La Force Prison, September 3, 1792
. By dawn, Claudette was resolute about her execution. She would go silently and without protest.
Mama, Papa
, she prayed.
I will be with you soon. Please don’t be disappointed in me
.
With all condolences exhausted, her cell group sat silently, watching the inexorable movement of the clock’s hands. Six o’clock. Only five hours to live, perhaps a few minutes longer, depending on travel time in a cart to the execution spot.
Will anyone attend my execution?
Much worse than dying would be dying without a soul around who was interested in your death.
Does the blade hurt?
When the English Queen Anne Boleyn learned that she was to be beheaded by an expert French swordsman, she reportedly laughed delightedly at her good fate in avoiding the clumsy ax, saying, “I heard say the executioner was very good, and I have a little neck.”
Claudette had not heard of the guillotine ever failing in its job and only partially severing a head, so if she could be brave until she got to the platform, all would go quickly and painlessly.
Promptly at eleven o’clock by the clock’s reckoning, she heard several sets of footsteps approaching the cell. Claudette remained motionless on her cot. Three men in uniform she had not seen before unlocked the chamber. She laughed mirthlessly. “Does it require so many of you to remove my head this morning?”
Madame D’Aubigne gasped audibly. The men were momentarily nonplussed, but the shortest of the three, who was apparently their leader, stated in an imperious voice, “Citizeness Laurent, you are to be removed immediately to the Place de Carrousel for your execution.”
She saw now that one of the other men had two pieces of rope in his hand. He bound her hands together behind her, while Madame D’Aubigne tut-tutted in outrage. He saw that Claudette was staring at the remaining piece of rope in his hand and said, “It’s for later. For your feet. So you don’t fall off the board.”
Claudette breathed deeply and banished the thought of being tied to a board and slid under the blade. It would be over soon enough anyway.
She didn’t look back at her cell mates as she was escorted out and through the prison’s dank hallways, for fear of losing her calm resolve. They reached a side entrance and the door was thrown wide open. Claudette was temporarily blinded by the brilliant, warm sunshine. She stood still, blinking rapidly for several moments to become accustomed to the light. It must have been a common occurrence, for the men indulged her this preciously brief time to take in her surroundings.
From the doorway she was led to a tumbrel, a small wooden conveyance big enough for just a single passenger to sit on its rough bench. It rode low to the ground, such that the occupant was at the same height as anyone walking past. It had clunky wooden wheels and looked altogether uncomfortable for one’s last moments. The cart was connected in front to a small floorboard, on which a driver stood holding the reins to a horse. This particular horse had probably seen better days, but why would a quality animal be used to haul around the doomed? The driver’s back was already to her, but she could see lanky, greasy hair trailing out from under his head covering, the ubiquitous tricolor cockade pinned to it. She wondered if she could convince him to collect her body and send it back to England, but realized she had nothing with which to bribe him, and bribes were what improved any prisoner’s lot.
The man who had bound Claudette tossed the second piece of rope to the driver, with an instruction to give it to whomever was waiting at the steps of the platform when they arrived. The driver snapped back that he was not an
imbécile
, and knew perfectly well how to conduct his business.
Claudette was seated in the tumbrel facing the rear, an additional insult to the condemned. With a huge lurch, her final journey started. The wheels rotated slowly and made a deafening noise as they pounded on the cobblestones. As they turned onto the Rue Pavée, several young boys noticed her and ran up to the cart, following its slow progress. They recognized the mobcap covering shorn hair and her bound hands as sure signs that an execution was about to take place.
“Are you a murderess? Did you do in your husband?” they asked. She remained silent, resolutely fixing her gaze into space. Other citizens took note as well and began following the cart. A public execution was always much more interesting than working or household chores. It made no difference what the crime was; one execution was as good as another and made for great street entertainment.
The throng around the cart began growing. Claudette felt a sharp stinging on the side of her face. Wiping her cheek on her shoulder, she saw a red smear left behind. A small stone lay at her feet. Almost immediately another projectile slammed into the side of the cart. It reeked of horse dung. The swelling crowd, full of bodies that smelled as unwashed as her own, began impeding the already torturously slow movement of the cart.
Now the crowd began jeering at her, hurling insults and spitting at her. Their great desire was to anger her and provoke a heated response, which only increased the excitement of the occasion. She inadvertently cried out as a rotten piece of fruit hit her in the chest, momentarily taking her breath away. The crowd cheered, whether from her cry or the accuracy of the hit, Claudette was not sure. To her great surprise, the cart driver shouted at the thrower, and, cracking his whip loudly, began moving quickly through traffic. Claudette became alarmed as the cart started bouncing off the uneven stones. She was bound and had no means for keeping herself from being thrown onto the street and into the hands of the mob. Was she to meet the princesse’s fate?
The cart’s followers kept up with its increased pace, determined to witness the spectacular event. She saw people pointing and shouting gleefully about something in front of them. Looking back over her shoulder, she could see what was stirring them. They were hurtling toward the Place du Carrousel, and Claudette could see the giant guillotine looming on the platform, which was raised roughly six feet off the ground. She didn’t think her legs would be able to carry her so far up the steps. Atop the platform stood various men milling about. It was difficult to tell if a condemned man or woman was on the platform as well. In any case, the guillotine, a much larger contraption than she had imagined, consumed Claudette’s attention. The blade was pulled all the way to the top, poised and waiting for its next victim. On the platform beneath the blade was the grooved neck piece where in moments she would be placing her head, after her bound body was tied to a board and positioned properly under the chopping mechanism. A basket awaited her head on the other side of the neck piece. Panic bubbled into her throat, resulting in a small cry of anguish.
The driver suddenly veered the tumbrel to the left, down a side street, just before reaching the execution area. Claudette pitched forward to the floor of the cart, grateful that she had not tumbled out of it. The driver was reckless, yelling at pedestrians, conveyances, and street sellers who impeded his progress for even a moment. The mob had dispersed when the cart had changed course, since it was now easier to wait at the guillotine to see if another hapless prisoner might be coming along, rather than try to see where this one, lone criminal was being taken.
Claudette remained crouched at the bottom of the cart, unable to get up without her hands for balance. She could feel the cart swerving into various streets and alleyways, and soon she could look up and tell that they were leaving the center of the city, as trees replaced city buildings in her line of sight. Was the driver insane? Did he intend to do worse to her than the guillotine?
They slowed down after about a half hour of swift progress, and even from her disadvantaged position Claudette could hear the bedraggled horse protesting the hard ride with snorts and snuffles. At this reduced pace she was able to struggle her way back up on the bench. The sun’s position told her they were heading west down what appeared to be a small village lane. The horse was guided into the drive of an abandoned cottage. Now what was to happen to her?
Please, God, help me,
she breathed.
She braced herself as she heard the driver dismount from the floorboard and smack the horse on the rump with a word of praise. She knew she was powerless, constrained as she was by the rope digging into her wrists. Her arms ached from their awkward positioning behind her back. She shut her eyes. She felt the mobcap snatched from her head and flinched, expecting a blow.
Instead, the man cupped what remained of her hacked hair in his hands. “Look at me,” he demanded.
Instead, summoning what energy she had remaining, Claudette shot up from the seat, ramming her head into the man’s chin and sending him sprawling backward onto the ground. She kept up her forward motion, jumping off the tumbrel and running down the lane away from the cottage. Her bound hands made her gait clumsy and stilted. She was only fifty yards past the cottage and already gasping for breath when she heard her captor, recovering his wits, roar in anger and come after her. In moments he was behind her and grabbing her around the waist.
“Claudette!” the man commanded, spinning her around.
She stared at him, uncomprehending. His hat and greasy, dark, matted hair were both askew on his head, and he looked more ghastly than she did. Was he an escapee from La Force?
“You don’t know me.” His voice was flat. Claudette stood frozen, staring into the stranger’s eyes. There was a familiar glint in them.
“William?” she asked tremulously. “Can it be? How did you find me?”
He swept off his hat and bowed. His false hair was messily glued inside the cap, and now his blond hair framed his face, making her realize that it truly was William.
Tossing both of the now unneeded caps aside, he gently untied the ropes from behind her back, and rubbed her arms to bring circulation back to them. Seeing color return to her arms and face, he picked her up in his arms, astonished at her emaciated state, and carried her to the cottage, kicking open the loosely jointed door. He set her gently on a stuffed mattress next to a fireplace that had probably not seen a flame in ten years or more. After she assured him that she was not particularly ill or injured beyond a serious case of heartache, hunger, and fright, he gave her a swift kiss and promised to return shortly. True to his word, he was back within an hour with kindling, firewood, and some food he had purchased from a nearby farmer.
While he started the fire, Claudette pounced on the crate of food, exclaiming over each item. “Eggs! I have not seen a fresh egg since I have been in prison. I should like to kiss the chicken that produced it. Oh, William, is this actually fresh bread? It must have cost a fortune.”
“The farmer took the horse and cart in payment. He seemed quite happy with the trade.” William also produced a sack of cast-off clothing he was able to purchase from the man. Claudette found a serviceable dress in the sack and discarded her prison garb into the flames, where it joined her cotton cap and William’s makeshift wig and hat.
With the fire crackling comfortably, the pair hurriedly prepared a meal from the ingredients he had purchased, and washed it down with a small bottle of wine the farmer had sold him at twice its value. They sat together contentedly on the mattress, talking as it grew dark outside.
William told her of seeing her name on the La Force imprisonment list in Marat’s newspaper and his subsequent rush to France. Once in Paris, he had continually observed the prison to figure out a way to get in. After discovering that she was to be imminently executed, he knew he had to act without delay.
“But how did you ever take possession of the tumbrel?”
“I made friends with one of the guards in La Force, someone originally from Suffolk who married a French lass and is now making his home here. I convinced him to help me.”
“Convinced him? I never met a single worker in La Force who could be reasoned with!”
“Every man has his motivator. In Mr. Roger Wickham’s case, he had launched a dairy business and failed, and now needed the financial resources to move him and his wife Simone back to England. I provided him with a tidy sum for what amounted to just a few minutes of work on his part, which was to make sure I was the driver of your cart.”
In her turn, Claudette told him that she must have been sent a fabricated letter from the queen, that in actuality she had been made a prisoner upon boarding the ship in England. With some difficulty, she told him about her childhood betrothal with Jean-Philippe, her time spent with him during her first visit to the queen, and his subsequent treachery on this voyage. She omitted details of Jean-Philippe’s attempted abuse of her, despising the memory and knowing William would immediately seek to avenge her honor.
William grew very quiet after this. Resting next to a blazing fire with her stomach full of her first true meal in nearly two months, she fell into a dreamless sleep.
Bright sunshine woke her in the morning. William was already putting the cottage back as they had found it. He silently offered her what remained of the food, then showed her a well in back of the cottage, where she was able to draw water to bathe herself of all the grime and stench of La Force.
Back inside the cottage, William had completely tamped out the fire. He sat her down on one of the two rickety chairs that comprised the sum total of furniture in the dwelling. He looked at her seriously.
“Do you still love him?” he asked without preamble.
“No.” She returned his gaze just as steadily. “I thought I did when I was a child, and I was a little confused about it when I saw him during my trip to see the queen, but I knew even before I left there that my life belonged with you. What I was not sure of was whether or not I could become a proper Englishwoman for you.”
“A proper Englishwoman? You?” William laughed. “I will not hear of it. You are like no woman I have ever met in England. I admire your courage and pluck. I still remember how angry you got at me at the Ashbys’ when you assumed I didn’t think you could read.”