Page 40 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
His face was grim, wary, dark. The crowd parted for the magnificent black steed he rode upon, sword dangling at his knee. He pulled the horse up, side on, in the small clearing they made. He levelled his gaze at Léon, then let go a black-gloved hand from the reins, throwing back his cloak to allow Léon a clear view of the gun at his waist.
“Idiot!” Léon hissed under his breath. He let the blade drop without another moment’s stalling. Snap and off came the head, and Léon gave the man no thirty seconds’ grace. He grasped the head, lips and eyelids twitching, and he let him see the jubilation on the faces of the people in front of him. And Léon hoped he felt it when his head landed in the eager hands of his killers, only to be ripped to shreds, the pieces to be carted about as trophies for the rest of the day, before becoming scraps for hungry dogs.
Henry looked down on the scrambling, ferocious scene, both literally and metaphorically, from his seat high above the mess, resplendent on his magnificent black stallion. His lip curled in disgust just as his fingers curled around the steed’s reins, steadying the beast with a casual nudge of his foot.
Léon resented him fiercely, the way he wandered into the middle of it all, so superior. Yet some small part of him felt a stab of shame—a squeeze of embarrassment that Henry thought he was like them. But that little pit of sickness was quickly filled up with more resentment. He threw his blond head back, raised his arms out wide, and clapped. Several faces turned up to him, and he clapped again. He clapped again, and again, slow and repetitive, until he had the audience in his palm. Then he called out, “Citizens! I have another head for you now. And it is a very pretty one.”
A cacophony of hollers and shouts came back, and he quelled them with that same raised finger, all while Henry stared on, black anger burning into Léon, which Léon met with double the hatred, and a showmanship which drowned Henry’s easy grandeur.
“The lady in question has come a very long way to be here with you today, so I want you all to show her how much you appreciate her.” He began clapping again, and in time to a well-known anthem, and soon the crowd clapped the rhythm he set. He took a deep breath, and sang out loud, “Dgieu sauvenouot' Reine. Rends-la victorieuse, Jouaiyeuse et glorieuse…” And before he could get any further, the crowd had cottoned on, and were singing ‘God Save the Queen’ at the top of their lungs for him. So happy, so excited for what was coming next, they revelled in their merriment while Léon descended the stairs and bolted for Sophie and Catherine’s cell. He took the keys from the guard and announced, “I’ll take the next one down. As soon as I get her up on the platform, I want you to bring the other girl through. I want her to watch the execution. It should be good for the crowd to see.”
The guard screwed his face up a little, wondering slightly at Léon’s unprecedented cruelty, but soon shrugged it off and gave him a nod of assent.
“Now, downstairs to wait,” Léon directed. “I want you to open the front door for me so I can present her.”
And off the man went. Léon checked the area to make sure he was alone, slipped into the cell, and for the first time, was able to behold Souveraine’s handiwork.
Sophie stood before him, seemingly three feet taller, her hair teased high into a bird’s nest with twigs and leaves to boot, the lot coated in a cascade of flour. Her face was whitened to deathly with some cornflour concoction, and smattered with a ridiculousness of black ‘beauty’ marks. Souveraine’s dress plunged low over an ample bosom, but most of that was hidden away by a dozen necklaces of every make and model Souveraine had been able to string together. Most importantly, the enormous dress, cast out stupidly wide with a large hoop, reached right to the floor and further still.
It was laughable. Utterly ludicrous. Brilliantly farcical. To anyone but Léon.
He started forward and grasped Sophie’s fingers. “I can never thank you enough for this. I’m so sorry it can’t be you.”
“Don’t you apologise, Léon.” She kissed his cheek. “They’d never let me get away with it. I’m too famous. And I’m proud to do this.” She looked over at Catherine, who sat scrunched up on her mattress, hands clasped beneath her chin, watching on with scared eyes. “Well,” she said, “under you go.” She lifted the hem of her skirt, and Catherine threw a panicked look up at the two of them.
“Henri’s waiting,” Léon said. “Just remember, it will hurt when you fall, but do not make a sound. And when you get there, Catherine…” He dropped to the floor, taking her two hands in his. “Keep your eyes closed—don’t open them for all the world. And no matter what you do, do not let anything get into your mouth.”
With a nod, she stood, then moved slowly towards Sophie. She captured her gaze, tilting her head down, as though asking if she was certain. Sophie returned the movement with a sad smile, then Catherine’s arms moved around her neck, her body trembling as she tried to hold back the tears.
Sophie’s voice came hoarse, and she wrapped her hands around Catherine’s arms. “You’ll ruin my makeup.” She dropped a kiss on Catherine's cheek as she pulled back. “It’s okay. They were going to kill me, anyway. Now you be a good girl and do everything just as Léon says. He’ll take good care of you.”
Catherine was reluctant, and Léon was glad for the firm and maternal tone Sophie took with her until she scurried beneath the hem of the dress.
“Hold on tight,” said Sophie, shuffling a little as Catherine wrapped her hands around her legs. She raised her head high, threw her shoulders back, exactly like a queen, and said, “It’s time.”
Léon’s insides stewed and churned so that he thought he might vomit as he led her down that long spiral staircase, ever so slowly, Catherine scrambling in the dark with every step, downand down, to the filthy dungeon floor. The two guards leapt to their feet with a whoop and a holler, and Sophie placed proud hands on her hips to show off her dress.
“Door,” Léon ordered, and the two opened it wide upon DuPont and Mollard, both of whose mouths dropped open at the sight.
“Citizen Cauchoix,” DuPont said, starting forward to take her hand. “It’s a shame it had to end this way.”
She looked him coolly in the eye. “I’ve no regrets. I’d kill him all over again if I got the chance.”
He laughed uncomfortably. “Well… Well, you have redeemed yourself today. You’ve shown yourself to be a fine citizen, in full support of your countrymen.” Before she could say another word, he slapped Léon on the back. “Good work. Very good work.”
Léon nodded and pushed forward, DuPont stepped aside, and Léon raised his eyebrows to the guard at the door, who flung it wide, blinding Léon and Sophie with white light over a black scaffold. He squeezed her hand tight, she squeezed his in return, and she stepped out into the last day she would ever see. The crowd screamed on sight of her, wailing laughter and jibes and howls for gore, and all the while that same joyous refrain, ‘God Save the Queen’, sang out across the square.
With a gentle hold, Léon led her slowly up the stairs to the guillotine. She walked with a stately grace every step of the way, pausing if she once thought Catherine might have missed a step, on and on, until she was centre stage.
Léon took up his axe, leaned it over his shoulder extravagantly, tilted his head to the side, and waited for the audience to quiet. It took some time, but when they’d finally screamed out their jeers and taken note of his patient pose, he called out, “Citizens… Your queen.” And up went the roar all over again.
He stepped to the back of the stage, and just like every other day he’d executed people before the guillotine came along, he applied foot to pedal, pressed the blade of his axe to the grindstone, and the screech of death sang out through Reims. High and mournful, the blade played its melody, and the crowd listened greedily. It didn’t take long. He’d sharpened it already that morning. But that was the show.
He turned back to them and yelled, “Marie Antoinette. You stand here accused of treason, of betraying your countrymen and women, and of being an Austrian pig. What do you have to say for yourself?”
She offered Léon, and by extension, the crowd, a coy smile. “Fuck you all!”
Screams, wails, furious anger, and Sophie chuckled to herself. “I piss on you!” she shouted. Léon dipped his head to hide his laugh, and Sophie said to him, “Let’s get it over with.”
