The Demise of Camille Abelar

A dry sun blazed down from the cloudless sky onto the palm-lined streets and red-tiled roofs as they took the young woman from her cell. They bound her hands with a leather strap and led her like cattle through the cobbled streets, past the governor's palace and past the cathedral where a few old blacks sat watching the condemned and past the tavern from which a man with a red head and a stain of piss between his legs staggered and he gazed at the girl and grinned and in a gesture he ran his thumb along his neck. The little procession of worn-out soldiers with their antique muskets and holey boots, the condemned girl in their midst, meandered on towards the music, which sounded from afar and grew ever louder.

The man in the greasy white shirt behind Camille prodded her from time to time with the butt of his fusil. She walked with her head bowed, wearing a pair of ragged old pants and worn brown leather sandals and an open white blouse with the collar half cut off and half torn off. Most of the buttons had been ripped away and her full white breasts with their red nipples lay freely exposed while her short-cropped black hair hung down in wet strands to her sweaty neck.

The soldiers were cheered by the townspeople and received flowers and hand-kisses while Camille was scolded and shamed. More and more joined the march and soon a colourful procession of jet-black Creoles and sunburned Frenchmen and a bunch of Indians and a row of beautiful young novices with white veils and wooden cross-chains around their necks moved along.

They passed blind cripples and luetic beggars and lepers holding out their broken hands and orphaned Indian children staring at them with their huge black eyes. They herded a line of street dogs in front of them and the dogs had barely a scrap of fur on their bodies and were more bone than anything else.

In the cobbled plaza, decorated with a fountain and huge palm trees, in front of the church, stood the guillotine. Two old women sat in the shade in front of the church knitting with their wrinkled faces like the Moirai and one said Ah, oui, oui, la pirate and the other nodded and didn't even look up.

Camille stared at the shining blade and was led before the priest, who waited patiently in front of the beheading machine. They dragged the girl before him and brought her to her knees and the priest made a cross over her forehead with his thumb.

Le Christ portera ta tête jusqu'au ciel

He gave her a kiss on the forehead and stepped back.

The executioners came up to her. They wore simple straw hats and dirty white pants and plain sleeveless shirts and looked more like highwaymen than officials. They grabbed the girl and pressed her against the upright bascule and took the black leather belts and fastened them around her elbows and the backs of her knees, carefully slipping them into the buckles and pulling them tight until they choked the blood from Camille's arms and legs.

Through the rails, the girl looked into the dumb faces of the mob in front of her and saw those at the back standing on their toes and others climbing up the well and young women reaching into their husbands' pants and stroking their taut cocks.

Further back they sat on their horses and donkeys and one had pulled a cart into the square and had some pretty girls pay him with silver coins so they could enjoy the view of the blood-red spectacle from it. Others crowded into the windows of the colorful colonial houses, standing one behind the other and on top of each other, staring at the scaffold while a small band played cheerful music on their fiddles and drums and trumpets.

The sleazy man with his wide moustache opened the lunette. The next moment his assistants threw down the plank and pushed Camille towards the wide-open wooden jaws.

The executioner closed the frame around her neck. The music stopped and turned into a drum roll. The crowd fell silent and stared at the enclosed head. An old Frenchman in a black suit and long white beard let his cigarillo burn down in his hand while the young women rubbed their men's cocks faster and faster in sync with the drums.

Camille clenched her numb fists and stared at the ground when suddenly four of the young novices stepped in front of her, carrying a white sheet in their midst. They knelt before her trembling head and held the cloth beneath it.

Seigneur, pardonne-moi. Pardonne-moi, s'il te plait

The drum roll ended. The cold blade went through her warm neck and sent her head whirling into the white cloth. The corks popped and the champagne sprayed out the open bottles, while the sperm shot from the hard cocks like the blood from the young, cut neck. The girl's head bobbed in the blood-soaked sheet.

The crowd erupted in cheers as the music resumed loudly with its merry tune and the novices carried the severed head in the cloth and held it out to the enraptured onlookers. Some busty girls tore their blouses off their bodies and took off their white scarves and came to the front of the guillotine and knelt down before the headless girl and dipped their kerchiefs in the warm blood and tied them around their bare necks letting the warm crimson run down between their breasts.

A bubbling whisper gurgled from the red-spurting throat, while the executioners loosened the leather belts and grabbed the girl by the arms and dragged her headless body behind the church never to be seen again.

They mounted her head on a spike and carried it through the streets, finally placing it in front of the town hall. Eyes and mouth slightly open, Camille gazed in silence at the evening redness above French Guiana.