Her final thoughts

The night had settled its blanket of darkness over the prison. The putrid smell of fear and death intoxicated what little air came through the small hole in the wall deemed a window. The woman sat in her stone–coated cell on a small wooden chair, the only luxury she was allowed in her imprisonment. She stared at the dim glow of her only candle as she recalled her life and all the events that had led her to end up in this darkness, as one would do on their last day on this earth.

Almost thirty-eight years ago she had been born into an influential Austrian family. To a father disappointed by her from the moment she was born for being of a frail gender, to an over-bearing mother who cared only for power, other people’s opinions, and her own security. Nevertheless, a smile came to her face as she remembered her early childhood years. Her aging eyes lit up as she thought of her older sister, Karolina, and how they would play tricks on their governess. They would run barefooted through the garden, which boasted blooming flowers of every color under an eternal sunshine.

She recalled how one day she came back from the garden in her white summer dress covered in dirt and a ripped petticoat. Her pinned up hair had come undone and her soiled fingernails looked like those of a farmer. Her mother, who up to that point had not been aware of her garden adventures, was furious. She severely scolded her and said that she had not raised a peasant as a daughter, that if her wish was to run around in the fields with animals she would have her sent off to a pig farm where she could roll around in the mud with those of her own kind. Her smile turned into a light chuckle at the memory of her mother’s threat but she immediately covered her mouth with her petite hands as she realized where she was now and how different her life had turned out to be.

She allowed herself a moment to recompose before she re-submerged into her memoirs. She had been brought up as a little princess and married off at the age of fourteen to a young man of another powerful family. Political ties, never for love. To her, love was a myth described in fairy tales. She had never met anyone from her elite circle that had married for love, not even her own parents. She understood it to be a passionate elusive feeling, something she was never born to experience. Of course she loved her children, more than anything in the world. The time she had already spent inside this tiny cell had proved to remind her of just how much they meant to her and how scared she was of never seeing them again. She had already lost two children due to sickness, a pain indescribable to any woman who is not a mother; she would rather die than lose her dear Marie Therese and Louis-Charles. She had also loved her disillusioned father and her controlling mother. She had loved her siblings, all fifteen of them, even though only nine lived long enough to reach her eighteenth birthday party and three of them had died in childhood before she was even born. However, she had never been in love. Not in the way Juliet had loved Romeo or Criseyde had loved Troilus. She never felt that way about her husband, god bless his soul.

He was only one year her senior when they were married. She remembered him as a beautiful young boy, timid yet dashing with deep blue eyes and a sincere smile. He was a goodhearted man, yet his own insecurities kept him from being her raison d’être. He did not seem to fit into the role he was born to play and that took its toll on him. He was not the strongest of men, neither physically nor mentally capable of commanding leadership. He had not made the best decisions politically, but how could he, she thought to herself. He was just a child when his father died and left him at the tender age of nineteen with all the responsibilities that he had never been properly raised to assume. She shook her head in simultaneous disapproval and disbelief that such a shy young boy was placed in a situation beyond his control that required knowledge beyond his years. It was never our fault, my love, she whispered softly as she stood up from the uncomfortable luxury, they never should have left us in command.

She slowly walked toward the barred hole in the wall and gazed up at the night sky. She grabbed one of the bars tightly and took comfort in the thought of her children looking up at the same starry veil that covered them all. Gentle tears streamed down her face as she thought what was to become of them. They had recently lost their father and now they were to lose her as well. She took a deep breath as she recalled her darling Marie-Therese, so young and full of life, she embodied all the qualities a suitable husband could desire in a lady of her stature. She was intelligent yet composed, she possessed a mind of her own yet never bestowed her opinion unless inquired. She is as lovely as a blooming rose yet as tough as the thorns that guard it, she thought.

Fifteen years later, she still squinted at the memory of the arduous labor it had been to bring her precious daughter into this world. Courtiers overflowed her chamber to witness the birth; their faces resembled nothing but a blur of pastel colors as she strained to remain conscious. By the time Marie-Therese decided to depart her womb, she had almost died of hemorrhaging and suffocation. She felt the disenchantment murmuring around her as the nurse announced the child was a girl, and although she wanted nothing more than to gift her husband with an heir, she rejoiced and whispered: You shall be just for me, ma petite abeille.

She knew that her daughter was a strong young girl who would endure just about anything. After all, that was they way women were raised, to endure. Whether it was violent husbands, adulterous deceits, childbirth, or the loss of children, women always endure. It was little Louis-Charles that she was most worried about. He was only eight. An innocent infant stranded amid the chaos. His worshiped gender had both blessed and cursed him with carrying his father’s name. And how he adored that man, she thought as she closed her tired eyes and revoked her son’s image into her mind.

She opened them again and could see Louis-Charles’ face among the constellations. He was like most young boys his age, mischievous and daring. He idolized his father, whenever he would take him out on a hunt it would be the only thing he would speak of for days. Even when it was his mother’s turn to spend time with him in the evenings, reading stories, he would always ask to hear the tales of Herakles: a brave hero, the son of a god, just like papa. Louis-Charles’ words of praise seemed to echo in the cell. My poor child, she shrunk, as she feared the people would displace their hatred onto him for being his father’s son. While still looking through the window at the stars, she kneeled on the cold floor and prayed to God that he would look after her children and not permit them to pay for her and her husband’s mistakes. She cried and prayed and cried and prayed some more. After twenty minutes of pleading to a silent God for guidance she realized he would not help her. She felt alone, forsaken, and stupid for even bothering to pray. She stood up and amid the acid waterfall of tears shouted as she hit the wall with her fist.

God? What God? There is no God, she screamed. The strange old man in the sky who is supposed to be directly responsible for her regal status yet who also abandoned her on that dreadful day when her home was stormed. She could see it all so clearly in her mind. She had woken up in her chamber like any other day, the rays of light shining through the French windows, her ladies in waiting procuring her every basic need, but something was not completely right. She had felt uneasy that morning; she knew that her husband had been managing state affairs and that the people were growing impatient and unhappy. No one had said a word at breakfast it was too quiet, the calm before the storm. Her intuition resulted correct when a few hours later her home was under siege by a massive angry mob of peasants bearing torches, knives, and pitchforks. She was apprehended along with her family and taken to Paris, where they were held captive until the people decided their fates.

She felt the weight of her body take control of her and could not prevent herself from dropping on her knees once more. Her memories were driving her mad but she could not stop remembering. After being held captive in Paris for months, her family tried to escape France and flee to Austria where her brother would have welcomed them. They did not even make it to the border before they were found and dragged back to their gilded prison. She shook her head as she thought of how poorly executed their escape plan had been and began to hit the stone floor with her delicate hands until her knuckles were bloody. She pulled out her hair in strands and then slapped herself in the face. We could have been free, we could have escaped, we could have been living together in Austria with my family and you could have kept your indecisive head if you would have acted like a man!She screamed at the ceiling as if my raising her voice to an untenable pitch he would hear her. Finally she forced her shouts and violence to a halt and just sat there on the floor angry, sad, and pathetic.

She looked at her bloody hands, which now had ringlets of hair between her fingers. In her disgust, she bit her bottom lip to prevent herself from breaking down again and fruitlessly tried to place them back on her head. She had always hated her hair and ever since she was a child she would pull it out in fits of rage, which resulted in her having bald spots around her head like a woman three times her age. Her ugly patchy head had never been of her concern because she had always hid it under a magnificent custom-made wig that provoked envy and awe from everyone at court. Her beauty had been admired and asserted since she reached maturity. This was never the way it was supposed to be, she thought. I have gone from being the most powerful respected beautiful woman in this country to a sewer rat inside a cell. How far have the mighty fallen. She was but the shadow of the woman she used to be. Her alpine milk white skin was now covered in bruises and filth from prison beatings and lack of bathing. Her exquisite gowns laced with precious stones and pearls had been replaced by a simple dark brown rag of a dress made of an itchy fabric that made her look like a worn down Benedictine monk. Once upon a time she had been plump and stout, like any lady of her position, she had kept her weight and appealing elite curves by indulging in gourmet meals while lying around her chamber and being fed by ladies in waiting. Now her silhouette mimicked that of a servant girl, thin enough to show her collarbone through her skin.

She gently touched her face and pricked her cheeks in a futile attempt to make herself less unattractive as she stood up and approached the window once again. The sky, which had been sheltered by the night’s deep hue, was now slowly turning lighter showing the first pink streaks of light. Her time was coming. She was scared. A terrifying chill went down her back as she looked down at the prison courtyard and caught a glimpse of some guards walking around, preparing a wooden cart. She knew it was meant for her.

A couple hours passed in what seemed to her to have been ten minutes. Her cell door was opened by one of the guards and a woman walked in. Madame, I am here to cut your hair and give you this, said the tiny woman as she handed her a simple white garb that resembled undergarments more than it did a dress. She nodded at the woman and sat on the chair so that she could begin to chop off the little patches of hair that she had left. As the woman was cutting, she saw how the thin locks fell on the floor. At the moment her mind was at blank. She could not think nor remember anything anymore. She was completely taken over by nerves and the fear. When the woman was done she left the room so that she could change into the white garment. You have five minutes, yelled the guard as he closed the door behind the “hairdresser.”

As she took off her brown rag and placed on the white dress, she lost herself in memories. She saw flashes of herself: as a child running around the garden, as a young girl being dressed and made ready by fifteen maidens, walking down the isle staring at her future husband who at the time was just a young stranger, laughing and dancing at balls in the palace, giving birth to her children, playing with them around her, being taken from her home and placed in Paris, trying to escape with her family and getting caught, her husband’s execution, being tried and imprisoned. And now it was her time.

The guards came in. One of them chained her hands behind her back and then two grabbed her arms as they walked her out of her cell, down the hall, out of the prison, and onto the two-horse market cart. She was paraded around Paris for two hours. People’s angry faces everywhere: chanting, cursing, throwing rotten fruit, spitting at her. She closed her eyes and prayed for her soul and her children’s safety. The cart hailed to a stop. They had finally arrived at Place de la Révolution.The guards helped her off the cart and up the steps to the platform where her executioner awaited.

In her anxiousness and fear, she almost tripped over his foot. Pardon me sir, I meant not to do it, she whispered to the man. As she knelt in front of the angry mob, she thought of her husband and her two lost children, Sophie and Louis-Joseph. She would be reunited with them soon. She whispered one last prayer for Marie Therese and Louis-Charles before placing her head under the guillotine.

Vive le France! Vive la Révolution!