Chapter 35 #2
They nodded and turned to confer with each other while the prosecutor proceeded to make additional points against her, declaring that she was so against liberty that she wanted to see its total destruction at any price.
Intriguing that she was to blame for the behavior of an entire royal court that had been behaving the same way for generations while she had only come from Austria in 1770.
Her counsel started her defense, Mr. Chaveau-Lagarde taking the first turn, and she paid as much attention to them as she had to anything else about this trial.
They were good, honest men, and their efforts would be a credit to them, but it would do her no good.
The men in charge of this trial were godless heathens who would not rest until she had joined Louis on the other side of mortality.
Mr. Lagarde complained about the lack of time to inspect the case documents in preparation for this defense, considering the accusations.
He focused on some of the main points the prosecution had seemed to consider the most criminal, taking the arguments apart piece by piece, and making it perfectly clear that any evidence to uphold the charges was ridiculously absent.
Two hours later, Mr. Lagarde returned to his seat, looking so fatigued that Antoinette’s mothering instincts reared for the first time in weeks.
“How tired you must be, Mr. Lagarde!” she offered as he passed her. “My sympathies for your troubles.”
He offered her a slight smile, then turned to listen to the arguments Mr. Ducoudray made against the alleged conspiracies within France. He was a bold speaker, speaking with great talent and dignity, and his defense of her was surprisingly moving.
When he was done, they both tried to approach her, but a gendarme stopped them from getting close enough to have a true conversation.
The prosecutor took to the floor and addressed the jurors.
“This trial, citizens of the jury, is not one where a single fact, a single crime, is submitted to your conscience and your knowledge. You must judge the entire political life of the accused ever since she came to sit by the side of the last king of the French; but you must, above all, fix your deliberation upon the maneuvers that she never for an instant ceased to employ to destroy the rising liberty. The French nation accuses Antoinette! All the political events prove evidence against her!”
Antoinette closed her eyes at hearing the tirade he spouted against her.
It was one thing to hear the false testimony of so many, and the blameless testimonies of those who had nothing against her, but to hear this man she had never met nor had any knowledge of rage against her as though he personally wished to damn her to hell . . .
How could she have garnered such an enemy?
The jurors rose in silence and withdrew to an adjoining room, and Antoinette was removed as well. Her throat was parched as she paced the small room, and she turned to the nearest gendarme.
“Might I trouble you for a glass of water?” she asked as politely as humanly possible.
He grunted and left the room while another took his place. A few minutes later, the glass of water was brought to her without fanfare or comment.
“Thank you,” she murmured to the practically empty room.
It was nearly an hour before she was pulled from the room, taken back into the chamber, and returned to her chair, where the jury waited for her.
The prosecutor rose to his feet. “In conformity with the penal code, the accused Antoinette, for conspiring with the enemies of France and for plotting to trouble the state with civil war, must be punished with death.”
The president nodded and looked at her. “Accused, do you have any objections to the sentence demanded by the prosecutor?”
Antoinette blinked, then silently shook her head even as her stomach plummeted to the floor. What could she say? Would it matter if she had any objections? Was there a point in objecting?
At least now it was official. She was going to die.
“Counsel,” the president went on, “should the accused be put to death for her crimes?”
What would the lawyers assigned to her defense say to that? They had given some very pretty speeches, but what did they truly think? Was justice truly their aim? Or were they content with only the appearance of it?
Mr. Lagarde remained silent, but his eyes were cold and hard. Was he refusing to answer the question?
Mr. Ducoudray stood. “Citizen President, the declaration of the jury being definite, and the law formal in this respect, I announce that my professional duty with regard to the Widow Capet is terminated.” He sat swiftly, his expression devoid of any hints of his feelings.
He had said something, but had he actually said anything? He had not answered the question, only washed his hands of it all.
Washed his hands . . .
Could he be giving a hint as to his true feelings while appearing to only be respectful and formal on this occasion?
Was he making a greater statement about this trial than simply the outcome they had reached?
He certainly did not look pleased with the announcement, and he had never given Antoinette reason to think he despised her.
Nodding at the response, whatever it was, the president lifted his chin.
“The Tribunal, after the unanimous declaration of the jury, in conformity to the laws cited, condemns the said Marie Antoinette of Lorraine and Austria, widow of Louis Capet, to the penalty of death, her goods confiscated for the benefit of the republic, and this sentence shall be executed at the place de la Révolution.”
Again, Antoinette only blinked, her fingers shaking within her lap. She would not crumble, she would not falter, she would not scream or demand vengeance. She would not react at all.
They did not deserve a reaction.
But to her side, she heard cries of outrage and dismay from Lagarde and Ducoudray. She glanced over, ready to give them smiles of gratitude, only to find them being arrested.
For defending her? Wasn’t that what this Tribunal wanted? And because they had done it well and failed to secure their preferred result, they were being arrested?
What strange world was she living in?
Dazed and unaware of much else, she watched her counsel being led away.
She felt herself being lifted to her feet and walked out of the chamber.
She saw how the public stared at her, no doubt shocked by her appearance.
Dressed in her black mourning dress, her complexion pale and drawn, and her hair nearly white, she looked nothing like a queen, and more like a corpse yet to take that final breath.
Well, she would become a corpse in truth soon enough.
The walk to her cell was a silent one. Antoinette couldn’t even hear her own feet on the stone. She didn’t mind almost slipping in the yard. She barely felt the bitter cold.
She would not send for her children to bid her farewell.
They had barely survived saying farewell to their father; they should not have to endure a similar moment with her.
And she doubted the Tribunal officials would indulge her anyway.
They hadn’t even let her receive a Catholic priest during her imprisonment.
They would give her nothing that could resemble comfort or hope.
Once back in her cell, she was given paper and pen, so she wrote letters, this time with the promise of their truly being sent.
She wrote to Abigail and Charlotte, though it had been more than a year since she had received a letter from either of them.
She knew well enough that it had not been by their doing.
They were not the sort to give up on a friend, especially in her situation, and would have written to her constantly and consistently.
Her heart warmed faintly at the thought of it.
Faintly because she had no more strong emotions to give.
Her next letter was to Louis’s sister, and this one did draw a tear, as this sister would be the last decent family her children would have once she was gone.
Her oppressors would not let letters to England or America be sent, but if she included one to her sister-in-law, there was a chance she could send them on when she was free.
It was a strange sort of confession, writing these letters.
Not quite a last will and testament, but a personal account of her final thoughts and the musings of her heart.
Perhaps if she rid herself of these burdens, she could approach the scaffold tomorrow with the same firmness and calm that Louis had displayed.
Louis . . .
She would be reunited with him soon, and a slight fluttering in her heart made her smile. What a grand embrace awaited her!
With that pleasant thought, Antoinette moved to her bed, lay down, and attempted to rest. She managed a light sleep, but she found she did receive some ease. The room was still cold, the bed still uncomfortable, the dawn still doomed, but she had accepted her fate.
It was all she could do now.
As dawn finally arose, the door to her cell opened, and the attendant, Rosalie, entered with a bowl of broth. “Will you not eat something, Madame?”
Tears rolled down Antoinette’s cheeks. “I no longer need anything. Everything is over for me.”
But Rosalie pressed her, and so Antoinette took a few bites, then it was time for her to change her clothes.
The guard refused to leave or turn his back, needlessly adding to her humiliation on this day of her death.
Once she was in her white shift with a scarf about her shoulders and a white widow’s cap on her head, a priest was brought in. Not a Catholic priest, of course.
“I have come to hear your confession,” the priest informed her.
Antoinette shook her head with a kind smile. “I cannot.” She would have nothing to do with this continued disregard for her faith or her person.
He raised a brow. “You are guilty.”
“Ah, sometimes careless. Never guilty.” She gave a light, sad laugh.
He did not return the laugh. “But Madame, what will be said when it becomes known that in your last moments you refused to accept the means of grace provided by the church?”
She kept her smile, knowing he was only trying to do his duty to his position and his faith. “My faith forbids me from accepting the forgiveness of God through a priest who is of another persuasion.”
He sat and talked with her for a while longer, though he did not press the issue of confession again.
When he left, the jailer and warden entered her cell, along with the executioner.
An odd stillness settled over Antoinette, making her joints stiff and her spine ramrod straight.
Her sentence was read to her in formal tones, though she barely heard it.
“Hold out your hands.”
Antoinette jerked at the order. “Will my hands be tied? The king’s hands were not tied.”
The executioner seized her hands without another word and tightly bound them behind her back.
She was marched out of the cell and down the corridor, passing several cells containing other prisoners. They stared at her with the same emptiness she had felt overtaking her in recent days. A woman in a cell they passed handed her a cup of water, and she took it with gratitude, drinking deeply.
Then she was shoved forward to continue her procession, taking the stairs into the small courtyard. An open cart with a single white horse waited for them with only one wooden plank on its floor for seating.
It was as degrading a mode of transportation for a former queen as could be had.
She mounted the small ladder into the cart, the executioner assisting with the rickety steps since her hands were tied. She sat on the wooden plank, trying to keep her chin raised enough for composure but not pride.
The cart began to move, and she was jolted and jostled along the drive with no way to secure herself. The active crowd jeered and mocked her, shrieking in her face and showering her with spittle and insults.
Peculiarly, the day was fine, if a little misty. The cold from the night had lifted, and Antoinette took a moment to look up at the sky.
What was the appearance of the sky like from heaven?
Down the rue de la Révolution the cart rolled, and a brief glimpse of the Tuileries brought tears to her eyes, a pair trickling down her cheeks before she could stop them.
She could not think fondly on her time with her family. She could not make this moment more painful for herself. She had to remove herself from the emotions of being a wife and mother, a woman, a human being. She could only exist, and she would only do so for a few minutes more.
The cart eventually arrived at the scaffold, and she was helped down the stairs once more. The crowd had fallen silent, their faces more curious than irate.
Her body was forced forward, and a sharp blade taken to her hair, ruthlessly slicing the tresses away from her neck and scalp.
Ah, so the blade would not be impeded. That would make matters less painful, she supposed.
The executioner preceded her up the stairs to the scaffold, and she was pushed to follow.
Her legs trembled as she walked, one of her shoes coming free along the way.
No matter. What use were shoes to a corpse?
Her hands itched against each other behind her back, her palms growing moist with anxious perspiration. The prospect of death was one thing, but the reality of it . . .
How much agony was before her? Or would there be any?
A man on the scaffold stepped toward her. “This is the moment, Madame, to arm yourself with courage.”
Her lips, buzzing in a strange, tingling manner, quirked. “Courage,” she repeated. “The moment when all my ills are going to end is not the moment when courage is going to fail me.”
She raised her gaze heavenward, closing her eyes and taking a few moments to pray and to breathe.
“Here, Madame.”
Antoinette opened her eyes and lowered her head, looking at the executioner. He grabbed her arm and jerked her backward to the plank positioned there, where she was quickly bound.
The tension in the air grew thick and heavy, and Antoinette’s pulse pounded with a fierce rapidity that frightened her more than the blade.
Then the plank was tipped forward, and her neck was pushed forward into the wooden hole designated for her. She closed her eyes as the hole was tightened to a perfect fit.
“Our Father,” Antoinette whispered so softly she could barely hear herself, “which art in heaven . . . hallowed be thy name . . .”
The sound of a rope scraping through a rung reached her ears, and she gasped in response.
Then all was gone.