Revolution - Jennifer Donnelly [153]
“It’s Fouquier-Tinville,” Amadé says. “Under his orders, thousands went to the guillotine. Now it’s his turn. And his lackeys will follow him. They showed no mercy; now they are shown no mercy.”
The tumbrel finally arrives at the scaffold. I try to turn away, but Amadé holds me there. I watch as one by one, the condemned are led up the steps. Dazed. In despair. Helpless and hopeless.
“Please, Amadé. I can’t watch this anymore. I can’t.”
“Ah, but you must. You have to pay attention so you know what to do,” he says. “After all, you’re going to be standing up there soon yourself.”
The condemneds’ hair is hacked off. Their shirts are torn open at the neck. Each is tied, in turn, to a narrow plank. The plank is lowered into place. The head is secured. The blade is raised and then released. The head falls. Blood sheets down the front of the machine. The executioner lifts the head from the basket, dripping. Its eyes blink. The mouth twitches. And then it’s still.
The body is thrown into a cart and another prisoner is tied to the plank. And another. Women crowd around the basket and dip handkerchiefs in the blood to sell as souvenirs. I can smell the blood and the fear and the glee and it makes me feel sick. The ones who are jeering now were the ones weeping only a few weeks ago. They should know better. But they don’t. I try to put my hands over my face but Amadé forces me to keep watching.
“Will you stop now?” he asks. His voice sounds raw.
I look at him. He’s not angry anymore. He’s not mean. He’s crying.
“Will you stop?” he asks me again.
I’m crying now, too. I lean my head against his. “No, Amadé,” I whisper. “I won’t.”
There were fourteen guillotined. Or so he said. I don’t know for sure. I collapsed after three.
82
Today is June 8, 1795.
The last day of Louis-Charles’ life.
It’s still very early. Just past midnight. It’s so dark. There is fog coming off the river and I cannot see the stars.
I’m on the roof of a church. To finish what Alex could not. I sneaked in during the evening Mass and hid in the back behind an old stone tomb. I waited until the priest had snuffed the candles and locked the door, then I fished my flashlight out of my pocket and made my way up a spiral staircase to the bell tower.
I look at the Temple now and I know that inside it, Louis-Charles lies dying. Alone. In the dark. Insane. In pain. Afraid.
And all the while, the world keeps spinning. People sleep. They dream. Snore. Kick the cat off the bed. Fight. Cry. Pray. It doesn’t stop, this world. Not now, in Paris. Not years from now, in Brooklyn. It goes on.
And I can’t bear it. I want to scream. To howl. I want to wake up the priest in the rectory. The people in their houses. The whole street. The city. I want to tell them about Louis-Charles and Truman. I want to tell them about the Revolution. I want to make them see that nothing is worth the life of a child.
And if I do it? If I start yelling from this rooftop? What then?
Then the guards will come and throw me in prison and a day or so later, it’ll be my head in the basket. So I don’t yell. I wipe my eyes and get to work. I do what I can.
My guitar case is heavy. There’s no guitar in it tonight. Only rockets. I gave Fauvel everything I had left from Alex’s treasure box and told him to make the most beautiful fireworks Paris had ever seen.
“Two dozen Lucifer rockets,” he’d said as he handed them to me. “The biggest and the best.”
Lucifer, the morning star. I’ll use them to light up the sky. Turn night into day.
I will rain down silver and gold for you. I will shatter the black night, break it open, and pour out a million stars. Turn away from the darkness, the madness, the pain.
Open your eyes. And know that I am here. That I remember and hope.
Open your eyes and look at the light.
83
I took too long.
I set off too many.
By the time I’m off the roof, down the stairs of the steeple, and out of the church, the street is teeming. Men and women in their nightclothes are running back and forth, yelling and pointing