The Guillotine | ONC 2022

III

27th July 1793

A flock of ravens descended down onto the bare ground of the cemetery like shreds of black paper that someone had thrown into the wind. Only after they had noise-lessly landed on the deteriorating tomb by the half-crumbled cemetery wall, did they resume their frantic chattering, singing a requiem for my husband… the only requiem he was going to get. 

That pitiful man left me with such a desperately small sum that I couldn't afford to spend money on musicians. He didn't deserve them anyway. He was lucky he got a grave. 

And that I did only in order to appease Henri's need to honour his good-for-nothing father in some way. If he wasn't wounded and I wouldn't feel so sorry for him in these hard moments, his father would have ended up in a mass grave. Not that I'd want to visit his tombstone and cry at it, like a diligent mourning widow should, anyway. 

However, I found that holding a funeral for that wretch of a man had its advantages. 

Although he himself, if he lived long enough and expressed his opinions openly enough for people to notice, would be eventually guillotined as the enemy of the Republic, he was still the father of an important revolutionary.

Therefore, despite him being a quiet man with very few friends, on the day of his funeral the cemetery was packed with high ranking Jacobins.

It was a priceless sight. Jacobins expressing their condolences over the death of a confirmed royalist. The irony.

However, it gave me the opportunity to shake hands with some important people and get them to promise me a bright future for my son by forcing a few fake tears to drop from my eyes.

Otherwise I'd never cry for my husband. I'd more probably cry if I had to survive another day living with him than now when he was dead.

So in the end it was a win for everyone. Henri, who, apart from losing his father, still hadn't recovered completely and had to attend the funeral, leaning onto a staff, inspired so much pity that I wouldn't have been surprised if they offered him a seat in The Committee for Public Safety just out of solidarity. 

The rest of the Jacobins got a chance to show up at a public event, which they naturally appreciated, as all young men that gained instant fame and enjoyed being admired.

And my husband? He had a richly attended funeral and finally received some kind of pity from his wife, even if it was feigned.

Only I was disappointed with the turn of events and when everyone else was enjoying the feast that came after the burial ceremony, I, tormented by the absence of the only Jacobin I was interested in, couldn't swallow even one mouthfull of the luxurious food I had prepared for my noble guests. 

Why didn't he come? 

I saw Armand for the last time that minute the doctor announced to us that my husband had died. After that he took advantage of the socially unfavourable situation I found myself in and, while I was fulfilling my obligation of a devoted wife, pretending I was devastated by my husband's demise, he, the insolent traitor, creeped out through the back door like a robber!

He didn't even have the decency of showing up once in those two long weeks to check how Henri, his friend, colleague and fellow revolutionary, was doing. I understood that he perhaps didn't want to see me, because I revealed my feelings to him and he didn't find me worthy enough to accept, but did he have to punish my son for my missteps? 

No! Of course he didn't! And the fact that he did was the peak of rudeness itself!

"Nice friend you have…" I scoffed, leaning closer to Henri, who was sitting next to me at black clad table, "He fights alongside you, almost starts crying at the thought you could die… he even witnessed the death of your father and he hasn't the decency to send a word of condolences… let alone show up at the funeral!"