I hardly feel a thing as he reads out my death sentence. I hear the words, but I can't register them. I say nothing. I can't say anything. A gendarme cuffs me. My hands feel numb. They don't even tremble. My ears ring. The spectators clap and cheer and whistle. With my head bowed, I let myself be led out of the courtroom and into the prison carriage.

It rattles loudly over the dry cobblestones. It's funny. Such a beautiful day. Strange to get your death sentence on a sunny afternoon.

The carriage stops at a crossroads. I look through the barred windows. Two girls are standing on the corner staring at me.

“Look, there's the convict. She's to be beheaded.”

The others' face brightens.

“We must see it...”

They giggle. There's no malice in it. Just pure delight. The carriage rattles on. I sit down again, rest my elbows on my knees and look at the ground. I don't feel much different from before. And yet everything is changed from an hour ago.

...are these girls really going to watch?

*****

They close the door to my cell. A simple mattress. A small wooden table with a chair in front of it. A toilet at the other end of the room. A washbasin next to it. No window. No mirror. I sit down on the mattress and stare at the wall. Peace at last. Silence at last. I think about going to sleep. I've been up since last night. But it doesn't seem right. I'm not tired either.

Yesterday, when I woke up, I was excited. Like I was about to have an exam. Now it has been announced. I have failed. And there's nothing I can do.

*****

Weeks go by. They won't tell me when it will happen. But my lawyer has guaranteed me that it will take at least five weeks. Until some Attorney General has my file in front of him again while he sips his coffee and he says “we have to bring this to a close”. It can happen any day now. Maybe they'll do it in a week. Or a year. I beg my lawyer to tell me something. Last time I got down on my knees in front of him. But the answer is always the same.

“I'm sorry, I don't know, Ms. Juillard."



One day they will come for me and take me outside the prison gates. And then my head falls.

*****

A humane method of execution. I learned that at school. I even got to give a presentation on the guillotine. Everyone listened to me spellbound. Dr. Guillotin was convinced that it was painless. How did he put it? Just the feeling of a sudden cold shiver on the back of the neck. Why only in the back of the neck? He probably thought the blade was warm when it reached the throat. Short and painless. That's what he thought. That's what they think. They only see the prison door open. How the condemned is tied to the bascule. How she lies on her stomach a moment later. How the lunette snaps shut. The convict stares wild-eyed for a moment. She gasps for air as the lever is pulled. Then her head falls and disappears into the basket. Perhaps the sandaled feet are still twitching.

Yes, short and painless. The show lasts less than a minute. Alas, all the things they don't see. The weeks and weeks of uncertainty. Are they coming today? Tomorrow? Will I live to see Christmas? New Year? Easter? Will I be pardoned?

The sleepless nights. The nightmares. How many times have I felt a cold kiss on the back of my neck and woken up with a scream?

The thoughts. How does it feel? Who is watching? What will I look like on the scaffold? Will friends of mine be there? Acquaintances? Old classmates? Will they clap when the blade falls?

Ah yes, short and painless...

*****

The walls are written and painted all over. Names. Dates. Last wishes. Curses. Black jokes. Prayers. By now I know all of them by heart.

“I am innocent”, ‘Long live the emperor’, ‘Whoever reads this is knee-deep in shit’, ‘Why do I get my first love letters on death row?’, ‘God help me’, ‘Raskolnikov did nothing wrong’.

And then there's this drawing. Someone has drawn it. On the wall at the foot of the bed. The machine. Its silhouette. In black pen on the white wall.

J'attends, ma chérie is written underneath.

I've covered it with a few sheets of paper with candle wax so that I don't have to see it. But it doesn't help much. I know what's under the paper. I know what awaits me. I try not to look into that corner of the room. But it's there. All the time. It stares at me. It's waiting.

*****

President Carnot is a good man. I pray for him. He is good for our country. He takes care of us. He always said that. And he certainly cares for me too. I'm sure when he reads my appeal for clemency, he'll be lenient. Yes, he's probably reading it. He's reading it right now. I can feel it. And he will call his adjutant to him and tell him: “I pardon Fleur Juillard” and the adjutant will bring the signed pardon here immediately. They will open the door and tell me that I have been pardoned. I will hug him. I will kiss his hands. I will be eternally grateful to him. He is a good man. A kind man.

*****

I wrote my will. Right after I was brought here. But I can't give much. I haven't been able to save much in twenty-two years. I don't have a husband. I didn't inherit anything. And with the little money I have, I have to pay for my execution. It costs money to make a head roll. Two hundred and sixty-eight francs, to be exact. To be paid on the day of the execution. Will they send me down to the bank to empty my account?

*****

I'm wearing the usual prisoner's clothes. A short plaid dress that just covers my thighs and a simple white blouse with no collar. They gave me brown leather sandals for my feet. Maybe because they don't have laces that I can hang myself with. I think that's also why there's no mirror hanging over the sink. I could take my life with the shards.

No, they can't let me do that. I have to die the way they wish me to. My head must roll. In public. For everyone to see.

I've seen it before, too. In Marseille. Two years ago. I was visiting a friend. We read in the newspaper that a murderess was to be executed. We left early, but the streets outside the prison were already full. The guillotine was there, with the executioners next to it. I stood with Cécile in the crowd and could only see the top of the guillotine with the blade on it and the gate of the prison. But the atmosphere was electric. We waited in the crowd for a good two hours. Watched the sunrise on the square.

Suddenly it became quiet. I saw the prison gate open and some gendarmes emerge. Then came the condemned. Her hands were cuffed behind her back, her black hair cut neck-length. Her face was as white as a sheet. I only saw her for a moment. Then I stared, transfixed, over the shoulder of the man in front of me at the blade. My heart thundered. Was her bared neck already under the steel? Would they really do it?

It fell without warning. I barely heard it. And suddenly everyone was cheering and clapping. I knew the girl had lost her head. I clapped. I looked at Cécile. She was applauding ecstatically next to me.

*****

I have nothing to do. That's how they torture me. I would so much rather be breaking stones in a mine. And even if they hit my bare back with whips. Because then at least I'd have something to do and wouldn't have to think. When you act, you don't think. You just act. You can hide in it. But this... this is the worst thing they can do to me. I think all day long. And only about one thing.

*****

I always see the same people. There's the guard who brings me my food and drink. He never says anything. Then there's my lawyer. I see him once or twice a week. But he can never tell me anything new.

My plea for clemency? “I'm sorry, I don't know.”

The day of my execution? “I'm sorry, I don't know.”

He also usually wants to leave quickly. I can see that it torments him that he couldn't save me.

And then there's the other guard who accompanies me when I'm allowed to walk around the yard for an hour a day. It's a good ten by ten meters. The yard is completely empty, with gray walls around it. It's wonderful to feel the sun. To breathe fresh air. To hear a bird. I never thought that the sight of a cloud could move me to tears.

The courtyard has a small barred window. I usually want to use the hour to walk, but often I can't help but stand at the small window and look at the tree. An oak tree. Besides that, all one can see through the window is a side street next to the prison and the grey wall opposite.

I stare through the window again. The guard stands silently next to me. There is a cart and some young women are being loaded onto it. Their hands are shackled.

“Who are they?” I ask the guard.

“Convicts. They're being sent to French Guiana.”

One of the girls sees me. She says something.

“Look! She's lucky. She gets the guillotine.”

The others turn to me. They nod at me and smile. Then the cart rolls away. I look after them until they disappear from view.

Lucky...

By the time they reach Guyana, I will have lost my head. A life in prison awaits them. But at least they will live...

*****

If I had the choice, how they will do it, what death would I choose?

The question is stupid. It doesn't help. But what would I choose?

I would wish for them to pretend I was pardoned. That I would go to Guyana. In a month. And then they would shoot me at night, without warning, in my sleep. Straight through the heart.

Or they’d put something in my food, so I’d lose consciousness, and then take my life.

But that’s not how it will happen. They don’t just want to kill me. If they did, they could have simply struck me down in the courtroom. No. They give me enough to eat and drink. I don’t have to freeze. And I can even wash myself. A doctor looks after me. No, this isn’t just about my death. It’s about the spectacle.

I must be fully conscious and healthy, when it happens. I have to look at it, this dreadful machine. The people must see how my neck is placed under the blade. They must see how I lose my head…

I leap from my mattress and tear the paper from the wall. There it is again. Black on white in the candlelight.

J'attends, ma chérie.

I can’t stop staring. Will it really be quick? Will I die instantly? Or will I see my own blood? Down there in the basket… and what happens then? Is there simply nothing? Darkness? Void? Or does God wait there? How can that be? To suddenly no longer exist…

And they will all watch. I can already feel them. Their gazes. Their greedy gazes. How their eyes will gleam when they see my neck under the blade. They’ll stare at my nape, holding their breath in suspense. And then my head will fall… will I still hear them clapping after my had has come off?

Why?

Why are they doing this to me?

Why do they have to watch?

Why can’t they let me die alone?

Why do they come voluntarily to see it?

They’ll only see me for a few brief moments. They don’t even know me. And then my head rolls. It lasts less than a minute. Is it worth it? Just for that? Do they come from the other end of the city for this?

…why did I watch it with Cécile?

Why were we there?

I don’t know… we just wanted to. I didn’t think much about it. It was so exciting. I didn’t even see it properly. But it gave me this macabre thrill… it was electrifying to be there, when someone… dies.

Afterwards, we could say she got what she deserved. That it was good to see a criminal face justice. But that’s a lie. We were only there to gawk. To take pleasure in someone losing her young life. To feel better about ourselves.

We build machines that can fly, learn Latin and Greek in school, play the most beautiful music in the world, and at the same time, we crane our necks to watch someone being beheaded.

I am ashamed. It disgusts me. If I could ask anyone for forgiveness, I’d ask her. For watching when they killed her…

*****

What would I do if I were free? I’d go away. Far away. I’d see the whole world. I’d board a ship and sail to Canada. Yes. Canada. And then I’d travel south through the United States, all the way to Mexico, where they speak Spanish. And from there, further south, always further, through South America to the southernmost tip. And there, I’d look out at the sea. Maybe poor. But free. Free and alive…

*****

Something’s wrong. Footsteps are approaching. But there are more than usual. They stop outside my cell. I stand up.

I don’t want to. I don’t want to know.

The keys jangle.

Please, no.

The lock clicks.

Please, not yet.

Four gendarmes stand in the doorway. And the deputy prison director.

“Madame Juillard, the President of the Republic has not exercised his right to grant clemency. The sentence will now be carried out. Be brave!”

My heart turns into a brick.

They take me by the arms and lead me out of my cell. My beloved cell. My home. I knew every millimeter of it. I knew that as long as I was there, nothing could happen to me. I want to go back. Let me go back! I don’t want to! I don’t want to leave yet!

My thoughts scream, but my mouth remains silent. I obey. I’m far too scared to say anything. I always thought one becomes brave when there’s nothing left to lose. But not me. My insides twist as they lead me down the hallway. I know that with every step, I’m walking toward my end.

*****

A priest joins our procession and asks if I wish for the Church’s assistance in this, my final hour. I say yes. I never went to church. Sometimes I prayed. Lately, more often. But now it seems important.

They lead me down a corridor until we stop before a wooden door. The old man steps inside, and I follow him. The others wait outside.

It’s a simple room with a table and two chairs. We sit across from each other, fold our hands, and pray. I repeat after him as best I can, but my face contorts, and I can’t hold back anymore. I cry. I cry pitifully. And I’m ashamed to do it in front of him.

He stops speaking, looks at me with sad eyes, stands up, and embraces me. It’s the first time in months that someone touches me lovingly. I can’t hold back anymore.

“Shh, my child. The Lord is with you.”

“Please… will it be quick…?”

“Easy, Fleur. It won’t hurt. Don’t be afraid. The Lord awaits you.”

I can barely speak.

“I… I haven’t hurt anyone… I… how can he allow this…? …I don’t deserve this… not this…”

“Easy…”

Our time is nearly up. I feel it. I don’t want him to let me go. I want him to keep holding me. I want to stay here. But he lets go. I turn around. The door is open, and the men are looking in. It’s time.

*****

I don’t know how, but I manage to drag myself to the office. More people are waiting there. More officials. But no one I know.

Where is the judge who pronounced my death sentence? Is he on vacation? Where is the prosecutor who did everything to make sure my neck meets the blade? Is he eating lunch? Where is my lawyer, that fool? Is he glad he won’t have to visit me anymore?

They have me sign my release papers and ask if I want to write anything. I just stare at my trembling hands.

They offer me a cigarette. I take it. Then they set me on a stool. A tall man with a top hat steps toward me. It’s him. The man who will end my life. He introduces himself. I immediately forget his name. He steps behind me and gently touches my hair. The scissors click. Softly, he tilts my head forward, exposing my neck to him. He continues cutting.

I want to keep puffing on the cigarette, but my hand is empty. I look at the floor. There it is. But I don’t want to bend down. I don’t want to disturb him while he prepares me. A small brush sweeps across my bare neck, brushing away the last hairs. I shiver. He’s finished. My neck is ready.

Then they cuff my hands and feet with short shackles. Immediately, my throat begins to itch. I want to scratch it, but the cuffs won’t let me.

*****

Two assistants grab me by the arms and lift me off the stool. I go stiff as a board. My feet barely touch the ground. I can’t do anything.

They throw open the door and lead me into the fresh air. Sun. Warmth. It’s a beautiful day. They drag me across the prison yard toward the gate. Sweat runs down my face. I’m so hot, I think I’ll faint.

I hear voices. Over the wall. Someone laughs. A girls’ choir sings La Marseillaise. They’re waiting. They’re waiting for me…

I can’t take any more. I vomit. Only a little water comes out. The executioner says something. The assistants stop in front of the iron gate, and he steps toward me. He takes a cloth and wipes the sour spit from my lips and chin.

Someone laughs again, beyond the wall.

“Please…” I whisper. “I have nothing left. Nothing. Except my small life. Please, let me live just five more minutes. What does it cost you? Please. Let me live just a little bit longer…”

No one speaks to me anymore. The executioner turns around and opens the gate. In the next moment, they drag me over the threshold, and there it stands. Waiting. God help me…

*****

The crowd fell silent as the gate opened. There they stood, hundreds, behind a line of gendarmes surrounding the guillotine. No one blinked. No one moved. All stared transfixed at the shackled girl, almost still a child, being carried between the two pale men in black. They were almost running as Fleur, her eyes wide with terror, stared at the triangular blade. The executioner was already at the machine.

Seconds later, they pressed the girl against the plank. They immediately threw the bascule down, holding her by the shoulders and ankles. A moment later, they pushed her head between the two dark brown rails. She flinched as her throat touched the cold, hard wood of the lunette. A moment later, the other half of the semicircle fell onto her neck. She flinched again.

She could no longer speak. She only stared with panic-stricken eyes into the small zinc tub beneath her. Her sweat dripped steadily from her nose and fell into the basin while a thread of sour spit hung from her lips. In her terror, she didn’t notice them. The hundreds of Parisians who had come just to see her head fall. Her entire focus was on her neck in the cold lunette.

Suddenly, she felt it. A distinct click. The hands on her shoulders and feet gripped her tighter. The man to her left took a step back. The wooden frame vibrated.

She gasped one last time, before suddenly her head fell off her neck and disappeared into the tub. Her body jerked violently as her wildly beating heart pumped her blood relentlessly from her arteries.

She didn’t hear it. Didn’t hear the blade slicing through her neck. Didn’t hear her head fall into the basin. Didn’t hear her blood spray in long streams from her severed neck. Didn’t hear the blade loudly rebounding from its buffers. Didn’t hear the crowd cheering and clapping, whistling and laughing as they gazed at her headless body. Didn’t hear them sliding her decapitated trunk into the waiting basket to her right a moment later. She was spared of all this as death quickly delivered her.

It took fourteen seconds from the moment Fleur crossed the prison gate to the moment her head fell.

It took forty-four days from the pronouncement of her death sentence to the moment of her execution.