The Seamstress
My heart races as I am roughly thrown from my prison cell. The number twenty-two had been scrawled upon my door, and my stomach burns with fear as I think upon what the number means. The harsh soldier pushes me down the dank stone passage way. At his touch I remember his hands from last night. My stomach revolts at the thought of what he had done to me in the name of the Republic. My face burns with shame when his wandering eyes pass over my poorly clad figure, and I know he is remembering what he has taken from me. Am I doomed to die with his lustful eyes watching my every move, knowing that his mind thought of me as nothing more than an object to fulfill his desires? Can I not even die with the pretense of decency? Weak-kneed, I stumble to the floor and retch. I am pulled harshly to my feet and my eyes meet his. He laughs and spits in my face.
"Enjoy your final ride, mademoiselle! I shall not forget you. I hope you enjoy Madame La Guillotine's bed as much as you enjoyed mine!" He laughs wickedly. Desperate to save myself this last bit of degradation, I spit back in his face. He curses at me, and roughly shoves me into the harsh sunlight. I wince at the bright light, for my eyes have not seen pure, unadulterated daylight for almost a month.
My breath comes quick and shallow. I know in a matter of minutes my life will be over. I am a mere twenty years old, a young seamstress who knows nothing; a silly, ignorant girl who cannot even read or write. I never meant any harm! I am a good Republican. I know that I must die. If it will make France a better place it shall be worth it. I hope.
My thoughts grow dim and I nearly collapse into the arms of the tall handsome man who stands stoically next to me.
"Forgive me, Citizen," I whisper as I attempt to recover myself.
"Do not think anything of it, Mademoiselle. It is nothing." His voice is kind and soft. I look up to meet his eyes, but he turns avoids my gaze, shrinking back into the early morning shadows. Still, I realize who he is.
"Citizen Evremonde," I say, looking up at him, touching his hand pleadingly. "I am a poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.
He says nothing but looks at me. Then he murmurs, "True. I forget what you are were accused of?"
"Plots," I say, hanging my head, ashamed. "Though the just Heaven knows I am innocent of any! Is it likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature like me?" I pause, but feel the need to keep talking. "I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing! I am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be, Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature."
He smiles at me warmly. His eyes fill with tears of compassion and I cannot help but note that it is not his own fate that brings tears to his eyes, but mine. He cannot be the evil aristocrat that he is accused of being. He would not care for the plight of a silly young girl if he were what they say he is. We stand side by side, I in the sunlight and he in the shadow. The silence is not awkward, for we both stand, looking back on our short lives.
"I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I had hoped it was true?"
"It was. But, I was taken again and condemned." Tears gather in my eyes as I think of his poor wife and child and the torture they must be enduring this day.
We stand in silence again, waiting for our turn to be loaded into the tumbrel. As the great carts roll eminently towards us, I grasp his hand in anxious fear. "Oh Citizen! If I may ride with you, will you let me hold your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more courage."
Slowly and assuredly he takes my tiny hand in his great one as he moves into the sunlight. "It is an honor and a pleasure," he says solemnly, bowing ever so slightly, and raising my workworn hands to his lips. I look at him again, and I begin to doubt my eyes. This is not the man I saw at La Force. I gasp, but before I can cry out, he presses my fingers gently and raises his finger to his lips, motioning me to silence.
Whispering, I lean towards him. "Are you dying for him?"
"And his wife and child." I want to cry out, but he warns me again, "Hush! Yes." I nod, silently agreeing to keep his secret.
Again he raises my roughened hands to his lips. His tearful eyes and strong face watch me as he kisses my poor hands. The look he gives me at this moment strikes me as nothing in my life has ever struck me before. At the delicate age of twenty, mere moments before I will die, I fall in love with this stranger. I do not know his name and he does not know mine, but that does not matter. I have fallen in love with this brave man. He reached out to a child to comfort her, even in his final hour. The child fell in love with him.
Gently he hands me into the tumbrel, and for the first time in my life I am treated like a lady. He takes my hand and places his arm around my shoulders protectively.
"Courage, my little seamstress. Do not show them you are afraid." Leaning back against him, I stand tall, determined to be as brave as he. I feel his warmth and his breath deep and even. His strong hand holds mine tightly, and for a moment I forget where I am. My heart does not race because death is near, but because I am a young girl in love being held by the object of my affection. The tumbrel rumbles on and I do not hear the jeers of the filthy mob at my feet. The rot and garbage hurled at the other passengers and me goes unnoticed as I think of this man's strong protective arms around me. I could be headed to my wedding, not my death, and I would feel no different.
We reach the Place de la Greve and the cart jerks to a sudden stop, my dream ends. The first, an arrogant old Marquis, is led up the scaffold stairs. In horrific fascination I watch as he walks toward his death. His proud wife at the foot of the stairs screams and is quickly silenced with a harsh blow. I feel my eyes grow wide as the old man is strapped to the guillotine. In the end he is no better than I. He is no better than any single person in the bloodthirsty mob that has gathered to watch the executions. We all end in death. Macabre ideas dance through my mind and my thoughts toy with fancies of the afterlife. The crowd grows silent as the Marquis is lowered to his deathbed.
I am started from my morbid reveries by a gentle pressure on my hand. I look up and again I am lost in his eyes.
"Don't watch," he quietly begs me. "Keep your eyes upon me." He could have commanded anything and I would have done it, but he asked the easiest of tasks. Oh! to keep my eyes upon him! To dream a few moments longer! To imagine one who loves me peering into my eyes with his soft brown gaze! The demonic cheers of the crowd and the swift slice of the knife fade into nothingness as I gaze into his eyes. I study his strong, gristly jaw and dirt-smudged face. There is no fear about him, not in his eyes or his high noble brow. His face is as peaceful as a sleeping child, yet his eyes are steeled to the outside world. He is full of peace and determination, and he through his look he passes that strength onto me. His gaze shifts over my face, studying my tear-stained face and dirty ragged blonde curls. I am ashamed that he should have to see me in such a bedraggled state.
I turn my gaze from him, up to the blue sky above. In another time, another place it would have been a beautiful spring day. Perhaps we would have gone on a picnic or a stroll through the public gardens. He would have put his arm around me, as he did now. He would have taken my hand and held it to his lips, just as he had a few minutes earlier. He would have sung me songs and whispered poetry in my ear. We could have loved each other. My thoughts ramble on to my little cousin in the south country, to my dead maman and papa, to France. Tears fill my eyes. Gently his finger turns my face towards his, breaking my daydream. Shaking the tears from my eyes, I steel myself against such thoughts. I will never be given the pleasure of having a sweetheart or a family, but I can enjoy this last moment with him.
"But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here today. I think you were sent to me by Heaven."
"Or you to me," he says. Could he feel what I feel? Is this magnetic pull drawing me into his arms too strong for him to ignore? "Please keep your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object."
"I mind nothing while I hold your hand," say I. Oh if only he could know where my thoughts dwell! "I shall mind nothing when I let go, if they are rapid."
"They will be rapid," he replies heavily. "Fear not!"
"Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me - just a little." It had been nagging me for days, and only now did I have someone to ask. He is so kind and loving, perhaps he will know the answer.
"Tell me what it is," he replies, focusing upon my face.
"I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows nothing of my fate – for I cannot write – and if I could, how should I tell her! It is better as it is."
"Yes, yes: better as it is," he rubs my chafed hands gently, as if coaxing the rest of my question out before I run out of time.
"What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support is this: - If the Republic really does good to the poor, and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time: she may even live to be old." I am rambling now, I am such a silly girl, but I feel the need to explain. I do not exactly tell the truth, for he has occupied my mind more than anything, but my little cousin fills my mind too.
"What then, my gentle sister?"
"Do you think…" I pause and feel the tears prick my eyes. My lips tremble just a little and I fear that I shall cry. I do not want to cry before this brave man, and I swallow hard. "Do you think it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?"
He shakes his head sympathetically, and I am relieved he does not find my question silly. "It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there."
I squeeze his hands. "You comfort me so much!"
Two rough pairs of hands reach towards me, but I do not struggle.
"Am I to kiss you now? Is the moment come?"
"Yes." Shaking I lean forward and place my lips upon his. His lips feel soft and strong beneath mine. If only I had not been cursed with this end, perhaps we could have held each other like this for many years. Through this final farewell, he has blessed me. My mind is foggy as the soldiers lead me to the scaffold. I do not hear the angry voices of the crowd, I see only him. I think of his fearlessness, his selflessness, his soft embrace. Love for this unknown stranger washes over me. I am strapped to the bed of death but I do not tremble. The blade does not seem so cruel as it did an hour ago. When this is all over, perhaps we shall be together. I think of Sunday lessons from my childhood, and remember what he had told me.
"I am the Resurrection and the Life."
It is a promise; I will see him again!
I am laid back to my final rest unafraid. I mouth a prayer for my little cousin. I pray for France, but most of all I pray for the brave man whose death would so quickly follow mine. I thank God for the man's assurance and strength and I beg God that we might be together in paradise. I am calm, as the crowd grows silent; in the midst of hate and terror and fear I have found what I have never found in any other moment of my life. Love.
My heart races as I am roughly thrown from my prison cell. The number twenty-two had been scrawled upon my door, and my stomach burns with fear as I think upon what the number means. The harsh soldier pushes me down the dank stone passage way. At his touch I remember his hands from last night. My stomach revolts at the thought of what he had done to me in the name of the Republic. My face burns with shame when his wandering eyes pass over my poorly clad figure, and I know he is remembering what he has taken from me. Am I doomed to die with his lustful eyes watching my every move, knowing that his mind thought of me as nothing more than an object to fulfill his desires? Can I not even die with the pretense of decency? Weak-kneed, I stumble to the floor and retch. I am pulled harshly to my feet and my eyes meet his. He laughs and spits in my face.
"Enjoy your final ride, mademoiselle! I shall not forget you. I hope you enjoy Madame La Guillotine's bed as much as you enjoyed mine!" He laughs wickedly. Desperate to save myself this last bit of degradation, I spit back in his face. He curses at me, and roughly shoves me into the harsh sunlight. I wince at the bright light, for my eyes have not seen pure, unadulterated daylight for almost a month.
My breath comes quick and shallow. I know in a matter of minutes my life will be over. I am a mere twenty years old, a young seamstress who knows nothing; a silly, ignorant girl who cannot even read or write. I never meant any harm! I am a good Republican. I know that I must die. If it will make France a better place it shall be worth it. I hope.
My thoughts grow dim and I nearly collapse into the arms of the tall handsome man who stands stoically next to me.
"Forgive me, Citizen," I whisper as I attempt to recover myself.
"Do not think anything of it, Mademoiselle. It is nothing." His voice is kind and soft. I look up to meet his eyes, but he turns avoids my gaze, shrinking back into the early morning shadows. Still, I realize who he is.
"Citizen Evremonde," I say, looking up at him, touching his hand pleadingly. "I am a poor little seamstress, who was with you in La Force.
He says nothing but looks at me. Then he murmurs, "True. I forget what you are were accused of?"
"Plots," I say, hanging my head, ashamed. "Though the just Heaven knows I am innocent of any! Is it likely? Who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature like me?" I pause, but feel the need to keep talking. "I am not afraid to die, Citizen Evremonde, but I have done nothing! I am not unwilling to die, if the Republic which is to do so much good to us poor, will profit by my death; but I do not know how that can be, Citizen Evremonde. Such a poor weak little creature."
He smiles at me warmly. His eyes fill with tears of compassion and I cannot help but note that it is not his own fate that brings tears to his eyes, but mine. He cannot be the evil aristocrat that he is accused of being. He would not care for the plight of a silly young girl if he were what they say he is. We stand side by side, I in the sunlight and he in the shadow. The silence is not awkward, for we both stand, looking back on our short lives.
"I heard you were released, Citizen Evremonde. I had hoped it was true?"
"It was. But, I was taken again and condemned." Tears gather in my eyes as I think of his poor wife and child and the torture they must be enduring this day.
We stand in silence again, waiting for our turn to be loaded into the tumbrel. As the great carts roll eminently towards us, I grasp his hand in anxious fear. "Oh Citizen! If I may ride with you, will you let me hold your hand? I am not afraid, but I am little and weak, and it will give me more courage."
Slowly and assuredly he takes my tiny hand in his great one as he moves into the sunlight. "It is an honor and a pleasure," he says solemnly, bowing ever so slightly, and raising my workworn hands to his lips. I look at him again, and I begin to doubt my eyes. This is not the man I saw at La Force. I gasp, but before I can cry out, he presses my fingers gently and raises his finger to his lips, motioning me to silence.
Whispering, I lean towards him. "Are you dying for him?"
"And his wife and child." I want to cry out, but he warns me again, "Hush! Yes." I nod, silently agreeing to keep his secret.
Again he raises my roughened hands to his lips. His tearful eyes and strong face watch me as he kisses my poor hands. The look he gives me at this moment strikes me as nothing in my life has ever struck me before. At the delicate age of twenty, mere moments before I will die, I fall in love with this stranger. I do not know his name and he does not know mine, but that does not matter. I have fallen in love with this brave man. He reached out to a child to comfort her, even in his final hour. The child fell in love with him.
Gently he hands me into the tumbrel, and for the first time in my life I am treated like a lady. He takes my hand and places his arm around my shoulders protectively.
"Courage, my little seamstress. Do not show them you are afraid." Leaning back against him, I stand tall, determined to be as brave as he. I feel his warmth and his breath deep and even. His strong hand holds mine tightly, and for a moment I forget where I am. My heart does not race because death is near, but because I am a young girl in love being held by the object of my affection. The tumbrel rumbles on and I do not hear the jeers of the filthy mob at my feet. The rot and garbage hurled at the other passengers and me goes unnoticed as I think of this man's strong protective arms around me. I could be headed to my wedding, not my death, and I would feel no different.
We reach the Place de la Greve and the cart jerks to a sudden stop, my dream ends. The first, an arrogant old Marquis, is led up the scaffold stairs. In horrific fascination I watch as he walks toward his death. His proud wife at the foot of the stairs screams and is quickly silenced with a harsh blow. I feel my eyes grow wide as the old man is strapped to the guillotine. In the end he is no better than I. He is no better than any single person in the bloodthirsty mob that has gathered to watch the executions. We all end in death. Macabre ideas dance through my mind and my thoughts toy with fancies of the afterlife. The crowd grows silent as the Marquis is lowered to his deathbed.
I am started from my morbid reveries by a gentle pressure on my hand. I look up and again I am lost in his eyes.
"Don't watch," he quietly begs me. "Keep your eyes upon me." He could have commanded anything and I would have done it, but he asked the easiest of tasks. Oh! to keep my eyes upon him! To dream a few moments longer! To imagine one who loves me peering into my eyes with his soft brown gaze! The demonic cheers of the crowd and the swift slice of the knife fade into nothingness as I gaze into his eyes. I study his strong, gristly jaw and dirt-smudged face. There is no fear about him, not in his eyes or his high noble brow. His face is as peaceful as a sleeping child, yet his eyes are steeled to the outside world. He is full of peace and determination, and he through his look he passes that strength onto me. His gaze shifts over my face, studying my tear-stained face and dirty ragged blonde curls. I am ashamed that he should have to see me in such a bedraggled state.
I turn my gaze from him, up to the blue sky above. In another time, another place it would have been a beautiful spring day. Perhaps we would have gone on a picnic or a stroll through the public gardens. He would have put his arm around me, as he did now. He would have taken my hand and held it to his lips, just as he had a few minutes earlier. He would have sung me songs and whispered poetry in my ear. We could have loved each other. My thoughts ramble on to my little cousin in the south country, to my dead maman and papa, to France. Tears fill my eyes. Gently his finger turns my face towards his, breaking my daydream. Shaking the tears from my eyes, I steel myself against such thoughts. I will never be given the pleasure of having a sweetheart or a family, but I can enjoy this last moment with him.
"But for you, dear stranger, I should not be so composed, for I am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should I have been able to raise my thoughts to Him who was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here today. I think you were sent to me by Heaven."
"Or you to me," he says. Could he feel what I feel? Is this magnetic pull drawing me into his arms too strong for him to ignore? "Please keep your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object."
"I mind nothing while I hold your hand," say I. Oh if only he could know where my thoughts dwell! "I shall mind nothing when I let go, if they are rapid."
"They will be rapid," he replies heavily. "Fear not!"
"Brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question? I am very ignorant, and it troubles me - just a little." It had been nagging me for days, and only now did I have someone to ask. He is so kind and loving, perhaps he will know the answer.
"Tell me what it is," he replies, focusing upon my face.
"I have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom I love very dearly. She is five years younger than I, and she lives in a farmer's house in the south country. Poverty parted us, and she knows nothing of my fate – for I cannot write – and if I could, how should I tell her! It is better as it is."
"Yes, yes: better as it is," he rubs my chafed hands gently, as if coaxing the rest of my question out before I run out of time.
"What I have been thinking as we came along, and what I am still thinking now, as I look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support is this: - If the Republic really does good to the poor, and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time: she may even live to be old." I am rambling now, I am such a silly girl, but I feel the need to explain. I do not exactly tell the truth, for he has occupied my mind more than anything, but my little cousin fills my mind too.
"What then, my gentle sister?"
"Do you think…" I pause and feel the tears prick my eyes. My lips tremble just a little and I fear that I shall cry. I do not want to cry before this brave man, and I swallow hard. "Do you think it will seem long to me, while I wait for her in the better land where I trust both you and I will be mercifully sheltered?"
He shakes his head sympathetically, and I am relieved he does not find my question silly. "It cannot be, my child; there is no Time there, and no trouble there."
I squeeze his hands. "You comfort me so much!"
Two rough pairs of hands reach towards me, but I do not struggle.
"Am I to kiss you now? Is the moment come?"
"Yes." Shaking I lean forward and place my lips upon his. His lips feel soft and strong beneath mine. If only I had not been cursed with this end, perhaps we could have held each other like this for many years. Through this final farewell, he has blessed me. My mind is foggy as the soldiers lead me to the scaffold. I do not hear the angry voices of the crowd, I see only him. I think of his fearlessness, his selflessness, his soft embrace. Love for this unknown stranger washes over me. I am strapped to the bed of death but I do not tremble. The blade does not seem so cruel as it did an hour ago. When this is all over, perhaps we shall be together. I think of Sunday lessons from my childhood, and remember what he had told me.
"I am the Resurrection and the Life."
It is a promise; I will see him again!
I am laid back to my final rest unafraid. I mouth a prayer for my little cousin. I pray for France, but most of all I pray for the brave man whose death would so quickly follow mine. I thank God for the man's assurance and strength and I beg God that we might be together in paradise. I am calm, as the crowd grows silent; in the midst of hate and terror and fear I have found what I have never found in any other moment of my life. Love.