Naked, on the Edge

Forever, Amen

Then Pilate went out to the people and saith unto them, Behold, I have found no fault with this man. The chief priests and officers cried out, Crucify him!

Pilate held forth his hand towards Jesus, who bore a crown of thorns and purple robe, and saith, I may release to thee a man on this day of feasting. Whom will ye that I release, the man Barabbas or this man Jesus?

And the crowd cried, Give us Barabbas! Jesus must die!

When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing to save the man Jesus and that Jesus was indeed to die to please the crowd, he offered the execution of noble captives, to have the man’s wrists slashed with sword and thus causing him to bleed quickly unto death. But from the crowd called up the man Andrew, son of Phinneas the shepherd, who said, Jesus must suffer for his words! Do not give him the gentle death! Crucify Him! The crowd joined in the mocking call, He must suffer for his words!

Then Pilate went from the crowd and washed his hands, and turned Jesus to the officers and soldiers, who gave unto Him a cross and bearing such went all unto the place of the skull which is called Golgotha.

There they crucified Him, and two others on either side with Jesus in the midst.

Book of Trials, 7:23-8

Danielle stood against the rough wall, her red eyes turned furiously towards the shrouded figure on the gurney. Marie and Clarice were gone, spun away with dour exasperation, vanished through the small ceiling-high window of the cellar. Their words still echoed in the room like late-season flies caught in a bottle.

Marie: “He is not Alexandre! He is nothing. He is less than nothing.”

Clarice: “It’s done! Come with us. Sister, take my hand. It stinks in here.”

Marie: “Look if you must, gaze for a moment, but be done with it, and then come.”

Danielle had pressed her gloved hands to her ears and shook her head. “No.”

Marie snapped her fingers sharply as if Danielle were a dog to obey her mistress, and Danielle had simply said, “Leave me be.”

Marie and Clarice had done just that. They thought their companion mad, not a good thing for a creature of the night. Madness could only lead to foolishness and carelessness, and with carelessness, destruction. They had left their mad friend to her own fate.

Danielle stared at the soiled sheet, the sharp protrusions beneath the cloth where the nose and chin were, the feet. Softer mounds of the shoulders, the fisted hands, the groin. Light from lanterns, hung in this subterranean room by the men who had departed just minutes ago, sputtered from ceiling hooks. Water pipes dripped puddles onto the dirt floor. Spiders and their webs, left in corners by the hasty custodian the day before, held still as if pondering the strange and recent occurrence.

“Alexandre?” Danielle said softly, tasting the cold of her breath as it passed through her incisors and her protruding canines.

“Why can that not be you?” She took several steps forward, hesitated. So much she had witnessed in all these many years, so much terror and viciousness and death, yet this one was almost beyond her ken.

“Why can that not be you?” she repeated, then touched her own face. “Is this not me? Am I not still walking this squalid earth in the form of a young woman, though nearly 120 years of age?”

The sheet stirred slightly. Danielle gasped and put out her hand to find that it was just a current of air passing though the damp brick room, travelling from one ill-hung door to another in the opposite wall.

Was this world not filled with such as her, existing in conjunction with mortals who most often believed their own reality was the sum and total? And so what incredulous magic could not happen, and what damnable curse was impossible?

The room was hot and rancid, foul human scents coiling like smoke from the floor, the walls, the chairs, the gurney. The men who had been here just minutes ago had stunk at first of excitement, and then disgust. They claimed for themselves the crown of civility, yet winced and vomited at the result of their self-proclaimed goodness.

“Is this not me?” she repeated. “Look, Alexandre, and see that flesh which you once loved.” She shook her head, warding off the stench, then ripped her gloves from her hands and threw them to the floor. She clutched at the frilly bodice of her dress, and ripped it from neck to waist. Her dagger-sharp nails raked the white skin of her breast as she did, leaving long, bloodless skin-lips gaping silently in the air.

Cursed costume of the modern, nineteenth-century woman! Such prudes, such whores, tied up and trussed and playing at seduction with their prim dress, not knowing what it is to be wholly female! Ah, but she had known! Alexandre had known her femaleness and she his maleness, and they had reveled in the wonder of it all.

She tossed the ripped cloth aside. Then she wrenched off the rest of her garb — the leg-of-mutton sleeves, the long muslin skirt, the petticoat, cotton stockings, garters, buttoned shoes. All were hurled away. The hat, the hairpins, the ear bobs. Her auburn hair fell free about her shoulders.

Danielle closed her eyes and caressed her cold skin. She traced the length of her arms and torso, feathering the soft hairs on her chilly stomach, strumming the already healing skin-lips on her breasts.

She had been naked when they had taken away Alexandre from her the first time. Lying in a stall of the weanling barn they’d been, Danielle leaning gaily into the wiry hair of Alexandre’s chest and laughing at the prickling straw in her hair and in her back. She had picked up a yellow stem and had ticked his chin and his nose. He had kissed the straw and then her fingers. He had wrapped his arms around her waist and nestled his chin into her neck, his tongue playing easily along the tender flesh there.

“You were tender and true,” she said, her brows knotted and lips trembling. “But only one wrong laid on your head, as any human would have who has lived past infancy. How, then, did this curse come to you?”

Beneath the sheet, Alexandre did not move. Danielle took several more steps and grasped the sheet that covered her beloved.

The handsome, tattered young man arrived at Bicetre on a frosty, late March morning in 1792, appearing like a spectre beneath the shadows of the pear orchard behind Paris’s infamous hospital and prison. The sky had rained not an hour earlier, and the rain had been cold and severe, drilling chilly puddles into the ground and knocking branch tips from the naked trees. Shivering droplets hung triumphantly to the fur of the animals in the paddocks and to the emerald leaves of the boxwood shrubs that lined the narrow dirt pathways.

The brick institution of Bicetre was large, dark and filled with most unpleasant business — that of madness, of loneliness, of anger, desperation. Of screams. Of silence. Bright, curious doctors ministered to the sick. Hardened officers tended the miscreants.

In the shadow of the great place, flanking its west side, was a four-acre plot on which animals and vegetables were raised for the use of Bicetre’s personnel, patients and inmates. It was called appropriately the Little Farm. Fenced paddocks monitored the cows and sheep and pigs; in a small hutch nested chickens and pigeons. Several gardens bordered with woven vine fences offered up turnips and beans in the warmer months. A tiny grove of pear trees held sentinel near the stone wall where, beyond, the citizens of Paris pounded back and forth in the rhythm of their individual and now collective lives.

Danielle, one of three young maids employed to tend the animals and gardens, had been in the paddock on a stool, scrubbing the udder of one poorly producing cow and slapping flies from her face when she saw the man amid the naked pear trees and thought, My God, but he is beautiful! Thank you for this gift today! She left the stool and the muddy bovine for the orchard, stopping several yards away and drawing her wool shawl about her shoulders.

“Good morning,” Danielle said. “Are you lost?”

The man raised his hand in tentative greeting — a fine, strong hand it was, a working man’s hand with dark knuckle hair and calluses — and said, “Not now that I’ve beheld you.” He smiled, and Danielle could see that his teeth were fine and white. Her mother, before she had died, had told Danielle that good teeth meant a good heart.

Danielle didn’t back away nor did she turn her gaze to the ground as the finer of France’s daughters would have done in the presence of a strange man. She was not a maid in the sense the Maid of Orleans had been; Danielle had had her lovers, most of them young doctors at Bicetre and an occasional nurse, who brought her to their private offices within the heavy walls of the institution, made over her lush body on firm, practical sofas, then laughed at her and sent her back to the barn with a slap to the ass. The Revolution stated there was to be no more class distinction, and Paris had turned nearly upside down with its fervent attention to la chose publique, “public things” which had to be monitored for counter-revolutionary thought and action. Yet Danielle and her sister maids at the hospital farm found their lives little changed. The gnats and flies were as thick as before, the cows as dirty, the pears in the orchard as worm-ridden, and the doctors as lustful towards girls in maid garb.

The young man beneath the pear branches was quite handsome, with dark hair, a black beard, and gentle, crinkling eyes. He had obviously scaled the stone wall, and had torn the knee of his breeches.

“Are you thirsty, sir?” Danielle asked. The man nodded, and she led him past the dirty cow and the stool to the well. Here he put down his worn leather satchel and drank countless dipperfuls which she supplied from the dented tin bucket. Her fingers brushed his once as she passed the dipper, and the hairs on her knuckles stood up at attention.

“What brings you here?” she pressed as he sipped. “You’re not a lost patient with a simple mind, are you, to stumble back to the hospital from which you were attempting escape?”

He saw that she was joking, and he smiled broadly and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I’m from the north, and have come to Paris for work as my home and shop were burned in a fire just a week ago, leaving me without means. I am a cobbler by trade. An accident it was, with the wind knocking a lantern from the window on to the floor. Christ, such a loss.” He paused to wipe stray drops from his beard. “But I cannot make it over, cannot make it right. So I brought a few things with me to the city. From the road I spied some browned pears, still clinging to branches, and climbed the wall in hopes of plucking some without being spied. Then I saw you and was glad I’d been seen.”

“Rotten pears!” Danielle raised a brow. “The third estate cannot say they eat such things now, for dire poverty is of the old days! Shush!”

“They cannot say, but they certainly can eat, yes?”

Danielle smiled then tipped her head. “This is a hospital, and a prison. There are shoes always in need of repair. I would think you could find work here, if you would like?”

“I might like that very much,” said the man.

Up the boxwood-lined path from the pigs’ paddock strolled the two other maids, Marie and Clarice, each steering a waddling sow with a stick. But they only smiled at Danielle, allowing their friend her time, and trudged on to the stoop and rear door that led to Bicetre’s kitchen. The pigs were poked and prodded into small wicker cages by the door, where they would await a fate their grub-fed brains could not fathom.

Danielle offered the man a place to rest in the empty weanling calves’ barn and left him alone several hours until she found a spare moment between her farming and kitchen duties. She carried with her a slab of ham, some bread, and a bottle of wine beneath her skirt, pilfered from the enormous cellar beneath the kitchen. The two shared food and drink in the straw. And then came kisses, caresses. She learned that he was Alexandre Demanche, twenty-two, an orphan raised in the countryside outside Beauvais. He had been engaged but never married, for the young woman had died of consumption three weeks before they were to wed. Alexandre learned that she was Danielle Boquet, born in Paris to a patient at Bicetre who expired during childbirth, leaving Danielle to be raised by various matrons about the institution who taught her to cook, garden and manage livestock. In all her nineteen years, she had only set foot off Bicetre’s property to attend weekly mass. She was, she admitted, afraid of the city and its people, but felt safe behind the stone walls of the Little Farm.

In the morning Danielle presented Alexandre to Claude LeBeque, the pudgy little man who was in charge of the massive loads of laundry produced within the thick walls of the hospital and prison. She stopped him at the hospital’s front gate. Behind him on the street milk carts and fish wagons rattled back and forth in the cold spring sun, and children were tugged behind mothers with baskets on their arms and hats pinned to their hair.

LeBeque pulled at his substantial, red-splotched nose, then sniffed at being detained. “This man needs work? You’re good for what, Monsieur?”

“Good with shoes,” said Alexandre.

“So you say?”

“Someone must supply clothing and shoes to the inmates,” said Danielle. “Who would that be?”

LeBeque pulled his nose again, then a small smile found his cracking lips. He dabbed at his fleshy forehead with a filthy handkerchief and purred, “That would be me.”

Alexandre stepped forward. “I understand this place houses a good many people and therefore, I suspect, a good many shoes. I mend shoes and I make shoes. Have you a need for such as myself?”

LeBeque shrugged and raised a brow in a way that seemed to tease. “Oh, I might find a place for you. I’ll send word soon. Don’t go too far, sir.”

With permission to stay on the premises and await hiring, Alexandre made a tidy bunk for himself in the empty barn. He used a blanket Danielle brought from her own room in the cellar and rolled his cape into a pillow. She helped rake and toss out the mouldy straw and pile up fresh that she’d brought in from the sheep’s shed. A roost of swallows, perturbed at losing nesting space, squawked, swooped, and evacuated with a swirl of scissored tails and batting of sharp wings.

From his satchel he removed a journal, pen, ink well and pouch of ink powder and placed them on a protruding beam. A small black volume, tied shut with a string, joined these items on the shelf.

“I will call this home for now,” he said with a touch of resigned satisfaction.

Danielle linked her fingers together and said, “Take rest. I will come back to see you as soon as I am able.”

Bearing a beeswax candle encased in a sooty lantern, Danielle sneaked out from the hospital to join him that evening when duties were done. Madame Duban, the head cook, demanded that the girls in her charge retire to their cots in the cellar at nine, and had always threatened dismissal at any hint of disobedience. But Danielle would not be denied, and when the old woman was snoring soundly in her spinster’s bed, Danielle took several bits of bread and the light and crept outside into the tainted glow of the Paris moon. She followed the path to the barn, happy that the little building would not be needed for another few weeks when the first of the spring calves were old enough to wean and were placed in the barn to keep them from their bawling mothers.

The lantern was hung on a rusting latch on the stall door, and then Alexandre drew Danielle to himself with gentle strokes to her auburn hair. “My sweet,” he said into her neck. She kissed his arms and the backs of his solid hands, then moved them across her body to the warm and secret places beneath her loose fitting blouse and simple wool skirt. They loved until late, when she brushed off her skirt and hurried back to her cot beneath the hospital’s kitchen.

Monsieur LeBeque appeared on the path near the barn the following morning. Danielle was milking one particularly ill-tempered cow and Marie was beside her, pouring milk into the churn for tomorrow’s butter. The chubby man had spruced himself up since the previous morning. He had combed his thinning hair and had put rouge on his cheeks. It seemed as if the ruffled shirt he wore had seen the inside of a wash tub as recently as a week’s time. He planted his cane tip into the dirt beside Danielle and demanded, “Where is the young cobbler you brought to me yesterday?”

Danielle paused in her squeezing. “You have decided to hire him?”

The man stamped his cane and frowned. “You mean to question me?”

“No, sir,” said Danielle, and looked away long enough to roll her eyes in Marie’s direction. Marie put her hand over her mouth so as not to giggle. “He sleeps in the calves’ barn, sir.”

“And where is the calves’ barn?”

Danielle pointed down the path.

An oily nod and the man meandered off up the path. “He shall be employed,” whispered Danielle as she began squeezing again. The thin stream of milk sizzled into the bucket; the cow’s tail caught her across the cheek. “He shall be able to stay here!”

“You take care, now,” said Marie. “He’ll be busy and so will you. He’s not a doctor to make excuses for your absences. Madame Duban may be old but she can smell the scent of sex like a horse can smell fire.”

Danielle grinned. “Then I’ll steal some of her cheap perfume. And we’ll make time. And aren’t you just jealous?”

Marie put the empty bucket down by Danielle’s stool and put the wooden churn lid in place. “I have my fun, don’t worry about me.”

The girls laughed heartily.

With the onset of April, planting time arrived. The Little Farm’s plots were plowed by one of the imbecile boys from the hospital who was strong enough to guide the sharp furrowing blade behind the old sorrel gelding. The girls followed with bags of seeds on their hips, sprinkling the soil and covering up the grooves with their bare feet. It took several days to put in the rows of beets, cabbage, beans and onions.

Yet her days were more pleasant, in spite of back-bending work and the flies, for at night she sneaked to the barn to make love with Alexandre on the blanket in the straw. Each encounter was a flurry of heat and joy, followed by the muffle of pounding hearts and the sounds of Paris’s night streets. When lovemaking was done and their passions spent, Danielle lay in his arms and asked him about his day. How many shoes had he repaired, how many new pairs had be requisitioned? Had he a cobbler’s shop within the institution, or did he carry with him tools from room to room? What was it like in the prison? She had seen only the kitchen and the cellar; did the men foam at the mouth and chew off their fingers?

But Alexandre gave up little detail. He had a wooden workbox with tools, purchased for him by Monsieur LeBeque, which he took around with him when he was called for repairs. Monsieur LeBeque himself had requested a new pair of boots for which he supplied the leather.

“It is work I know,” Alexandre said simply. “I shall do it until I must find something else.”

“Why would you need to find something else?” asked Danielle. “I know your lodging is poor, but surely they shall find a room for you soon.”

“I do not want a room, I want this barn and you.”

It was on the fourth night that, lying against Alexandre’s chest, her fingers probing his nipples, she looked at the makeshift shelf and said, “What is that book there, my dearest? The black leather?”

Alexandre wiped his mouth and then his chest, pushing Danielle’s fingers away. “It’s a Bible.”

“You?” marveled the maid. “A God-fearing man? I’ve yet to hear you preach to me, only to cry into my shoulder, ‘Dear God, dear God!’ in the height of your thrusting!”

Alexandre didn’t return her laugh. His jaw tightened, drawing up the hairs on his chin. “Don’t blaspheme.”

“I’m not, Alex,” said Danielle. Pushing up on her elbow, she took the book from its beam and brought it down to the hay. “I was raised Catholic, I know the wages of blasphemy, at least in the eyes of the clergy.”

“Put it back, please,” said Alexandre. He held out his palm, and the insistence in his voice taunted Danielle and made her laugh the more. She sat abruptly and flipped open the pages. “Book of Temptations? Book of Trials? I’ve not seen these in a Bible. What is this, truly?”

Alexandre shoved Danielle viciously against the stall’s scabby wall and snatched the book away. “I said put it back! Do you not know what to leave alone?”

Danielle blew a furious breath through her teeth. “Oh, but I do now, Monsieur Demanche! It is you I shall leave alone!” She scrambled to her feet, knocking straw dust from her breasts and arms. “I’m never worth more than a few days, anyway! Ask the doctors!”

But Alexandre’s face softened, and he grabbed her by the wrist and said, “Don’t leave me. I’ve been alone always. I couldn’t bear it should you go. Please, dearest Danielle, I’m sorry.” His voice broke and went silent. And she held him again then, and knew that she loved him.

The following day, a cloudy Sunday, Danielle, Marie and Clarice attended mass under the stern supervision of Madame Duban at the Chapel of St Matthew three blocks over, and then returned to Bicetre, for in spite of the Lord’s admonition to remember the Sabbath Day to keep it holy, there were chores on Sunday as on any day of the week. Danielle had peered inside the barn before Madame had ushered them out the gate of the stone wall, hoping to convince Alexandre to join them, but the man was not there.

Surely he hasn’t shoes to mend on Sunday, she thought. Perhaps cows’ udders cannot wait, but a man’s bare feet can.

They returned in the mid-afternoon, and the barn was still empty. “Perhaps he’s gone to his own church,” Danielle said to herself as she gathered her stool and buckets and settled down by the pear trees. “His own peculiar Bible, perhaps his own peculiar sect. No matter.” She selected the first of the four cows and brought her down for the milking. The teats were slathered in feces, and she spent a good five minutes scrubbing off what she could. Shortly afterwards, Marie came out and took her by the sleeve. “Do you know what they’ve brought to Bicetre? Do you know what they have set up in the courtyard on the other side of the hospital?”

Danielle shook her head.

“Guess!”

“No, Marie.”

“The Louisette! The beheading machine! It’s been brought from the Cour du Commerce to us this very morning. Madame Duban told me just a moment ago that as she was crossing the courtyard the wagon came in, bearing the beams and blade. They mean to test it on sheep, and on the unclaimed corpses of prisoners and patients to see if it is ready.”

Danielle let go of the soft teat and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I should like to see it,” she said. “The Assembly promised the poor should have the right to a quick death as do the wealthy. No more rack or garrote for those who are covered with an honest day’s filth. How can we get to see it, Marie?”

“I don’t know. Unless you’d like to go as one of the corpses. I could tell Madame Duban about your trysts with Alexandre and she would choke you for certain.”

“Ah!” screeched Danielle gleefully, and she flicked milk from her fingers at her friend. “You are dreadful!”

When there was no more milk to be had from this cow, Danielle led her back to the paddock to get the last of the four who were producing. She hung the bucket on the fence post and kicked at the wall-eyed creature. “Come on, you little slut,” she said. “I let you have your peace until last. And don’t flare those nostrils at me.”

“Danielle!”

Danielle whirled about. Alexandre was there, hands on his hips, a line of sweat on his forehead.

“Dearest!” said Danielle. “I’d come for you for mass, but you weren’t there. Where have you been?”

“Shoes for Monsieur LeBeque,” said Alexandre. “He’s been after me these past days to come measure a new pair for himself and this morning insisted I take care of that business.”

“Indeed? Shoes on Sunday? God will not approve, I can tell you that.”

“Nor do I,” said Alexandre. “Come with me to the barn. I must speak with you.”

He glanced around anxiously, to the pear trees, the wall, the kitchen door up the path.

“I’ve got milking,” said Danielle. “The cook makes a great deal of bread on Sunday afternoon to last the week, though we aren’t supposed to labour on the Lord’s Day. It cannot wait. But I’ll come tonight as I’ve always—”

“Tonight I shall be gone.”

“Gone? Beloved, no, you cannot…”

“And you with me, yes? Dearest Danielle, I could not leave without you, but we must be very careful.”

“Why? What has happened?”

“Come to the barn. I won’t speak of this in the daylight. There are eyes and ears we may not see, and which we do not want to know our business.”

Danielle’s heart kicked, and her arms tightened. What had happened? She didn’t want to know, but she had to know. She latched the gate to the cows’ paddock and followed Alexandre to the barn.

Huddled in the back stall, Alexandre took Danielle’s hands in his. “I’ve made an enemy with Monsieur LeBeque. He is furious that I’ve spurned his advances.”

“He wanted you?” Danielle’s eyes widened. “I thought the man married.”

Alexandre made an exasperated sound in his throat. “Married, to show the world his respectability. The man spouts words which he feels are acceptable to those whose status at this place is above him. But then I’ve seen him take patients from their cells to his own room, and have seen the fear in their eyes as he closes the door. He’s pulled me aside and has tried to charm me with hideous quotes from writings of Donatien Alphonse François de Sade, thinking, perhaps, that I was as twisted a libertine as he fancies himself. This afternoon, as I sat in the laundry room nailing a sole back on to an officer’s boot, LeBeque staggered in and said it was time to pay for my employment.”

“Dear Lord!”

Alexandre put a finger to her lips. “Shh, my dear, don’t fret. I said I would have nothing to do with a man who so cruelly and selfishly uses others. I pushed him away, and said I would be gone by tonight, and he could keep the pay which is owed me and shove it up his own blustery dung hole.”

“You didn’t? Sweet Mary! You’re in trouble!”

“I think if I leave quickly, the man will soon forget about it. He’s not bright, and he’s got many around him who he can use much more easily.”

Danielle wiped her eyes and dragged her fingers through her hair. “Yes, leave. I have little here that I need to take. I will get it right away and return before you can blink three times.”

Alexandre closed his eyes, then opened them, and drew her to himself. “To have you, my only love, will make any journey a pleasure, any struggle a joy.” He kissed her forehead, her ear, her cheeks. His breath on Danielle’s lips made her body arch into his. Instinctively she shed her blouse and skirt and nestled into him and into the straw. “Love me quickly, dearest, most darling, for one last moment before we…”

The barn door was yanked open and the dusty room was filled suddenly with a swirl of dim afternoon light. Three men in breeches and crumpled jackets burst in, stopped short, and stared at the couple in the shadows.

“Ah, love amid the manure!” cooed one, his tone dark and ugly, his blue eyes frosty with contempt. “I remember it well when I was young.”

Danielle snatched her blouse and held it before her. Alexandre jumped to his feet and grabbed the pitchfork that was leaning on the stall door.

“Get the hell out of here!” he shouted.

“Such an order from such a criminal!” laughed a second. He was a bald man with a greasy moustache and boils on his chin. “To make demands of us!”

“Criminal?” said Alexandre.

“Nearly killed LeBeque, knocked his skull and almost cracked it open,” said Blue Eyes.

Danielle stared at her love, stunned. “Criminal?”

“You make a mistake,” said Alexandre. “I pushed the man away, but I did not harm him in any way!”

“Pushed him away, and down against the fire grate,” said the man with boils. “I found him dazed and bloody, wailing that the cobbler tried to murder him. Came up behind him and struck him what he’d hoped was a deadly blow! But you are not so lucky, my friend, and we’ve come for you.”

The three men fell on Alexandre then, knocking the pitchfork across the stall, and in spite of his struggles, Alexandre was pinned with his arms back. Blue Eyes tied the hands with a rope. Alexandre tried to kick and knock the men off, but they wrenched the rope upward and his shoulders popped noisily. Alexandre paused in his struggling. His teeth were set against each other and his eyes wide with rage.

“Monsieur LeBeque is abed now,” hissed the man with boils, “tended by one of the best surgeons at the hospital. But he made demand for you to be done with and out of his sight.”

Danielle saw hope. “We are leaving,” she said as she slipped into her sleeves and fumbled with the hooks. “Please, do you hear me? We will be away from Bicetre in but a minute, if you just let Alexandre go!”

“No, girl, we’ve other plans. Plans from Monsieur LeBeque himself. They have a few corpses from the hospital morgue, but the cobbler shall be the first live one to experience the Louisette, the first to feel the kind, cold bite.”

“Dieu a la pitié!” screamed Danielle.

Alexandre began to writhe again. Danielle saw the world swaying violently, but she held tightly to the wall so she would not fall. “No, you cannot do that! He’s not been tried, nor convicted!”

“Convicted enough,” said Blue Eyes. “And he should be pleased! Why, this is the method of execution provided by the Assembly. This is the humane way of putting to death those who deserve it. No rack for him. No slow, piteous strangulation in the garrote! We are a civilized society now.”

“Stop!” wailed Danielle. “Sweet mercy in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and all the saints!”

Suddenly Alexandre looked back over his shoulder at the black volume on the beam. Danielle thought he was going to ask for it, to carry it with him as a charm against harm. But he said, instead, “I remember. Oh, God. I remember now!”

The men struck out at Alexandre’s heels to make him move, and tugged him from the barn. Danielle tugged on her skirt and stumbled after. “What do you remember, fool?” asked the man with the boils.

But Alexandre was addressing Danielle, as if he thought she would understand. “I remember the blade on my throat, the quick slash, the smiles of those sunburned faces. Ah, so very civilized, they said! We are indeed a humane society, they claimed!”

“Alexandre?” cried Danielle.

“He’s mad with fear,” laughed Blue Eyes. “He’s soft in the mind now. Maybe we should just lock him up in the hospital? But no, we’ve got our instructions. We should gag him, though, to keep his tongue silent.”

Alexandre looked at the sky, the grey and cloudy sky which was threatening an early April rain. His eyes reflected the grey, and his teeth were barred in anguish. “I remember now! Why again? Why again? Forgive me, and no more!”

“Madman!” laughed Blue Eyes.

The third man, who had said nothing up to this point, mumbled simply, “Shut your mouth,” and he drove his fist into Alexandre’s jaw. Alexandre doubled over, groaning and spitting. Then the man pulled a handkerchief from his front jacket pocket and gagged Alexandre tightly. Then the man with boils pointed a finger at Danielle. “Stay here, wench. We’ve no patience for your whining!”

They dragged Alexandre from the Little Farm and around the north side of the huge brick building. Danielle ran after, staying back so they would not see her.

They did not notice her as she scurried through the stone archway into one of the smaller courtyards within the confines of the hospital. No one spied her as she crouched behind a two-wheeled cart in the shadows and stared, horrified, at the tall contraption erected on the barren centre ground. The three men who held Alexandre drove him to his knees to watch the preliminary beheadings. First, a sheep was locked into the neck brace, and with a swift movement the blade was dropped from the top of the wooden tower and severed the head. It flopped into a basket. From windows in the upper stories of the hospital came whoops and shouts of the prisoners. Some banged and screamed.

“Better,” said the man at the control to the small gathering of witnesses — finely dressed men in hats, ruffled shirts, and heeled, buckled shoes, standing with feet planted apart and hands clasped behind their backs. “The angle of the blade, you see, makes for a cleaner cut.” Heads nodded. Genteel faces, concerned with the civility of it all, clearly pleased to be part of the advancement.

Two corpses were beheaded then. One a fat, naked man with wiry yellow hair, the other a muscular cadaver with only one foot. The already lifeless heads popped from the lifeless necks and, spewing not a drop of blood, dropped into the wicker basket.

“What have we here?” The man at the control turned to where Alexandre was held to the ground. “Who is that there? We’re not using it for executions yet. We’ve got no papers for that man. The first is selected already, a Nicolas-Jacques Pelletier. As soon as the machine is perfected, he shall die.”

Blue Eyes said simply, “Just one more test subject, sir. At the request of one of the officials here at Bicetre.” He nodded towards a second-storey window, where the visage of LeBeque could be seen, his head wrapped in a bandage, his arms crossed furiously.

“We’ve got no papers,” repeated the man at the control.

“Who’s to care? Who’s to know?” asked Blue Eyes. “He’s a dangerous maniac who’s been housed at Bicetre for years. He nearly killed the official in the window there. He’d kill you or me were we to unbind him. Who’s to know, but you, these witnesses and a few babbling idiots in the windows above.”

The man looked at Alexandre, then at the blade which he’d just raised back into position.

“A live one will tell you more of what you need to know,” said Blue Eyes. “And then he’ll merely be a third corpse.”

Alexandre tried to scream around the gag, but only garglings came out. Danielle put her hands over her ears, but could not take her gaze from the dreadful sights.

“Well,” said the man, whirling his hand impatiently and pursing his lips as though he had his doubts, though the temptation of a live subject was too much to pass. “All right. Quick, then. This should be our final test.”

And they made quick business of Alexandre Demanche. The man was bound at the ankles and placed with much huffing and grunting upon the wooden gurney. His head was slipped through the neck trough, and then secured when the wooden slat above was brought down and locked. Alexandre, still in his gag, strained to look around as the man in charge reached out to release the heavy blade.

He spied Danielle trembling in the shade behind the wagon. His expression screamed what he had spoken back in the barn, though the words did nothing but confuse the already terrified mind of his young lover.

Why again? Why again? Forgive me, and no more!

The blade slid smoothly, an easy rush of air and steel. With a thwack, it found its rest at the bottom of the track, throwing the head neatly into the basket. But this one bled, and profusely. The body bounced off into a large wicker casket beside the gurney.

Danielle covered her face with her hands and drove her face into the ground.

She returned to the Little Farm when darkness fell. She felt her way rather than saw it, for her eyes were full of the hideous visions of the courtyard. Marie and Clarice were on the path, panicked for the loss of their friend, and when they saw her, they ran to her and held her close.

But Danielle would have nothing of it. She said simply, “I must die.”

Marie shook Danielle’s shoulders. “What are you saying? Where have you been?”

But then Danielle said, “But should I kill myself I go to hell! Should I live I live in hell!”

“Oh, sweet Mother of God,” said Clarice, “what has happened to you, dear friend?”

Danielle broke away, and reached the barn to see if she’d made a mistake, to see if Alexandre was waiting for her in his stall. But the straw was kicked about, and the pitchfork dropped on the floor where Alexandre had tried to protect her. His jacket was in a tangle by the wall. Danielle wailed, picked up the jacket, and clutched it to herself. Her friends stood in the doorway, dumbfounded.

“I must die, too!” she screamed.

“Danielle!” It was Clarice. “Come out of there. Talk to us! You’ve got us frightened!”

Alexandre’s journal was on the beam. But the Bible was gone. Danielle dug through the straw, clawing and sifting the sharp, golden bits, but the Bible was not there. Alexandre had not taken it with him. But it was no longer there.

What had happened to it? She wanted it for herself, to take it with her to her death.

Danielle stood and fled the barn. She knew the answer, as surely as she knew LeBeque and Blue Eyes and the man with boils and the man at the beheading machine would go to hell for their civil and humane test. She shoved past the other maids, saying, “I shall go to the places where the prostitutes wander. I shall make myself available to a murderer, that’s what I shall do! I will go to heaven if I’m murdered. For I will not live without him!”

Marie and Clarice tried to grab Danielle to hold her back, but she was too fast, too mad with grief, and they were left clutching air and the first raindrops of the evening.

They followed her. Against Clarice’s concerns that they’d be relieved of their duties for leaving Bicetre without permission, they scurried after Danielle, shawls drawn up around their faces. Down one. narrow Parisian street after another they went, calling for their friend, but not so loudly to attract the attention of the increasingly frightening citizenry of the streets. The rain let itself go in full force, driving some pedestrians from the roads and leaving only the determined, the tardy and the mad.

Danielle pushed her way to the rue Leon, a small and dismal alley lined with tall, narrow whorehouses, saloons and tenement shacks, some of which leaned precariously on poor foundations. The rain blurred the lights of the lanterns which sat in splintering windowsills. Whores stood in petticoats and stockings in sagging doorways, thrusting their breasts and wiggling their tongues. Drenched clients in coats hurried for the warmth of the diseased temptresses, and vanished into the houses with low chuckles and growls. A skeletal dog limped across Danielle’s pathway and wormed its way into a tenement cellar through a cracked window. In the shadows beneath rain-blackened stoops and behind rust-banded barrels lurked eyes that seemed to have no sockets. Teeth that seemed to have no mouths.

Danielle stopped in the centre of the alley. She stared up at the dark, rain-sodden sky and raised her hands as if bidding some divine spirit to save her.

“Kill me!” she said above the drumming of the rain on the cobblestones and rooftops. “Come now, there is surely someone who would relish the chance to sate their blood lust! Here I am, and there is no one to charge you for my death, for there is no one in this God-forsaken town who would care I was gone!”

She closed her eyes and kept her hands aloft. She took a breath, expecting to feel a plunging knife in her ribs, or a dagger drawn across her throat. Now, she begged silently. Let it be done and over.

She heard nothing, save the giggling of the prostitutes in their houses and the cries of babies in the tenement rooms. She said again, “Here I am! A gift, for free!”

Spattering rain and muted laughter.

Then, “No, I don’t want to die. God forgive me.” And then again, “Yes, die I must! Release me!”

And then a hand on her forearm and a whisper, “Sister, you’re soaked to the skin!”

Danielle opened her eyes to see a pair of red orbs gazing intently at her, mere inches from her own. The skin around the eyes was as white as a corpse’s. Danielle gasped and floundered, but the full red mouth smiled and said, “Fear not, dear. I have what you want. You are certainly a young thing, yes?” Cold fingers gently brushed Danielle’s hair from her neck and tipped her head to the side ever so slightly.

Danielle could not move her gaze from the red eyes, and she thought for the briefest moment, This is just a painted whore. A whore who kills on the side to assuage her anxieties. That’s fine. That’s good. A whore may kill more kindly than a man would have.

“I will release you to life that is not life, death that is not death. My gift to you. The gift many of us have asked for because of the dreadful state of our mortal existence as women on earth. Hold, dear, hold now.”

Danielle held her breath.

“Danielle!” The scream was from behind, and Danielle tried to look back but the whore with the white face and cold hands held her as strongly as any man.

“Danielle!” It was Marie, somewhere back at the entrance to the alley.

“Shh,” cooed the red-eyed whore, “shh.” The white face dipped to Danielle’s bare neck. A searing pain shot through the flesh, the muscle, and into the very core of bone. Danielle screamed, but the scream was met with the whore’s shushing and the shifting of the rain in the wind.

Then there was warmth and numb peace, and a swirling giddiness that caught her thoughts and threw them like pebbles in the wind. She almost laughed, almost, but then she fell into herself and there was no bottom and no light and she fell and fell and thought, This is death. I shall find you, Alexandre. In the good Lord’s paradise, I shall find you!

They settled in Buffalo, New York in February of 1889, when Danielle insisted that the population of Sisters had grown too large in New York City. Marie was tired of moving. So was Clarice. But Danielle was always restless. No matter the availability nor the quantity of prey or the relative safety of their hideouts, she was happy in one place no more than a matter of months, and then began insisting they move on. Marie and Clarice, not wanting their friend to venture off on her own, always went along.

They had stayed in Europe for over eighty years, moving from Paris to Lisbon to London and countless smaller cities and towns, taking the blood they needed to survive, meeting with other Soeurs de la Nuit — Sisters of the Night — and sharing their stories, their pain. Laughing with them when some memory was amusing, mourning with them when a memory was too harsh.

The Sisters were an order of the undead, much like the lone wolves of their kind but different in their need and sympathy for each other. They lived on the blood of others, most often the blood of thieves and rapists, murderers and wife-beaters. They drank their fill, often passing the dazed man about to their fellows for a share, then killed their victims with a twist to the neck. The Sisters did not have a desire to bring such villains into eternal life with them.

On the rue Leon so many years past, a Sister had heard Danielle’s pitiable cries and had come to her aid. Marie and Clarice, who had fallen at Danielle’s side, were likewise brought into the world of forever.

At first they had been unable to accept their new reality, and had hidden in a whorehouse cellar for nine days, trying to go out in the morning but unable, and finding themselves nauseous when presented plates of turnips and pork yet ravenous when offered a drunk card cheat. Danielle had cried for Alexandre; Marie and Clarice had just cried. Yet with increased feedings and encouragement from the other Sisters who tended them, they grew into their new selves.

They returned to Bicetre one starry evening, and while Marie and Clarice took out their rage on several doctors who had taken advantage of them then tossed them out, Danielle had gone to the lantern-lit office of Monsieur LeBeque and had tortured the man to near death as his champion the Marquis de Sade would have done, though she, unlike the libertine, took no orgasmic pleasure in the act. When he was reduced to a mere remnant of what he had been, clothed in shredded flesh and pawing at the air in hopeless desperation, she drank his noxious blood and twisted his neck about.

But Danielle felt no satisfaction.

For 117 years Danielle had found no satisfaction, no peace. It was she who wandered without purpose, followed closely by her two loyal friends, watched over by them, often protected by them. Yet they knew her restlessness and her longing for what she had once had, briefly, had not drained from her even as her own life had done.

She longed for Alexandre.

She pined for him and ached for him. Her days’ sleeps in random cellars and stalls, attics and storehouses, were troubled with dreams. She cried his name out and awoke herself with her cries. Sometimes she would bite her own wrists to relieve the agony of her heart, or to bring her consciousness to a close once and for all, but it could not be done.

There was nothing for Marie and Clarice but to love her, still.

Buffalo was a thriving city in the western corner of New York State. It was Clarice’s suggestion once Danielle began making noises that New York City was too crowded with their kind. Not just the loners but the Sisters as well. Marie and Clarice liked the fellowship, but Danielle grew irritable with them very quickly. And so when Marie suggested Buffalo, Danielle was ready to move.

They travelled by train at night, dressed modestly as women of the time were expected to do, in prim grey dresses of wool and cotton that pressed their bosoms tightly into their chests, their undergarments that cinched their waists unmercifully. When alone, they dressed as they pleased, and often went naked, but to pass in public they played the charade.

Marie had a brochure in her lap that touted the city’s finer points. “They call it the ‘Electric City of the Future’,” she read, holding the paper to the light of the lamp beside her on the wall. The train jerked constantly, and she had to move her head with the tremors to keep up with the printed words. “More electric lights are in use here than in many other places in the United States. What do you think of that, Danielle?”

“That sounds fine,” said Danielle. She picked at the cloth-covered buttons on her bodice, imagining her hands were Alexandre’s. His hands were beautiful. She would never forget those hands. Marie continued to read and Danielle heard nothing but the tone of her voice.

Then: “Danielle?” It was Marie.

“What?”

“You’ve been silent for hours. It’s nearly dawn and the train is still miles from Buffalo. We must find a sanctuary.”

The Sisters moved gracefully from the passenger car to the storage car. It was here that luggage was stacked, and flats of tools and boxes of foodstuffs and sacks of material and paper. They curled up into three crates filled with nails, and awakened that evening on a loading dock along the Erie Canal. Quietly, they removed themselves out and away before the dockmen got to the crates.

It was easy to find the part of town that revelled in drink and sex for money. It was not unlike the seedy sections of any city, except that here the dens and whorehouses sat toe to toe with grain elevators and shipyards. The number of undead was small; Danielle estimated no more than five or six from the vibrations in the air. They were the only Sisters. They stopped outside the gate to a large, canal-side elevator and teased the lone watchman at the gate into letting them in.

“We’re from France,” cooed Marie. “Just freshly arrived, Monsieur. We’ve never seen such a structure. It has us quite mesmerized. Please?” She touched her red lips coyly, but kept her face down so he would not see her bright red eyes.

The man, flustered with the attention, said, “I don’t do no whores. Go on ’bout your business.”

Marie feigned horror at the suggestion. “Whores? Mon Dieu! Sir, we are ladies in the truest sense, sisters come from another land to learn what we may. But if we offend, then we shall be gone.” The three turned away, and the man relented.

“Well, then,” he said quickly. “I’m sorry, ma’ams. I meant no disrespect. Come in and I’ll show you how the grain elevators work here in ole Buffalo.” He unlatched the gate and the ladies came through, invited. But his brief introduction to the history of the canal was cut off as the three of them fell on to him and took his blood, then his life. They then found a comfortable hide-away in a small storeroom next to the elevator.

The following days tumbled one into the other. The Sisters slept undetected in the storeroom during the day, pressed like shadows behind old bits of furniture covered in cobwebs and many months’ worth of dust. At night they walked Ohio and Erie Streets, dressed like ladies, unthreatening and demure, finding human creatures on which to feed and, when done, throwing the twisted bodies into the canal with the other sewage.

Things were as they had been for a long time. Until early March, when Danielle was pretending to sip coffee at a shop soon after nightfall and she spied through the grease-iced window a fruit peddler on the street pushing his cart and wiping his brow with a large and muscular hand. The man’s face was not familiar — a hollow and sunken face it was — and the body thin and unspectacular. But the hands, she knew.

The hands were Alexandre’s. She gasped.

Marie and Clarice, seated at the tiny round table with their friend, reached for her. “What is it?” whispered Clarice.

“Alexandre,” said Danielle.

“You’re mad!” said Marie. “What blood have you drunk last, that you would think you have seen your dead lover?” “It’s him.”

“It’s a fruit vendor,” said Clarice. “Get your wits about you.”

Danielle tore free and raced out to the street. The vendor was gone, and she spent the nest of the night tracing his path by his scent and the scent of his rotting pears and apples. But the smells of the Electric City were strong, mingled, woven together into a brash and stinging tapestry, and she lost track. They retired when the darkness began to dissolve into day, and for the first time since her rebirth in Paris, Danielle felt a new hope. A new reason to embrace her immortality. She would be with Alexandre again.

Each subsequent evening she placed herself in the same shop, at the same table, buying a cup of tea she never drank, and gazed out for the fruit peddler. Even when the shop closed at eight, she stood on the corner with her irritable friends, and studied each of the dirt-coated vendors and scraggly, mobile merchants.

Surely he lived in Buffalo. Fruit peddling was not a job that took one from town to town. She only stopped in her vigil to tend to her need to feed, then returned beneath the moon or the stars or the rain or the fog to catch her love and his cart.

Several weeks later, at quarter past three in the morning, while Marie and Clarice were seated on a trolley bench comparing loose stitching in their gloves, there was the shouting of drunken men and laughter from up the street, and then a small crowd stumbled past in a makeshift parade. One man was seated in a fruit cart, another pushed, while the rest danced beside them as if they were celebrating the King of Fools. The man in the cart, nearly out with drink, was Alexandre. Danielle motioned to her friends, and they followed the mob to a rickety tenement house near the railroad station. The men dumped the cart, fruit and all, and then stumbled off to the street corner and out of sight.

Danielle hurried to the drunk man’s side, pushed away the squashed fruit that covered him, and took his hand in hers. “My love,” she said. Her heart hammered as if it were still alive. “My love, I’ve found you! Alexandre, it’s me, Danielle!”

Marie said sternly, “Let it be, Danielle. It is not Alexandre.”

But Danielle knew they couldn’t, or wouldn’t, believe. It didn’t matter, though. She did. She helped the man to his feet, and touched his split lip with her cold finger.

And then a screech from a window above: “William Kemmler, is that you? Get your sorry ass up these steps before I come after you with this hatchet, and I’ll do it, you know I will!”

“Fishwife!” screamed Danielle. “You do not know who you are talking to!”

A lantern came to the window, and then many lanterns at many windows, and there were faces peering out and down.

Someone shouted, “Fishwife? Tillie ain’t Kemmier’s wife, just pretendin’ to be so they’s can fuck and still go to church on occasion!”

There was a burst of raucous laughter, and then someone spat, a long, hefty hawk the colour of rust that landed with a phatt in a puddle near Danielle’s shoe. An old man came out of his flat and catch Alexandre by the forearm.

“Who is you, anyway, woman?” he asked.

Danielle let go and turned away. She would let it go for now. For tonight. She would come again where there was not so much attention. For to try to reclaim him now would be careless. And carelessness could bring destruction. She had found him. She would return tomorrow, quietly, as her kind was greatly talented, and speak to him.

And bring him to his senses.

And back to her bed, back to her heart. And unlike the other misfortunates who had fallen under her bite, she would raise him from the dead for herself.

The following evening was clear and cold, with a silver moon riding above the lights of Buffalo like a jealous and forgotten toy. Marie and Clarice warned Danielle to let it go, it was insane to believe her love was reincarnated into a fruit vendor, and when she refused to hear them, they refused to go with her.

“We wash our hands of this,” said Marie. “We cannot endanger ourselves for your folly, as much as we love you.”

Danielle said, “Then do not.”

She went to the tenement house and watched from the shadows of a dwarfed maple tree as the occupants wandered in and out. Within minutes, two ragged women came out to the stoop in hats and shawls, their teeth broken and brown, and one said, “You get me some of them cigars if you can, Tillie. If you swipe ’em, we can sell ’em and make us a bit of coin, don’t you think?”

Tillie, a skinny thing who could have been twenty or forty, said, “I’ll swipe ’em and you can pay like the rest of ’em.”

“Bitch!”

Tillie strode from the stoop and the other woman spun angrily and went in the other direction.

Danielle counted to twenty. And then she went to the door of the tenement and waited. A man opened the front door, and flinched when he saw her standing there. She kept her lids lowered to obscure the red of her eyes. “Hey, honey,” he said. “What’s a fine-looking filly like you doin’ standing here?”

“Waiting for you to invite me inside,” said Danielle simply. The man did. She broke his neck in the hall, and stuffed him under the steps. No one was outside the flats to see, and she guessed they might not have cared much, anyway.

Tillie had shouted from a third-floor window, on the left. Danielle trod softly and quickly up the flights of stairs to the flat that surely belonged to William — to Alexandre. The door was locked, but with a simple jerk to the handle it swung open freely. She stepped inside the cluttered apartment.

There were three rooms, set like boxcars one behind the other. Danielle stood in the kitchen. A door to the left led to a parlor. A door to the right led to a bedroom. There was a pot on the cast-iron stove half filled with slop. There was a bedpan on the floor by the table, filled with urine.

“Alexandre,” whispered Danielle. “What has brought you to another difficult life? You suffered in Paris, and you suffer here. What, precious love, has so cursed you?”

She moved silently into the parlor. Several framed portraits sat, covered in dust, on a tiny table. The cushion of the blue-upholstered settee had popped its seams, and down oozed from the splits. There was a small shelf on the wall behind the settee. On it was an ink well, a pen, several volumes and a black leather book bound with string.

“Yes!” hissed Danielle. “It is my love, no doubt!” She took the book from the shelf and dropped on to the lumpy settee. He had not wanted her to look in this Bible, but she could not let it be. She flipped through the thin, yellowed pages and came to a place that had been thumbed to near illegibility.

It was in the Book of Trials. She read:

When Pilate saw that he could prevail nothing to save the man Jesus and that Jesus was indeed to die to please the crowd, he offered the execution of noble captives, to have the man’s wrists slashed with sword and thus causing him to bleed quickly unto death. But from the crowd called up the man Andrew, son of Phinneas the shepherd, who said, Jesus must suffer for his words! Crucify Him! The crowd joined in the mocking call, He must suffer for his words!

“What has this to do with you, Alexandre?” Danielle wondered aloud. “I don’t understand. But I must, to help my dearest lover!”

There was thumping at the door, and a woman came into the kitchen. It was Tillie. She saw Danielle through the doorway, and her lips drew back in a snarl. “Bitch!” she shrieked. “Come back to fix my shoe and what do I find here? One of William’s whores, brazen and bold as a sow, sitting on my very own sofa, she is! Waiting for him to come home, eh? Waiting and thinking I wouldn’t be back soon?”

Danielle stood slowly. There would be no contest with this woman, but she didn’t care to kill her if she didn’t have to.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve made a mistake. I thought this was the home of my cousin Randolph Sykes. I beg your pardon, miss.”

But the woman was not to be appeased, and she reached for a hatchet that was leaning against the stove.

Danielle held out her hand. “Miss, just let me go without a fuss. It would be for the best.”

“What’s the best is that William quit his whorin’. What’s best is you die quickly and keep your trap shut about it.” Tillie ran her wrist across her nose, sniffed, and stepped into the parlour, hatchet raised.

Calmly: “Put it down.”

Tillie’s mouth opened wide; she growled and stepped closer. “Down middle o’ your head, that’d look good! Part your hair right down the middle!”

The hatchet swung out in an arc, and down towards Danielle’s forehead. Danielle stepped deftly to the side and the settee received the full force of the blow. Feathers flew.

“Damn it!” screamed the woman. She tugged the hatchet free and spun on Danielle again. Danielle retreated into the kitchen. She would wait on the street, in the shadows, and come back when Alexandre did. She’d been invited into the building so entering would be no trouble. She felt a strange sympathy for this woman, who, she supposed, cared for Alexandre in her own ignorant way.

Suddenly there was panting on the steps, in the hall, outside the door, and she whipped about to see Alexandre standing there, clutching the doorframe and panting. He looked past Danielle to the woman with the hatchet.

“What’s happening here?” he cried. “I could hear you wailin’ from the street below! What you doing now, going to kill some woman who looks like she just got lost?”

“Alexandre,” whispered Danielle in amazement.

But the man brushed past her and flew at Tillie, snatching for the hatchet as he clutched her hair with his other hand. “You can’t be trusted with nothin’ or nobody! Oughta stick you in the asylum, I oughta! Give me the damned hatchet or you’ll find yourself up for murder!”

Tillie jumped away, stumbled against a straight-backed chair and fell to the floor. Alexandre — William — leaped again and grabbed for the weapon. She swung it at him and missed his face by a hair’s-breadth.

Danielle stepped into the parlor. She could be cut, it wouldn’t matter. But she would not let Alexandre be killed. Not again. Even in this incarnation, even as this crude, enraged fruit peddler, she would save him at last. She reached for the wavering hatchet just as the man snatched it from the woman on the floor.

“Get back!” he cried to Danielle.

Tillie was up on her feet in a second and latched on to Alexandre’s arm with her teeth. He screamed, and jerked away from her, leaving a chunk of flesh dangling from her lips. She dove at him again, snapping, snarling. He dropped the hatchet and kicked at the woman, shoving her back and away. But still, she came for him.

“I’m sick of you!"’ he wailed. “Why can’t you trust me?”

Danielle watched in horror as the couple stumbled past her into the kitchen. Tillie grappled the pot from the stove, lifted it to slam it into Alexandre’s head.

“Here’s to you, William !” she screamed.

And Danielle snatched up the hatchet in a flash, and buried the blade deep into Tillie’s face. The woman fell through the door and down the stairs to the landing, fully dead. Alexandre followed, his face twisted with both horror and victory. He pulled the hatchet from her and stared at the carnage.

Every flat door seemed to open at the same moment. Screams and curses followed, with fingers pointing at Alexandre and Danielle. “Murderer!” a man cried. “Killer!” screamed a child. Men flooded from their flats and took hold of Alexandre.

Danielle, dumbfounded, retreated to the apartment and escaped through the window into the mist of the night.

William Kemmler, after intense interrogation by the authorities, confessed to the murder of his common-law wife, Matilda Ziegler, and was sentenced to death by the state of New York. He was transferred to the prison in Auburn, where in August of 1890 he awaited his execution.

But the execution was to be a civil and humane one, the first one in which electricity would be used to snuff out the life of the convicted. A chair had been built of oak and electrical circuits, and tested on animals to make sure the death would be humane.

Though there had been arguments between the two leading moguls of electric power, Thomas Edison and George Westinghouse, as to which of the currents — Edison’s “Direct Current” and Westinghouse’s “Alternating Current” — it came to be through some underhanded manipulation that Edison assured that AC current would be used for the electric chair. Although Westinghouse refused to sell his equipment to the prison for the death machine, Edison arranged for some used equipment to be purchased without his competitor’s knowledge and made into the chair. This, Edison knew, would seal in the minds of Americans that AC was deadly, and so DC should be used in homes. Men at Auburn prison as well as reporters in their daily and weekly newspapers began joking that a man put to death in the electric chair would be said to have been “Westinghoused", a term that horrified the developer of the alternating current.

None of this mattered to William Kemmler, however, nor to Danielle Boquet. With her charm and grace she had been able to gain welcome into the prison’s main building, but had yet to be invited to enter the separate death house where her Alexandre awaited his execution. She had the power to kill the guards but did not have the power to force them to offer her entrance.

And so she waited. And she fretted. And Marie and Clarice tried to console her. She went back to the tenement flat in hopes she might find a clue, some bit of information to help her love escape yet another death by the great and humane justice-makers of the world, but there was nothing. She took the black Bible and kept it close in her skirt’s pocket, but reading it clarified nothing. Explained nothing.

Danielle stayed by the exterior wall of the death chamber at night, and during the day slept in a closet of the prison’s gasworks. Marie and Glance stayed with her, assuring her that it was not Alexandre and once he was dead she would come to her senses.

Witnesses arrived at the prison the evening of August 6th, twenty-five men, fourteen of them doctors, anxious and excited to see this new death that would not cause undue suffering.

The chamber itself was in the death house’s cellar, and Danielle lay in the steamy, bug-infested grass at one of the windows, staring through the steel bars and glass at the horrific scene playing out below. The witnesses walked in, clutching top hats and gloves, and most of them settled themselves on seats that had been arranged to face the electric chair. Other men stood. And then the warden and several guards entered, with Alexandre between them. A priest, looking bored and disinterested, followed behind in his robe, holding his Scriptures to his chest.

Alexandre glanced about the damp, stark room. His eyes were red-rimmed with lack of sleep and the terror what was ahead.

The guards nodded at the chair. He walked to it, but could not seem to sit down. A guard said, “You’ll like this a lot better than the gallows, boy.”

“I must get in,” whispered Danielle to her Sisters behind her.

Marie and Glance, standing a few yards back, said, “You cannot. You’ve not been invited.”

Alexandre turned and lowered himself into the chair. Then he sprang up again. “I remember!” he shouted.

“Shut up and sit down,” said the warden. “We’ll break your arms to do it if we have to.”

“No, no, hear me, I remember!” Alexandre’s face twisted with dreadful knowledge. “Oh, God, I remember!”

The warden shoved Alexandre into the chair. Guards began securing the leather straps at his legs and arms. But Alexandre continued. “I remember the blade on my throat, the quick slash of the merciful Africans who said I was the first to die a civil death! I remember the blade of the guillotine, and the assurance that the execution would be painless. I remember now! But why? Why again and again?”

“He’s crazed with fear,” said one nervous doctor. “Let’s have it done!”

“I know why! I am Sula! I am Alexandre! I am William!” cried Alexandre. “But I was Andrew first, my own words condemning me again and again to that which I would not allow the Lord! A fair and gentle death was what he’d been offered him. A courteous and mild demise! But I got the crowd to demand the dreadful death on the cross!”

A strap was quickly buckled at his waist and a leather harness with electrodes was shoved down on to his head. “Enough babbling!” said the warden. “Shut your mouth, criminal!”

Danielle pressed her forehead to the tiny slit of window and screamed, “Alexandre, then do you remember me?”

All faces spun towards the window. Alexandre stared, his mouth open.

“Alexandre! Let me in!”

Behind Danielle, Marie and Clarice gasped, “No, Danielle, let it be!”

Danielle banged on the steel bars. “Alexandre, please, let me in!”

“Are you my love from so long ago?” gasped Alexandre. “Sweet Danielle!” The guards fumbled with the chin strap, and drew the leather through the buckle. Before they could seal his jaws shut with the strap, he managed, “Dearest, come in!”

Marie grabbed Danielle’s wrist from behind, and snarled at her, “Do not dare! They will see you for who you are. The priest has a crucifix. We will be done in, Sister!”

Danielle twisted violently, but Clarice took her other wrist and held it firmly. “We will not be destroyed by your carelessness!”

Danielle bit her Sisters, and clawed. She kicked and spun, and the bones of her wrists shattered, but they would not let go.

Inside the cellar, she saw the priest raise his hand for the sign of the cross. He stepped back. A guard nodded to a man at the back of the room.

“No!” Danielle screamed, and the witnesses crossed their arms and shifted in their seats, uneasy with the spectacle this had become.

“Now,” said the guard.

“No!” cried Danielle. She kicked the bars and the pane of the window. The glass shattered and sprayed the cellar floor with shards.

There was the sound of a rushing trolley, a high-pitched and whining burr that caused the entire room to vibrate. Alexandre’s body convulsed and strained at the leather straps. Smoke rose from his hair, and then the hair caught fire, crackling and popping in a tongue of orange and blue.

“Jesus,” said one witness.

“I pray he’s dead already,” said another.

The body danced within the confines of the chair, a puppet on electric strings, until the warden nodded and the current was shut off.

Danielle could not move. She lay on her side in the grass, her fingernails dug into her forehead, her eyes staring, staring, taking it in and rejecting it at the same time.

Alexandre, dead again.

And then Alexandre moaned.

The witnesses gasped and put their hands to their mouths. The warden pointed urgently towards the man at the wall switch, who threw it again, and again Alexandre danced.

It was all done in six minutes. At last Alexandre was dead. Guards gingerly unstrapped him, complaining that he was boiling to the touch, and with coats over their hands for protection, they rolled the body on to a gurney that had waited at the side of the room. They covered it with a sheet.

But when a doctor attempted to examine the body, he could not remove the clothing for the heat. The warden escorted the ashen-faced men from the death chamber until the body cooled.

“Half-hour,” the warden said. “Let it cool and let the air clear a bit. And get a guard to arrest those women in the yard!”

“I hate you,” Danielle said to Marie and Clarice.

“No., you don’t,” said Marie.

“Oh, but I do,” said Danielle. The hands loosened on her wrists, and she was at last able to transform herself to mist to move through the window and into the cellar. Her friends, uninvited, watched through the window, shaking their heads.

Danielle reformed and then stood, the stench of red-hot dead whirling around her. She was silent for a moment and then said, “I’m cursed as much as he is.”

“We are not cursed, Danielle,” said Clarice from the window, “we are blessed.”

“What is a curse, then? That which you do not want, which you never asked for, yet which will not let you be!”

“It isn’t Alexandre,” Marie said again. “Come with us now. Come out with us.”

“You don’t know anything,” said Danielle. And she did not go with them.

She stepped to the gurney and lifted away the sheet. Her love lay there, his sweet face charred half away, his hair blackened and crisp. His beautiful hands cooked into claws. She held one hand and kissed it and cried her tears on to it.

“I would remove your curse if I could,” she whispered. She bent to the scorched neck and bit there. The blood had the flavor of charcoal.

She heard the men’s voices coming towards the chamber. Footsteps pounding the cement of the hall floor. She would go. But she would find him again. She would be keen and sharp, she would have her wits always awake and would be ready. She would follow him and perhaps, next time, save him. Save him for what, she wasn’t certain. Save him into what, she couldn’t know. But she would find him.

She touched her skirt’s pocket. The Bible was gone. It had gone ahead, to follow her love once more.

“Until later, dearest,’ she said.

On still-lingering tendrils of smoke, she left the cellar. Marie and Clarice were not to be found. She knew she would never see them again. That was all right. She did not want to burden them. She would do this alone.

She bought a red-eye flight ticket to Virginia from Illinois. She’d heard rumors that the Department of Corrections had decided to allow inmates on Death Row to choose the electric chair or the new, less violent and certainly more civil and humane method of death by lethal injection.

She did not know if Alexandre was in Virginia. He might be the one scheduled to die first with this new technology. Or he might be the first scheduled to die this way in any of the other states as they accepted the new method over electrocution or the firing squad.

She would not know his face or his name. But she would know him by his hands.

She pushed up the plastic window curtain and stared at the moon. The moon was the same, year after year, century after century. Was it cursed, too?

“I come, Alexandre,” she said to the night.

And if she failed, she would only have to wait and try again. She would save him. She would rescue him. Someday.

She had all the time there was. All the time there would ever be.