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Soon the female sansculotte was leading them, but Gabrielle could feel the man’s eyes on her back. She dared not turn around or veer from her path to the guillotine. She didn’t know what she would do when she reached the Place de la Révolution. She did not want to see anyone murdered. Did the blood spurt when the head was chopped off? Did the body jerk and flail about after the neck was sliced through?
She had heard that some of the heads held up for inspection after decapitation continued to blink. Did that mean the head was still alive?
She shuddered and felt Ramsey’s hand on the small of her back, leading her. She was grateful for the modest gesture. In the middle of this storm of violence, he was a tree she could cling to. But how strong were his roots?
Please, God, let me be able to trust him.
She put her hand over the cockade again. If she could just escape the woman sansculotte with her cockade intact…
If she could just live another day without being caught…
If she could just steal le Saphir Blanc and escape this godforsaken country. If she could go home…
The noise of the cheering crowds startled her, as did the size of the group. Children ran about, chopping the heads off dolls and vegetables with toy guillotines. Women sat and knit. Some of them were so close to the scaffolds that their skirts were covered in blood. Indeed, Gabrielle could smell the blood. It had pooled under the scaffold and ran in the street. As they neared the Place de la Révolution, she stepped in puddles of blood.
Everyone did. It was unavoidable.
Her stomach turned, but she could not afford to be squeamish. She was not afraid of blood. She was not afraid of anything.
Except rats.
The blade of the guillotine swished and she heard the crowd roar with approval.
And dying under the blade of the guillotine.
Once again, Ramsey was beside her. “We will not stay long,” he whispered in her ear. His voice was comforting, his hand on her waist reassuring. She wanted to turn into him, close her eyes, and make all of this go away.
Instead, she raised her eyes and stared at the monstrosity before her.
It was a simple machine, really. A rectangular frame with a blade in the center. The blade was cut at an angle and fell at a rapid rate of speed, cutting the head off the victim lying, head down, on a pallet underneath. Soldiers surrounded the scaffolds, keeping the crowds at a respectable distance and keeping the condemned from making any last attempts at escape. The tumbrels approached the scaffolds and the damned were loaded off, then directed up the steps of the scaffold.
Gabrielle watched as one young man—he was handsome with his long unbound hair and dark eyes—mounted the scaffold. He held his head high, allowing his hands and feet to be bound without protest. The executioner, a man everyone seemed to refer to as Sanson, watched as his assistant, a man with a red rose clenched between his teeth, completed what was obviously a tiresome routine.
How many times did they do this each day?
The young aristocrat—for Gabrielle felt the handsome man, a boy, really, must be an aristocrat—had no words for the crowd, who pelted him with rotten fruit and harsh words. His lips seemed to move silently, and Gabrielle wondered if he was praying or cursing.
Then he was taken to the machine and laid on the pallet, his head positioned under the blade. A bloody basket filled with bloody straw slid under his face.
Was that the last thing he ever saw?
Sanson went to the guillotine and raised his hand, prepared to release the blade. It might be routine, but he still knew how to make the moment dramatic. He paused, just long enough for the crowd to hold its breath or the victim to cry out. But the aristocrat made no sound, and in the silence the whoosh of the blade was as loud as the shot of a pistol.
Gabrielle jumped when the head fell into the basket. She would have turned away then. God knew she did not want to see the boy’s face, but she happened to look to her right and saw the female sansculotte had her gaze on her. And so she held her head high, as the boy had done, and forced herself to look upon the horror.
But she did not cheer as the rest of the crowd did. Instead, she sent a silent prayer for the safe delivery of the boy’s soul to heaven.
A young woman—the boy’s sister or wife?—was next, but Ramsey was already backing away. “We’ve made our point,” he said in Gabrielle’s ear. “We don’t need to stay any longer.”
“I’ll follow you,” she said. He took her hand and led her through the crowds. Gabrielle was glad to follow. She could hardly remember to move her feet, much less recall where Alex lived. She looked over her shoulder more times than she could count, but the sansculotte had not followed.
After what seemed an eternity, Ramsey was leading her through the back door of Alex’s house, through what would have been the servants’ domain, and up the stairs. They stopped in the drawing room, and after he checked the fireplace for hidden guests, he led her to a chair. She sat, as was expected of her.
“Would you like me to find you some tea or a glass of wine?”
She shook her head. The images from the guillotine were still fresh in her mind. She looked down at her half boots to see they were stained red from the blood. If—no, when—she returned to England, she would burn these boots and everything she had brought to Paris.
“I’m quite well,” she said to Ramsey. “I don’t need anything.”
