(I read recently that decapitated heads do things for a few moments, movements, probably a function of nerves as opposed to consciousness after execution. Right? Well, there have been studies saying that there is some awareness, which is totally gross and intriguing and the source of this morbid story.)
Hold That Head High
There were nearly a dozen in the filthy wagon. Some sat crossed-legged; some were lying on the rotting straw that had once served as a bed for things other than people. Those that weren’t crying were looking down at their feet or had eyes tightly closed, pondering their fate. Some feared pain. Others feared death. One was shaking over how he’d beaten a mistress to death and would soon face eternal condemnation.
There was a murmur of prayers spoken to a God, who didn’t seem to be listening. Philipp de Montfaucon, the best dressed of the poorly dressed lot, was on his knees, staring ahead, oblivious to the occasional taunts of the disheveled men walking alongside and waving crude weapons, peasant weapons, for the benefit of the crowd that grew as they approached the square.
De Monfaucon was not kneeling by choice. But with hands tied behind his back and the ancient wagon bouncing over the uneven cobblestones, standing was impossible. When he’d tried, when they first pushed him up the ramp into the back, he’d stood proud, defiant, and a target for the rotting vegetables that were thrown and the laughter of the guards when he eventually fell.
The guards. Ha. Such a generous description for creatures that force women and children into the cart, whipping some, partially stripping others. Their stench reeked of animals rooting in some muddy pen. Yet they were the very face of whatever was running this show that was once France. Had these representatives patterned themselves on the tormentors of Dante’s Hell? Surely not, as that would imply they could read. Had they learned their trade as prisoners, freed from their sentences by the very mob they now served? de Monfaucon would wager his fortune on that if such hadn’t been stolen the day he was taken from his home.
What he had called home was his petit chateau. To others, it was an outrage, a theft from the sweat and pain of the people who worked on his property like their fathers and their fathers before them. He was not particularly cruel or arrogant, no more than others of his class, and his people were well fed and lived in reasonable hovels on the estate. He just didn’t care very much. If he were aware of the peasants working his land, it would be a surprise to them. The rare occasion when it seemed as if he cared was when he’d ride about inspecting the vineyards or the grounds with one of the estate managers. Then he might veer his horse into a worker and giggle if they stumbled. Once he gave a broad smile to a young woman stomping grapes before pushing her into the pomace. As she slipped in the slurry, covered in the skins and the pulp, he applauded her struggles. The overseer ushered him out of the area under the violent gaze of her coworkers.
They were not the same angry sans-culottes that now surrounded the wagon.
When the troubles began he was advised to leave, at least until the rumbles settled down. He’d laughed at the very idea, to his properties. Absurd. They’d all laughed. And they celebrated the folly of such a notion with a massive party that lasted a week. Afterward, when the guests returned to their estates, some had been surrounded by mobs, small mobs, and robbed blind—the carriages, the horses, the jewels, their very clothes. He’d seen the aftermath; grandiose wigs trampled by the muddy feet of who knew; bodies of their coachmen; blood in pools; blood of his friends. He recognized the blue and silver silk dress of one madame in particular. though her powdered face was gone from her head. He’d returned to his home thinking maybe it was time to leave after all.
But where to? Philippe remembered he enjoyed hunting trips on the estate of a distant cousin when he was a youth. The man lived in the south, near Toulouse, and Philippe hadn’t seen him in years. He only thought about him now as he considered where he might go for a while.
He recalled this cousin had married the daughter of a rich but insignificant Spanish noble twice his age. It was said things would be quieter in the south, and the hunting might be good. He had gone there for chamois. On one occasion, he encountered a bear, but his aim wasn’t good and his fusil too light; the bear ran off to die a wasted death. He felt sad for that bear, worse than when he winged a servant driving pheasants. But the servant was only slightly wounded and recovered. He’d given the man a small coin, gold, he recalled, which was more than the peasant would earn in many months. How generous he felt on that occasion.
Philippe was determined to go enjoy the mountains then return home once things had settled down. He took several weeks to pack what he would need.
Philippe de Montfaucon never did make it. Stupidly, he now realized, extravagantly, he tried to get to Paris, to, as he had explained to the committee, to pick up some things and leave for good. They could have it all, the house, the land, everything. One member of the committee laughed up mucus. Others were picking at a half-eaten roast on a table or pouring wine into overfilled goblets. The very fat one at the end of the table, wearing the bright Bonnet Phrygien, was carving an apple and feeding his already stuffed mouth. The Bonnet was the only clean article of clothing the fat man wore. He stunk of sweat and manure and some putrid odor that might have been a dead rat.
Philippe was ashamed of his behavior, of negotiating with these sorts. For what? His freedom, his life? Surely his dignity was worth more.
The committee didn’t see it from his perspective. That sky-blue silken jacket with its gold threads worn over an embroidered weskit, made for guilt by gilt, made them hate him even more. What Philippe saw as shameful fawning to this miserable collection, they saw as the condescending play of privilege. It’s doubtful there would have been any sympathy had they noticed the missing silver buckles on his patent-leather slippers. Those had been stolen by one of the guards at their door. The loose shoes forced him to slither across the floor. Their sentence had been determined the moment he came into their chamber.
Philippe’s eyes looked to the massive doors of a church he’d once supported. The doors were wide open though none of the figures standing there was the bishop he had dined with. It had been a rich meal, too, he remembered, foie gras and capon stuffed with a delightful truffle dressing. Too much wine, too much cognac. The bishop had to be carried to his carriage, nauseous from the rich food. Where was that man now? Exiled, perhaps. Dead was more likely. He, too, was a fat man who spilled gravy on his vestments, though why Philippe would think of that now he couldn’t imagine. A waste of thoughts.
He snorted, almost a laugh, when he was hit in his face by a squawking mass of the feathers. The chicken fluttered its useless wings in his face before squawking its way over the other prisoners. They kicked the bird from one to another before someone leaned in to grab it away. There were cheers and chortles from the crowd. Philippe tossed his head to lose the feathers that had found a nest in his dangling hair. That toss struck some in the crowd as a gesture of disdain[AL8] . “That one still thinks he’s better than everyone,” said a scrawny woman wearing a grand apron made of a lace she could never afford to buy. Another woman spat at him but her ammunition fell short of its target.
Philippe spat as well. A feather had stuck to his lip. The woman booed him. They complain of hunger but can throw away a hen? he wondered. It occurred to him he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten for days, refusing to eat the slop in the buckets the gaolers had thrown them. He was surprised he could feel hunger under these circumstances. Food was once his life, his source of pleasure. Well, one of his many sources of pleasure. His clothes now hung on him after many miserable weeks in the prison. At least the gout had gone away. He blessed the small things and had to smile. What he wouldn’t give for a flagon of anything, but he had nothing left to give but the rags he wore that once hadn’t been rags but the finest tailored clothing in Paris.
He again smiled at his hunger. He could still be hungry, even now. It felt like his old self. It was a welcome sensation, a connection to a past that wasn’t so very distant. A few weeks, not much more. It seemed longer.
More rotting fruit or vegetables, he couldn’t tell which and didn’t care, were flung at his wagon just as they’d been thrown to the wagons that had rolled ahead. He glanced down to the ground, not wanting to look at the crowd. They’d thrown enough to feed a small army. Liars, such liars, these thieves. His hunger gave way to that anger. Damn them all to hell! He wouldn’t dignify their cheers by revealing his hate, his contempt.
His eyes followed the avenue straight ahead, gritting his teeth until they hurt. He could hear them grind and felt the pain in his jaw where a false tooth, ivory, once resided. What he saw caused him to cringe then get a hold of himself. For Philippe, the greatest fear was that others would see him frightened. Standing erect in the center of the square stood the guillotine. He knew it would be there. That was not what had upset him. It was the blade at the top of the frame falling, casually, indifferently, to its destination. He was sure he heard it land with a squish and a crunch.
The wagon came to a halt near the base of the platform. Its passengers were jostled against each other as the horses slipped on the wet cobbles and the driver slapped the reins again and again. He turned to laugh as his victims attempted to right themselves. One man had his face in the bosom of a crying woman, who was trying to push him away with her shoulders.
Guards in makeshift uniforms led the quaking people off the wagon, holding their arms tight, despite the ropes binding them. It wasn’t cruel. After sitting in cramped cells for weeks and being carried in this cart, they could hardly stand even if their nerves hadn’t failed before the bloodied blade hovering in the sky . At least there were no more rotting things being thrown. This crowd was more subdued having grown bored with the day’s entertainment. A group of teetering men sang bawdy tavern songs as they passed around a flagon of something.
Philippe was tempted to yell, “Save some for me,” but said nothing. Why give them the pleasure of his humor? But he wouldn’t have minded a long pull from whatever it was they were drinking.
He was the last to be taken from the wagon and refused the help of the guards. “I’m capable of this alone,” he said, avoiding eye contact with the stinking soldiers. They merely looked at one another with a Gaulic shrug of their shoulders.
One by one, the sorry souls were marched up the steps, some last minutes prayers, most with eyes downcast, sliding on the steps wet from rain and blood. A woman who’d once been fat had to be carried, almost falling from her torn dress that, too, once marked a display of gluttony. She was crying, bawling, pleading all the way to the bench where she was held down and pushed forward so her head was in its proper position. Those doing that took no joy in this; they preferred their victims to be quiet. The ones who fainted, and there were many, were the easiest to handle. The ranters and screamers, the hysterics and strugglers were a pain in the neck.
Philippe heard the half-hearted cheers after the blade fell with a dull thunk. He lofted his head slightly to see theirs was the last wagon. The sun was touching the rooftops, and he thought he saw people already moving away. The show would soon be over, the outcome known. There were no surprises to be had, no last-minute excitement. Aside from that woman, the condemned had nothing of interest to offer save their mumbled final words.
At last, he was pushed, gently, to the steps, and he started his climb. He thought a priest wouldn’t have been a poor addition to the debacle, not quite comforting but perhaps a kind face or a murmured prayer, not that it meant much to him. But there were no priests, not with this throng, and it would be the rare one who’d volunteer to be in the vicinity of these hosts.
Oddly, at this moment, he remembered he never did like wearing a wig. He would happily endure the warm derision of friends who would say he looked like a peasant without one. Peasant indeed! He stood straight, looked up past the red-stained steps before him, and slipped in a puddle banging his knee on the edge of the step. He rose quickly, his blood running to his brain, making him feel dizzy. He ignored a prod from a soldier and continued to the top. The guards or executioners stood around watching him with indifference. They were straightening up from the previous victim, spreading sand around the platform. One moved the now-empty basket with his foot to its place. Another gestured towards the bench and said something that Philippe didn’t hear. No instruction was needed. He waved the man away and placed himself in position.
An older man, as ragged as the rest, gave Philippe a smile, a kind look. “It will be over in a moment. Have no fears,” he said. It was an educated voice that surprised Philippe.
“I have no fears other than what you are doing to this country,” he said. The man bowed slightly then nodded away. Philippe heard the swishing sound of the falling blade.
It was but a moment. He was dizzier now, looking around at people pointing. He was aware he was blinking but felt no pain. He managed a smile, a smile of contempt, and thought he heard screams and saw people crossing themselves, some genuflecting. His eyes rolled back, and he was now in his home, his hunting dog’s head resting in his lap, sipping a very fine wine. He requested the maid to bring him some water. He was so thirsty before it all went dark.
The man holding his head was shaking both from exhaustion after the long day and the look the head had given before its eyes had closed. Like a chicken, he thought, a chicken running around after its head, too, was cut off. The old man dropped Philippe into the waiting basket. The smile, that sneer, remained.
He’d go to confession tomorrow. It had been too long anyway.
The wagon came to a halt near the base of the platform. Its passengers were jostled against each other as the horses slipped on the wet cobbles and the driver slapped the reins again and again. He turned to laugh as his victims attempted to right themselves. One man had his face in the bosom of a crying woman, who was trying to push him away with her shoulders.
Guards in makeshift uniforms led the quaking people off the wagon, holding their arms tight, despite the ropes binding them. It wasn’t cruel. After sitting in cramped cells for weeks and being carried in this cart, they could hardly stand even if their nerves hadn’t failed before the bloodied blade hovering in the sky[AL13] . At least there were no more rotting things being thrown. This crowd was more subdued having grown bored with the day’s entertainment. A group of teetering men sang bawdy tavern songs as they passed around a flagon of something.
Philippe was tempted to yell, “Save some for me,” but said nothing. Why give them the pleasure of his humor? But he wouldn’t have minded a long pull from whatever it was they were drinking.
He was the last to be taken from the wagon and refused the help of the guards. “I’m capable of this alone,” he said, avoiding eye contact with the stinking soldiers. They merely looked at one another with a Gaulic shrug of their shoulders.
One by one, the sorry souls were marched up the steps, some last minutes prayers, most with eyes downcast, sliding on the steps wet from rain and blood. A woman who’d once been fat had to be carried, almost falling from her torn dress that, too, once marked a display of gluttony. She was crying, bawling, pleading all the way to the bench where she was held down and pushed forward so her head was in its proper position[AL14] . Those doing that took no joy in this; they preferred their victims to be quiet. The ones who fainted, and there were many, were the easiest to handle. The ranters and screamers, the hysterics and strugglers, were a pain in the neck.
Philippe heard the half-hearted cheers after the blade fell with a dull thunk. He lofted his head slightly to see theirs was the last wagon. The sun was touching the rooftops, and he thought he saw people already moving away. The show would soon be over, the outcome known. There were no surprises to be had, no last-minute excitement. Aside from that woman, the condemned had nothing of interest to offer save their mumbled final words.
At last, he was pushed, gently, to the steps, and he started his climb. He thought a priest wouldn’t have been a poor addition to the debac[AL15] le, not quite comforting but perhaps a kind face or a murmured prayer, not that it meant much to him. But there were no priests, not with this throng, and it would be the rare one who’d volunteer to be in the vicinity of these hosts.
Oddly, at this moment, he remembered he never did like wearing a wig. He would happily endure the [AL16] warm derision of friends who would say he looked like a peasant without one. Peasant indeed! He stood straight, looked up past the red-stained steps before him, and slipped in a puddle banging his knee on the edge[AL17] of the step. He rose quickly, his blood running to his brain, making him feel dizzy. He ignored a prod from a soldier and continued to the top. The guards or executioners stood around watching him with indifference. They were straightening up[AL18] from the previous victim, spreading sand around the platform. One moved the now-empty basket with his foot to its place. Another gestured towards the bench and said something that Philippe didn’t hear. No instruction was needed. He waved the man away and placed himself in position.
An older man, as ragged as the rest, gave Philippe a smile, a kind look. “It will be over in a moment. Have no fears,” he said. It was an educated voice that surprised Philippe.
“I have no fears other than what you are doing to this country,” he said. The man bowed slightly then nodded away. Philippe heard the swishing sound of the falling blade.
It was but a moment. He was dizzier now, looking around at people pointing. He was aware he was blinking but felt no pain. He managed a smile, a smile of contempt, and thought he heard screams and saw people crossing themselves, some genuflecting. His eyes rolled back, and he was now in his home, his hunting dog’s head resting in his lap, sipping a very fine wine. He requested the maid to bring him some water. He was so thirsty before it all went dark.
The man holding his head was shaking both from exhaustion after the long day and the look the head had given before its eyes had closed. Like a chicken, he thought, a chicken running around after its head, too, was cut off. The old man dropped Philippe into the waiting basket. The smile, that sneer, remained.
He’d go to confession tomorrow. It had been too long anyway.