Just days ago, Maximilien de Robespierre was the most feared man in all of France. A mere word could result in a man being sent to his death. Now, the once-great orator sits silent and alone in a dark cell, his jaw shattered from a failed suicide at...
Hoards of people lined the streets, screaming and cheering, all wanting to get one last look at Maximilien and his compatriots. The mixture of the heat, the noise, and the pain left him in a dizzy haze. The closer they got to the guillotine, the harder Augustin gripped his hand until Maximilien couldn't feel it anymore.
"Vive la France! Kill the tyrant," someone in the crowd yelled, starting up a chorus of cheers. No, Maximilien thought. I'm not a tyrant. I was only trying to help you! And you the ones that voted! You voted for my policies! It wasn't all me!
If only I hadn't shot myself. If only we'd done things right! If only I hadn't been so careless! He wished he could say something. Anything to at least save Augustin and Saint-Just. They were the only ones left in the revolution that he truly cared about.
They want me to cry, Maximilien thought to himself. The people want to see me cry, or scream, or something. They want me to react, but I will not. I will not give them that satisfaction. I will do what I was forced to for all these years and hide my emotion to the end. With tears threatening to spill over, he stared straight ahead, as the people who once supported his ideas hurled insult after insult at him.
Augustin was shaking, he noticed dejectedly. His poor brother who was only in this situation because of him. The cart hit a pothole, jolting Maximilien to one side and causing a sharp pain to run through his shattered jaw. He squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lower lip to try to keep from crying out in pain. It didn't really work and a soft whimper left his lips. Unfortunately, the guards behind him noticed and laughed.
"Not so brave when you aren't protected by your followers are you," the one holding him up said mockingly. Maximilien ignored the remark as best he could and continued staring blankly ahead. They were getting closer. The overpowering scents of blood and death were thick in the Paris streets, constricting his throat, making it harder and harder to breathe. A few moments later the guillotine came into view, it's newly cleaned silver blade glinting evilly in the bright sunlight. Maximilien glanced over at his brother, whose tight grip on his hand had numbed his fingers. He was trembling.
"I'm sorry," Maximilien muttered, rubbing his thumb across the back of Augustin's hand, trying to move his mouth as little as possible. "I," he paused waiting for the pain to subside for a moment, "Only ever wanted to protect you and the girls." Augustin nodded, eyes fixated in terror on the growing crowd surrounding the guillotine. "It was my responsibility as the eldest. And I... I did a dreadful job of it."
The carts in front of them began slowing to a stop in front of the blood-stained wooden platform. Weeks before, he never would have imagined himself here covered in blood awaiting his death and the deaths of his friends. With another painful jolt, his cart stopped abruptly. The crowd roared with delight as Sanson, the executioner, motioned for the first victim to come forward. He was the young man who had panicked at la Hotel de Ville, Maximilien noticed at first glance. He was sobbing, struggling against the soldiers marching him up the stairs.
"Please," he screamed, whipping the crowd into a frenzy. "Please don't. I have a family!"
"So did I," an enraged female voice from the crowd yelled back at him. "Until you killed my husband and our son!" Maximilien winced. There'd be no mercy today, not that he expected any. He watched sadly as the struggling young man was strapped in place and his neck was secured in place. The blade fell. Maximilien heard a faint squelching noise followed directly by a thud. He paled noticeably as the body was thrown into a cart beside the platform and the next victim was motioned forward.
Two more men were ushered to their deaths, the blade of Madame la Guillotine now red with blood, before Augustin was beckoned forward. His hand was shaking in Maximilien's as the guards pried the two apart. Maximilien felt his mouth go dry. No! They couldn't take away Augustine. He tried to kick the guard when he approached him but the man holding him upright pulled him backward. I'm sorry Augustine he thought hastily, still struggling to escape.
"I love you Maxime," Augustin shouted over the cheers of the crowd. "I am proud to die upholding you." I wish you didn't have to die for me, Maximilien screamed internally, tears streaming down his face.
"I... I love you too," he choked out, unsure if his brother could hear him. Momentarily a grim smile flickered across Augustine's face, a faint reminder of the happy carefree child he had been years before the revolution. With a face of terrified determination, Augustin allowed himself to be half marched, half dragged up the steps and strapped down. Non, the voice in Maximilien's head cried out. The drums roll began and a hush fell over the crowd.
"Vive la revolution," Augustin shouted, the terrible scene from the Hotel de Ville replaying in Maximilien's mind. "Vive la Maximilien Robespierre!" Unable to tear his eyes away from his brother he watched in horror as the blade plunged, killing Augustin instantly. Sanson reached one hand into the basket and lifted Augustin's head above his own with a grim smile. The taste of vomit rose in Maximilien's throat, but somehow he kept it down.
"Kill Saint-Just next," the crowd chanted. They've gone insane with blood lust, Maximilien said to himself. They want nothing more than to see heads roll. They feel that they're being avenged. The sounds of the crowd fell to a hush as Saint-Just mounted the stairs, looking every inch a martyr. With a nod to Maximilien, he allowed himself to be strapped down. The drums rolled again and this time Maximilien forced himself to look away.
The rest of the deaths passed by in a blood-stained haze until finally, after what seemed like hours, Sanson motioned for Maximilien. He swallowed but permitted the guards to lead him to his death. It'll all be over soon, he thought trying to keep Camille's words in his mind. Then I can be with everyone again. One step at a time he was dragged up the stairs and onto the bloody platform. His heart thumped wildly in his chest, his hands shook, and his eyes were clenched shut.
"Get rid of the gauze," Maximilien heard from somewhere to his left. "It could cause problems for the blade."
"Non," he whispered, shaking his head. "No," he said louder, hoping they'd hear and take pity on him. "S'il vous plaît. Please leave it on." Despite his pleads, a rough hand held his head still while another ripped the bandage from his face and threw it to the people. All hope of maintaining composure was gone and he let out a bloodcurdling scream. Please, he thought. Kill me. Get rid of the pain. Make it go away. I want to die.
He was almost unconscious when they strapped him down and secured his head in place. The blood of his friends was warm against his neck and made him squirm uncomfortably. He glanced out into the throng of people, all gathered to watch him die. Cries of, "Kill the dictator," and "Vive la France," rippled through the crowd. Someone put a handkerchief to his jaw to wipe away the blood that was pouring into his mouth.
"Merci, Monsieur," he whispered, eyes scanning the front rows of the crowd. No one he knew seemed to be there. No one that still cared for him. For a split second he wondered if such people still existed. The drum roll started. He took a deep breath and felt a sense of calm wash over him. Quicker and easier than falling asleep Camille had said. He closed his eyes. He could see them! Camille, Danton, Augustin, and Saint-Just were all waiting for him.
The roll stopped, the blade fell, and the crowd encircling the guillotine cheered victoriously. Sanson the executioner raised the bloody head that had once belonged to the hero of the New French Republic, high for the French people to see. There at the center of it all, still strapped to the guillotine, lay the body of Maximilien Robespierre, the once great "Incorruptible." L'incorruptible Corrompu, the "Incorruptible" corrupted.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
