Élise raises the hot cup to her lips. The pitch-black coffee tastes awful, but it flows down her throat pleasantly warm. She looks around the room. The presiding judge, the attorney general, the chief of police and the warden are all making tense faces. They are uncomfortable being here so early to deal with a matter like this.
Another sip.
They whisper. Élise doesn't listen. Probably just trivialities to pass the time until it's finally over. Or to avoid having to hear that noise from outside. One can hardly hear it when the executioners test the guillotine. They don't let the blade fall all the way down but hold it with a rope. In less than an hour, it will drop straight down onto Nathalie Lefèvre's neck.
Élise lifts the cup yet another time but sets it down again. Enough of this. There's no need to be overly excited when she must tell her client in a moment that she has failed to do her job as a defence lawyer. She keeps glancing at her watch. 4:23. Élise feels the fear in her stomach. Like back in school when she had to give a poorly prepared presentation. The hand creeps across the clock face. Élise only thinks about Nathalie. Is she asleep right now? How will she react? What will she say to her?
4:25. The director gives the signal. The "red mass" is about to begin.
In the corridors, the guards have laid out carpets to muffle the footsteps. Some have put on felt slippers, others walk on socks. The procession moves towards the condemned prisoners' cell. The guards stop in front of the door and signal to the officials not to go any further. At least for a few moments. One of them quietly pulls a key out of his pocket. He quickly opens the door and the two guards stand in Nathalie's cell.
The girl, who had just been asleep, startles. Her messy brown French bob is pointing in all directions.
"What's going on?" she asks as she sits up in her bed, still under her warm blankets.
Attorney general Tiziana Dechant steps forward: "Nathalie Lefèvre, your appeal has been dismissed and your request for clemency has been rejected by the President of the Republic. The sentence will now be carried out."
The girl sits wordlessly in her bed. A feeling of defencelessness overcomes the twenty-two-year-old, surrounded by the officials, who all stare down at her in silence. Nathalie's beautiful face turns white as a sheet. She has lost the ground beneath her feet. She doesn't know what to say. Stripping off her covers, she sits on the edge of the bed and stares at the floor. It feels cool against her bare feet. Élise steps forward and sits next to her.
"Nathalie, I'm... I'm sorry... really sorry..."
"I didn't think it possible... I... It's not your fault, Madame Lacroix... There's nothing you can do about it..." she says absent-mindedly as she slowly rises.
Dressed only in her underwear, she plods past everyone present and slowly puts on her skirt and white blouse. One button at a time. Her movements are unconscious. Her head is elsewhere. Finally, she puts on her sandals. The officials watch her in silence.
A guard points to the open door. Quietly, without shackles, without support, Nathalie walks silently up the corridor. Everyone knows that all the other inmates are awake. If the convict wishes so, they make a fuss. But the girl walks past the cells, pale and silent.
Halfway through, Father Rousseau introduces himself. A young, handsome man, obviously not long in office.
"Nathalie, you have always rejected the words of the Lord. But in this hour of your end, don't you wish for the aid of religion to help you bear this moment?"
Nathalie agrees. She is led into a room with a small altar and a cross. The officers wait outside. The girl gets down on her knees. The mass is short, less than ten minutes, without confession, and ends with communion and the concluding absolution. But the few contemplative minutes are enough to wake Nathalie from her numbness. Fear eats through her insides at the thought of what will happen in a few minutes.
Still on her knees, she speaks:
"Father, please tell me, what awaits me there, on the other side?"
Rousseau sees the fear in her face. His heart grows heavy.
"You will be with God."
"Will he forgive me?"
"The Lord's grace is given to everyone. And he will forgive you too."
"I'm not ready yet... I... I want to see a tree one more time.... Hear a bird... Stroke a cat... I..."
"Quiet my child"
Father Rousseau helps her to her feet and kisses her forehead. She embraces him and cries on his chest.
The door opens a crack. The prison warden looks in. It is time.
"Are you coming with me? Please, come with me..."
" All the way to the end, Nathalie."
"Thank you..."
The condemned girl calms down a little. Father Rousseau hands her a handkerchief and escorts her to the door. The procession continues through the corridors of the prison to the chancellery. An employee of the prison administration is waiting there.
"Madame Lefèvre, please sign for your release.“
No convict can be handed over to the executioner unless he or she has first been released from prison. Nathalie takes the pen and bends over the paper. With a shaky hand, she scratches her name in the marked space. It seems absurd to her. So absurd. In a few minutes she will be beheaded. She will be dead. Dead. And now she's standing here signing this bureaucratic scrap of paper.
"Would you like to write something?" asks Attorney General Dechant, pointing to a table with paper and pen on it.
"Yes, to my sister, if I may..."
"Please."
She sits down and writes. The situation is becoming increasingly uncomfortable for everyone present. What are they doing here? This girl is about to be killed. Clinical. Cold. Passionless. Over and over again they have to force themselves to remember that she is a convicted criminal. But it doesn't help. The little angel sitting there at the table has never done anything to anyone present. How could they kill someone like that?
As she writes, a guard comes to her table and hands her cigarettes and a cup of coffee. As local tradition demands, there are a few drops of Armagnac in it. In other regions of the country, it would be cognac or champagne. She sips the cup while she finishes writing her last words. Eventually, she folds up the paper and hands it to the clerk.
Then she lights a cigarette and turns to the others present. In the meantime, the executioner and his three assistants have entered the room, come up to Nathalie, sit her down on a chair and begin the final preparations. One of them kneels down and binds her ankles tightly together. Another carefully binds her wrists and elbows. Nathalie sits motionless and sucks on her cigarette. Meanwhile, the warden reads out the sentence and the executioner signs the release. Then the room falls dead silent. The harsh light of the bulbs makes every face look pale.
One of the assistants stands behind her with a pair of round-ended scissors. Her French bob is short enough not to cover her thin neck. So he simply cuts off the collar of Nathalie's blouse. All they hear is the clink of metal and the rustling of fabric. As the cold scissors touch her bare neck, a shiver runs down the girl's spine. A foretaste of what awaits her. She can't see what the man is doing behind her. But each time she hopes it is not the last cut. That she will be given one more moment. That she can sit here a second longer.
Nathalie's cigarette has burned down. A guard takes it from her lips. Her breathing quickens. All the officials look at the condemned girl, then the executioner looks at his watch. 05:01. He and the warden exchange a glance. A gesture from the executioner and the tightly bound Nathalie Lefèvre is lifted from her chair. The young heart under the white blouse grows heavy as lead. Father Rousseau gives her a kiss on the cheek, but the condemned no longer feels a thing.
The executioner is the first through the door, then the view of the guillotine becomes clear. She gasps. The machine looms tall and lean in front of her. The sight is as terrifying as it is hypnotizing. It is impossible to look away. Impossible to close her eyes. It seems to stare back, like a Medusa that turns its beholder to stone. The viciously sadistic beauty of the guillotine has completely captivated young Nathalie. Her gaze hangs on the cold triangular blade, which, as sharp as a sabre, awaits her warm neck.
The executioners drag the helpless girl towards the machine.
"No... God, no!"
With huge strides, everyone else rushes after them. They almost run.
Nathalie is pressed against the bascule. A moment later, she is lying on her stomach, staring at the lunette they push her towards. She lifts her chin and humbly lets her throat be placed on the hard wood. With distraught eyes, she stares into the zinc tub beneath her, which is about to catch her head. The executioner grabs the back of her head and holds her gently but firmly in place while he drops the top half of the lunette onto her nape with a quick movement of his hand. Meanwhile, one assistant holds her bare ankles, the other has his strong hands on her shoulder blades. She is completely at their mercy.
The warm hand lets go of her head. Nathalie knows her time has come. Terrified, she doesn't dare move even a millimetre. Still and trembling, she stretches her neck as she digs her fingernails into her palms.
A click to her right. The pincers let go of the blade. The hands around her ankles tighten their grip. As the blade falls silently, the rails vibrate. A bloodcurdling scream escapes her throat and ends just as sharply. The blade passes smoothly through Nathalie's soft nape. Her head jumps off her neck and plunges into the bin. The assistant at the end of the machine holds her feet firmly on the board, preventing them from jerking up. Crashing, the blade hits the machine's buffers. Nathalie doesn't hear it anymore. Her head lies in the zinc tub, eyes and mouth open. Her neck has been cleanly severed at the height of her Adam's apple.
With a swift movement, the assistants push Nathalie's headless body into the black wicker basket waiting to the right of the machine. It is filled with sawdust. Élise sees a dark red spurt gush out of the headless girl's open neck before the body disappears into the basket.
An assistant lifts the head out of the tub and places it next to the body. A slight gurgle sounds from the basket. Nathalie's corpse is bleeding out and loses its spinal fluid. The prison doctor approaches, declares her dead and leaves to fill out a funeral permit. The assistants pick up the basket and carry it away.
One by one, the officials leave while the staff start to clean the guillotine and the yard with a water hose. A guard with a broom pushes the red water into a drain. Then they begin to dismantle the machine.
An execution protocol is written, signed by the prison warden and handed over to the attorney general. Within an hour, all traces of the bloody ceremony have disappeared. Only the memories of those present remain.
A memory that everyone would gladly do without.