Hold That Head High

There were nearly a dozen in the filthy wagon. Some sat cross-legged; some lay on the rotting straw that had once served as a bed for things other than people. Those not crying looked down at their feet or closed their eyes tightly, pondering their fate. Some feared pain. Others feared death. One shook uncontrollably, replaying how he’d beaten a mistress to death and now faced eternal condemnation.  

There was a murmur of prayers spoken to a God who didn’t seem to be listening. Philippe de Montfaucon, the best dressed of the poorly dressed lot, was on his knees, staring ahead, oblivious to the occasional taunts of the disheveled men walking alongside and waving crude weapons, peasant weapons, for the benefit of the crowd gathering as they approached the square.

De Montfaucon was not kneeling by choice. But with hands tied behind his back and the ancient wagon bouncing over the uneven cobblestones, standing was impossible. When he’d tried, when they first pushed him up the ramp into the back, he had stood proud, defiant; a perfect target for the rotting vegetables that were thrown and the laughter of the guards when he eventually fell.

The guards. Ha. A generous title for creatures who herded women and children into the cart, whipping some, stripping others. Their stench reeked of animals rooting in some muddy pen. Yet they were the very face of whatever passed for authority in what had been France. Had they modeled themselves on the tormentors of Dante’s Hell? Surely not. That would imply they could read. More plausible they’d learned their trade as prisoners, liberated from their sentences by the same mob they now served. De Montfaucon would have wagered his fortune on it — had it not been stolen the day they dragged him from his home.

That petit château of his. To others it was an outrage, a theft from the sweat and pain of the people who worked on his property like their fathers and their fathers before them. He was not particularly cruel or arrogant, no more than others of his class, and his people were well fed and lived in reasonable hovels on the estate. He simply didn’t care. If he were aware of the peasants working his land, it would be a surprise to them. The rare occasion when it seemed he noticed was when he’d ride about inspecting the vineyards or the grounds with one of the estate managers. Then he might veer his horse into a worker and giggle if they stumbled. Once he gave a broad smile to a young woman stomping grapes before pushing her into the pomace. He applauded her struggles in the slurry, covered with skins and pulp. The overseer ushered him out of the area under the violent gaze of her co-workers.

They were not the same angry sans-culottes that now surrounded the wagon.

When the troubles began he was advised to leave until things settled down. He’d laughed at the idea. Absurd. They’d all laughed. And they celebrated the folly of such a notion with a massive party that lasted a week. Afterward, when the guests returned to their estates, some had been surrounded by mobs, small mobs, and robbed blind—the carriages, the horses, the jewels, their very clothes. He’d seen the aftermath; grandiose wigs trampled by the muddy feet of who knew; bodies of their coachmen; blood in pools; blood of his friends. He recognized the blue and silver silk dress of a certain madame, though the powdered wig was gone from her head. He’d returned to his home thinking maybe it was time to leave after all.

But where to? Philippe remembered he enjoyed hunting trips on the estate of a distant cousin when he was a youth. The man lived in the south, near Toulouse. He hadn’t seen the man in years. But Philippe thought of him now as he grasped for somewhere quiet and distant.  

He recalled this cousin had married the daughter of a rich but insignificant Spanish noble twice his age. It was said things would be quieter in the south, and the hunting might be good. He had gone there for chamois.  On one occasion, he encountered a bear, but his aim wasn’t good and his fusil too light; the bear ran off to die a wasted death. He felt sadder for that bear than the servant he accidentally winged on a pheasant drive. But the servant was only slightly wounded and recovered. He’d given the man a small gold coin — more than the peasant would earn in many months. How generous he felt on that occasion.

Philippe was determined to go enjoy the mountains then return home once things had settled down. He took several weeks to pack what he “needed.”

Philippe de Montfaucon never did make it. Foolishly, extravagantly, he tried to reach Paris, to, as he had explained to the committee, to pick up some things and leave for good. They could have it all, the house, the land, everything. One member of the committee laughed up mucus. Others were picking at a half-eaten roast on a table or pouring wine into overfilled goblets. The very fat one at the end of the table, wearing the bright Bonnet Phrygien, was carving an apple and stuffing his mouth. The Bonnet was the only clean article of clothing the fat man wore. He stunk of sweat and manure and some putrid odor that might have been a dead rat.

Philippe was ashamed of his behavior, of negotiating with such sorts. For what? His freedom? His life? Surely dignity was worth more.

The committee didn’t see it from his perspective. That sky-blue silken jacket with its gold threads worn over an embroidered weskit, made for guilt by gilt, made them hate him even more. What Philippe saw as shameful fawning, they saw as the condescension of privilege. Had they noticed the missing silver buckles on his patent-leather slippers, they would have snickered. Those had been stolen by one of the guards at their door. The loose shoes forced him to slither across the floor. Their sentence had been determined the moment he came into their chamber.  

Philippe’s eyes looked to the massive doors of a church he’d once supported. They stood wide open, though none of the familiar clergy were standing there. The memory of the last time he saw them returned. It had been a rich meal, too, he remembered, foie gras and capon stuffed with a delightful truffle dressing. Too much wine, too much cognac. The bishop had to be carried to his carriage, nauseous from the rich food. Where was that man now? Exiled, perhaps. Dead was more likely. He, too, was a fat man who spilled gravy on his vestments, though why Philippe would think of that now he couldn’t imagine. A waste of thoughts.

He snorted — almost a laugh — before gagging as a squawking mass of feathers struck him in the face. The chicken fluttered its useless wings in his face and tumbled across the prisoners. They kicked the bird from one to another until someone grabbed it away. There were cheers and chortles from the crowd. Philippe tossed his head to shake loose the feathers tangled in his hair. That struck some in the crowd as a gesture of disdain. “That one still thinks he’s better than everyone,” said a scrawny woman wearing a bloody apron made of lace she could never afford. Another woman spat at him but her ammunition fell short of its target.

Philippe spat as well. A feather had stuck to his lip. The woman booed him. They complain of hunger yet can throw away a hen? he wondered. And he realized he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten for days, refusing to eat the slop in the buckets the gaolers had thrown them. Strange that he could feel hunger under these circumstances. Food had once been one of his great pleasures. Well, one of his many sources of pleasure. His clothes now hung on him loosely after so many weeks in prison. At least the gout was gone. Small blessings. He had to smile. What he wouldn’t give for a flagon of anything — but he had nothing left to give except his rags that had once been the finest tailored clothing in Paris.

He again smiled at his hunger. He could still be hungry, even now. It felt like his old self — a welcome sensation, a thread to a past that wasn’t so very distant. A few weeks, though it felt longer.

More rotting fruit or vegetables — he couldn’t tell which — splattered against the wagon just as they’d been thrown to the wagons that had rolled ahead. He kept his eyes down, not wanting to look at the crowd. They’d thrown enough to feed a small army. Liars. Thieves. His hunger gave way to that anger. Damn them all to hell! He wouldn’t dignify their cheers by revealing his hate, his contempt.

His eyes followed the avenue straight ahead, his teeth grinding until pain shot through his jaw. He could hear them grind and felt the pain where a false tooth — ivory — once resided. Then he saw it: the guillotine. Standing erect. Waiting. He knew it would be there, but what upset him was the sight of the blade falling — casually, indifferently — to its destination. He was sure he heard the blade land with a squish and a crunch.

The wagon came to a halt near the base of the platform. Its passengers were jostled against each other as the horses slipped on the wet cobbles and the driver slapped the reins again and again. He turned to laugh as his victims struggled to right themselves. One man had his face in the bosom of a crying woman, who was trying to push him away with her shoulders.

Guards in makeshift uniforms led the quaking people off the wagon, holding their arms tight, despite the ropes binding them. It wasn’t cruel. After sitting in cramped cells for weeks and being carried in this cart, they could hardly stand even if their nerves hadn’t failed before the bloodied blade hovering in the sky. At least there were no more rotting things being thrown. This crowd was more subdued having grown bored with the day’s entertainment. A group of teetering men sang bawdy tavern songs as they passed around a flagon of something.

Philippe was tempted to shout, Save some for me, but said nothing. Why give them the pleasure of his humor? But he wouldn’t have minded a long pull from whatever it was they were drinking.

He was the last to be taken from the wagon and refused the help of the guards. “I’m capable of this alone,” he said, avoiding eye contact with the stinking soldiers. They merely exchanged a Gallic shrug.

One by one, the sorry souls were marched up the steps, some last-minute prayers, most with eyes downcast, sliding on the steps wet from rain and blood. A woman who’d once been fat had to be carried, almost falling from her torn dress that, too, once marked a display of gluttony. She cried, pleaded, sobbed all the way to the bench where she was held down and pushed forward so her head was in its proper position. Those doing that took no joy in this; they preferred their victims to be quiet. The executioners preferred the ones who fainted. They were the easiest to handle. The ranters and screamers, the hysterics and strugglers, were a pain in the neck.

Philippe heard the half-hearted cheers after the blade fell with a dull thunk. He lifted his head slightly to see theirs was the last wagon. The sun was touching the rooftops, and he saw people already drifting away. The show would soon be over, the outcome known. No surprises now. No last-minute excitement. Aside from that woman, the condemned had nothing of interest to offer save their mumbled final words.

At last, he was pushed, gently, to the steps, and he started his climb. A priest would not have been unwelcome — a murmured prayer, a kind face — not that it meant much to him. But there were no priests. It would be the rare one who’d volunteer to be in the vicinity of these hosts.

Oddly, at this moment, he remembered he never did like wearing a wig. He would happily endure the warm derision of friends who would say he looked like a peasant without one. Peasant indeed! He stood straight, looked upward, and slipped, banging his knee on the edge of the step. He rose quickly, his blood running to his brain, making him feel dizzy. He ignored a prod from a soldier and continued to the top. The executioners stood watching with indifference, straightening up from the previous victim, spreading sand around. One nudged the empty basket with his foot to its place. Another gestured towards the bench and said something that Philippe didn’t hear. No instruction was needed. He waved the man away and placed himself in position.

An older man, as ragged as the rest, offered a gentle smile. “It will be over in a moment. Have no fears,” he said in an educated voice that surprised Philippe.

“I have no fears,” replied Philippe, “other than what you are doing to this country.” The man bowed slightly, then nodded away. Philippe heard the swish of the falling blade.

It was but a moment. He was dizzier now, looking around at people pointing. He was aware he was blinking but felt no pain. He managed a smile, a smile of contempt, and thought he heard screams and saw people crossing themselves, some genuflecting. His eyes rolled back, and he was now in his home, his hunting dog’s head resting in his lap, sipping a very fine wine. He asked the maid for water. He was so thirsty before it all went dark.

The man holding his head was shaking both from exhaustion after the long day and the look the head had given before its eyes had closed. Like a chicken, he thought. A chicken running around with its head cut off. The old man dropped Philippe into the waiting basket. The smile, that sneer, remained.

He’d go to confession tomorrow. It had been too long anyway.