat and he was unable to speak.  He turned down the dark corridor, tears of regrets drizzling down his cheeks.

 

                        *                      *                      *                      *                      *

 

            A mob began to congregate around the scaffold around noon.  The vendors had long since set up their stalls and many people were already getting drunk on the wine and ale they sold.  Children perched on the shoulders of their fathers and waved brightly coloured banners over their heads shouting slogans such as “Vive la Revolution!” and “La mort aux traitres!”

            Normally Pascal enjoyed the carnival atmosphere that preceded the day’s executions, but this day, he just couldn’t watch.  He sat cross-legged before the guillotine, his head weighted down with despair.  The hood felt burdensome and suffocating.  A girl tugged at his cloak and offered him a stein of ale.  He declined, shaking his head.  The girl bowed reverently and vanished back into the crowd.

            A cheer rose up over the heads as the tumbrel bearing the first batch of victims jostled through the square.  Pascal turned away.  He knew Danielle would be there and he couldn’t watch the jeering crowd spitting and lobbing insults at her.  Monsieur Hubert climbed the stairs and kneeled beside him.

            “Pascal,” he whispered. “I know how you feel.  But you’ve done everything you could to save her.  You must do your duty now.”

            Pascal raised his head and stared at him.

            “You knew?”

            “I knew,” Hubert admitted.  “You’re not very good at hiding your emotions.”

            “Why didn’t you turn me in?”

            “I could have,” Hubert admitted.  “But I didn’t.  I like you, Pascal.  You’re a hard worker and a good kid.  You just have to learn to put your feelings aside and do your duty.”

            “I can’t,” Pascal shook his head beneath his hood. 

            “You must.” Hubert patted his shoulder.  “I’ve arranged a little surprise for you.  Look at the tumbrel.”

            “No!”

            “Look, Pascal.”  Hubert pointed.  “It may console you to know she’s there.”

            Pascal reluctantly turned his head and watched the cart rattle toward the scaffold, filled with condemned women.  Madam Proulx was among them, her complexion white against the lesions on her face, her heavy dugs jiggling with each lurch of the wheels.  Danielle stood beside her, hands tethered to the corner post.  Even in their final moments the two women exchanged poisonous glances, spewing animosity at one another.

            “Do you know who that is?”

            “Yes,” Pascal replied.  “It’s her maid, Madam Proulx.  She’s her accuser.”

            “I’ve had her arrested and tried on the same day,” Hubert replied.  “Consider it a gift from me to you.  I will even let you release the blade when it’s her turn.  She will be your first.”

            “What good will that do?” Pascal shrugged.  “Will it save Danielle?  Will it bring her back?  No.  All it will do is add more blood.  And there has been too much blood spilled here already.”

            Hubert’s expression hardened.

            “If that’s how you feel, then perhaps you’re in the wrong profession.”  He rose and took his place by the guillotine.

            One by one the women were herded up the steps; some wept, others held their chins up in defiance.  All died under the blade; as was his duty Pascal caught their heads and held them up to the boisterous crowd.  Madam Proulx’s neck was so thick Pascal had trouble adjusting the demilunette into place.  He should have felt some sort of satisfaction when her head fell away into his hands, but he only felt pity for the woman.  Pity, and an overwhelming despondency.

            Danielle was the last to be brought up.  Two guards held her arms down and shoved her toward the guillotine.  Danielle struggled against their hold, kicking at them until her skirts flared up around her legs.

            “I can do this myself!” she shouted and approached the guillotine on her own.

            Pascal rose and faced her.

            “Pascal!” Hubert warned.  “Don’t!”

             Behind him the mob cheered and he felt something heavy strike his back.  Danielle turned and addressed the crowd.

            “Citizens of Paris!” she shouted. “I want you to know that you are sending an innocent woman to her grave.  May her blood tarnish your souls forever while you all roast in hell!”

            Hisses and catcalls rose up around them.  Empty bottles and bits of debris sailed toward her, striking her legs.  Some of it missed its target and hit Pascal.  Danielle peered at him through the eyeholes.

            “Let’s get this over with,” she said.

            Her expression froze into a mask of shock.  The bloom that had reddened her cheeks faded and for a second Pascal thought she would faint.

            “Pascal?” Her voice quivered.  “Is that you?”

            He returned her gaze.  Like the other women who had come up before her, Danielle’s lustrous hair had been shorn down to the roots, revealing a few bald patches that gleamed pink in the sun.  Her face was dirty and the bruise at her cheek had discolored to a sickly yellow.  But to him, she was still the loveliest girl he had ever seen. 

            “I can’t do this anymore,”

            He pulled the hood from his head and dropped it at Hubert’s feet.

            The crowd below gathered their breaths into a collective gasp.  The momentary silence that followed was so encompassing Pascal could hear Danielle’s raspy, frightened breath as it heaved from her mouth.  He leaned forward and pressed his lips against it.

            A lad about Pascal’s age broke from the mob and scampered up the steps.

            “I’ll do it!” he shouted gleefully and snatched up the hood.

            A roar rose from the mob as people rushed the scaffold.  Hands reached up from below and wrenched him away.  His legs buckled and he fell off the edge.  More hands grabbed at him from all directions and softened his landing to the ground.  He was rolled onto his back and lifted high over the throng of people.  Spreading his limbs,  he allowed himself to be carried away, bobbing over the heads like a cork in a pool of water.  He leaned back and watched clouds scud across a stark blue sky.  The last thing he heard before he was torn to pieces was the whiz of the blade as it fell.