Madame Tussaud: A Novel of the French Revolution

Chapter 59

NOVEMBER

6–8, 1793

She screamed, she begged mercy of the horrible crowd that stood around the scaffold.

—ÉLISABETH VIGÉE-LEBRUN, ROYAL PORTRAIT ARTIST

I LOOK AT THE SLIP OF PAPER THE SOLDIER HAS BROUGHT TO ME, and my hands begin to tremble. “This cannot be right.” But the young man is firm. “Those are the names. The cafés are printing them on their menus. Go early if you want a good view.”

I wait for the young soldier to leave before I show Isabel the names of those who will be executed tomorrow. “Anyone who has ever been a royal or associated with one,” I whisper. “The Duc d’Orléans, Madame du Barry, the Princesse of Monaco!”

“And anyone who has ever spoken out against Robespierre, The Incorruptible.” She points to the bottom: Brissot, Vergniaud, Lasource, Madame Roland … “I thought Madame du Barry escaped to England?”

“She returned to retrieve her jewels,” I say. Death, for a handful of gold.

I go to the kitchen to show my mother the list. “So for all his posturing,” she says, “calling himself Philippe Égalité, they have turned on the Duc d’Orléans as well.”

Robespierre preached against despots, and now he has become one himself.

“We must go and show our support of this,” my mother says quietly. “If they are willing to send their greatest supporter to the guillotine, they will send anyone.” She has not seen anyone die on the scaffold since the terrible device was first unveiled. “We will go early,” she adds, surprising me, “so that the members of the Convention see us.” She looks into the hallway toward Isabel’s room. Many of the spectators bring children, carrying them on their shoulders. “We will leave Paschal here and lock the doors.”

The next morning, we are awake at dawn. A fine mist hangs over the streets, and carriages are navigating the slick cobblestones with care. My mother whistles for a cabriolet, and the driver guesses, “The Place de la Révolution?” We are no different from the thousands who will wait in the cold to see illustrious lives come to an end. I wonder how the Duc must be feeling, knowing this Revolution he helped to create will take his own life. There must be rich irony in this for some, but I find I can take no pleasure in it.

We are among the first to arrive in the square, so just as my mother had hoped, we find places next to the area reserved for the members of the National Convention. Robespierre, of course, will not be here. He never attends an execution. But Danton may come, and certainly Camille, who knew the Duc well. By eight o’clock we are already surrounded by people, and by the time the tumbrels arrive it is impossible to see the end of the masses. Unlike the king, common criminals are forced to ride in open carts, regardless of the weather or the abuse of the crowds. But today, no one is hurling stones. This is a different kind of execution. “Philippe Égalité” was a man of the people, and few seem sure of the charges against him. There was talk of treason. But isn’t there always talk of that? And what of Madame du Barry, who must be fifty now, and far removed from her days as Louis XV’s mistress?

The tumbrels roll with jerky movements over the cobblestones, and the prisoners are pitched forward each time the horses are forced to stop. Even from a distance I can recognize the Duc. He is the largest man in any of the carts. Like the others, he has been dressed in red. Is he thinking about his cousin, whose execution he voted for almost a year ago? Now, he will die by the same blade.

It is the prerogative of the Revolutionary Tribunal to decide on the order of deaths, and the prisoner they wish to punish most always goes last. Men must watch their wives and children die. Particularly hated traitors are forced to wait until the razor has lost its edge after so much work. It is Madame du Barry they are asking to go first. They call her name, and she stands in the tumbrel. Despite her age, she is still alluring, with piercing eyes and jutting cheekbones. They have chopped her hair carelessly at the chin, yet the cut only serves to emphasize the smallness of her neck and the delicacy of her features. A soldier reaches to grab her hand, and she pulls away.

“Not yet!” she screams. But the executioner is waiting. Two men step forward to take her arms, and she struggles against them. “Why are you doing this?” she cries. “What have I done? Tell me, what have I done?”

They escort her to the scaffold, but she is too weak to make it up the steps.

“Get up!” one of the soldiers commands, but her legs have given out.

“Don’t hurt me,” she begs. “Please,” she screams to the crowd, “don’t let them hurt me!”

They drag her to her feet, and my mother buries her face in her hands.

“Please!” du Barry is screaming. It is heart-wrenching to see. “Just one more moment!” But the executioner forces her down on the plank. “Just one moment more. Just one last view of the sky!” The plank slides forward, and her head is trapped in the wooden lunette. “Don’t let him do this to me!” she is screaming. “Somebody save me from this!”

But there is no one to save her. France’s heroes are dead.

Sanson pulls the rope, and the blade comes down swiftly. He holds her head up for the crowd to see, but there is no clapping. Just a long, mortified silence. She is the first of the guillotine’s victims to struggle. While the others have gone like sheep, she wanted life, and she fought for it.

Someone shouts, “The Committee of Public Safety has gone too far!”

The cry is echoed across the square, and suddenly, there is hope for the Duc d’Orléans, who will certainly be last. But the next victim is brought to the scaffold, and no one moves. It is one thing to speak, another to act. The rope is pulled, and the young man dies. Then the next victim mounts the scaffold, and the next. When it is time for the Duc to die, he doesn’t fight. Perhaps he is too afraid. He makes a feeble attempt to speak, but Sanson orders the drumroll and his words are drowned out. When he is gone, there are no cheers from the crowd. I can feel resentment building through the square. Where are the riches this government assured us? Nothing these men have promised has come to pass. There is anger and frustration as the people disperse.

“THEY HAVE SPOKEN out! Someone has finally spoken out!” The next morning, Isabel thrusts a newspaper at me. “They’re calling for an end to this Reign of Terror.”

I read the article—written by Camille and Danton!—and they’ve used those exact words. “But Danton established the Committee of Public Safety himself.”

“And now that he’s seen how it’s being used by Robespierre, he wants it to end.”

So it’s Camille and Danton against Robespierre. I put down the paper. “We must be very careful these next few weeks.”

Isabel frowns. “But they are going to do away with the Committee.”

“We don’t know that.”

“Robespierre can’t win. He has to see that the people are angry.”

But for him, it’s not about the people anymore.