Page 26 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
Then she leapt up from Sophie, wrapped her fingers over the top of Léon’s, and leaning so close her face was against his, cheek to cheek, she whispered into his ear, “Merci.”
15
A GLORIFIED AXE
The plot had thickened, and all the way back down the stairs and out of the prison, that one word rang over and over in Léon’s mind: ‘Merci.’
Catherine wasn’t mute at all. But not a word during her whole trial? Not a word to defend herself against such a heinous charge? Not a word even to her kind cellmate, and this revelation for Léon and Léon alone?
Perhaps DuPont had exaggerated. Perhaps she could say a little here and there. Or maybe… Why would someone who could talk freely, deliberately keep their mouth shut at a time like that? It was too absurd to comprehend.
Yet she had avoided torture. She had escaped once…
Léon was utterly absorbed with such thoughts as he wound his way back out to the town square, as DuPont had requested him to do, but as soon as he turned the corner, all such musings fled his mind.
That great murder machine. What had they called it? The guillotine? There it shone, in all its grisly glory. The newly forged steel was clean and glinted in an amber flash of dying sunlight, sitting high atop the platform Léon usually only climbed to wield his deadly axe.
A group of onlookers had gathered to discuss what the object might have been, but most had already put two and two together.
“Léon!” DuPont extricated himself from the workers and the Parisian from earlier, all of whom were busy strewing straw about the place. He soon had his hands back around Léon’s arm, leading him forward. “Isn’t she magnificent?”
“She?” Léon muttered, stumbling along with the volition of DuPont’s excitement.
“They say you can take ten heads in an hour.”
Léon glanced across, aghast. “Why would I want to do that? How would they even know that?”
“I told you, things are heating up in Paris. They’re calling for the King’s head next.”
Léon could almost see it, a cartoon image of the King—the only sort of image he’d ever seen of him—head poking through that little hole. The notion struck him as oddly ghastly.
His axe—his skills—were generally reserved for nobility. It was the lot of the common man to dangle at the end of a long rope. That was exactly why he did what he did—insisted on using the axe for all. It was a final kindness and an elevation, and it would never have been so… careless—inhuman—as the pull of the string on that guillotine.
He always sharpened his blade, between every head. It was, to him, a sacred duty, closer to his heart than last rites could ever have been.
There was something that struck him about the whole contraption, the very conception of it, as sad, too distant, too hands off. Too impersonal. The dead recorded not by lives and actions, but by how quickly they could be disposed of, heads per hour.
“They call it the great leveller,” DuPont went on, as the guillotine loomed larger and more menacing with every step.“Doesn’t matter if you’re prince or peasant, one death, quick and cruelty-free for all.”
“And the blade comes off easily?” Léon asked, ignoring the rest of his grand statement.
“Hmm?”
“For sharpening?”
“Ah! That’s the beauty of the design.” Dupont led him up the creaking wooden staircase, smooth from decades of blood, cleaning, blood, cleaning, the final climb of the condemned and the final descent of their killer, over and over. “It’s the mouton, up there.” His arm extended towards the large stone that sat just above the blade. “The weight of that forces the blade down so fast and hard, there’s no need to sharpen it so frequently. Maybe… Maybe not for a year, even.”
“I’m sorry?” Léon’s eyes scanned the design for the screws or levers that would release the blade, wondering if the stone must come out too, wondering, was it a one-man job? It was while his mind was turning over the mechanics of the thing that the words sunk in fully and horror struck. “Not for ayear? They use it blunt?”
“No, Léon, no. See, the mouton forces the stone?—”
“I heard you perfectly well. My axe’s blade is dulled after one neck?—”
“It’s hardly an axe?—”
“It’s nothing but a glorified axe!”
“What are you getting yourself worked up over? It’s the most humane method of execution we’ve come up with yet. Trust me.” His hand patted into Léon’s back. “This is the future, Léon. And if you don’t think it’s sharp enough, you take it down and sharpen it as you see fit. Just as often as you like. But tomorrow…” He trailed off, his mind playing over the matter. “How many do we have for tomorrow?” he asked himself, then answered himself, “I believe it’s seventeen.”
