Spectacle(102)

With warm regards, I remain,

N.





49


“I can’t believe we have cards for the inner circle,” said Simone. “Louis was disappointed you couldn’t get one for him, but he’ll be watching with his Guillotine Boys, as he calls them, in their usual spot. I told him I’d meet up with them afterward.”

It was four o’clock in the morning—by custom executions took place before sunrise—and they were heading by foot to La Roquette Prison. It was near Père Lachaise, not far from the apartment. Papa escorted them, trailing a few steps behind.

Nathalie and Simone bubbled with conversation, both about the execution and about the meeting with Christophe afterward. They were in the midst of making plans for tomorrow night—Nathalie was going to sleep over at Simone’s, and Louis would escort her there—when Papa interrupted them.

“I’m going up this way,” Papa said, pointing to a side street. “Ma bichette, you’re sure you want to go to the morgue? You can say no.”

“I want to do it. I’m certain.”

Papa kissed her on the cheek with a shrug, promising to meet her at the bank, just in case she changed her mind.

The crowd outside La Roquette Prison swelled with apprehension and grim excitement. Gaslights stood above them like watchmen. Most people were pushed to the side streets, but Nathalie and Simone showed credentials and were admitted to an area with a better view.

They merged with the mass of people seeking the best vantage point and finally settled on a spot. It wasn’t as close as they’d hoped—how early had those people arrived?—but it was near enough that they could see the guillotine well. Little flames from kerosene lamps in the crowd danced throughout the square like ill-mannered, nervous guests.

They waited for an hour that seemed like two. Then the executioner appeared. Broad and tall, just as Nathalie expected an executioner to be. She wondered who he was. Why he chose this profession. If he liked it. If he slept well.

The executioner tugged a pulley and drew up the angled metal blade, then secured it. Ominous and horrible, the guillotine rested there, waiting for release.

The crowd went silent as the gate creaked open. Some people raised their hats, others blessed themselves. One man made the sign of the cross in the direction of the guillotine blade.

The gendarmes raised their swords, then Pranzini came into view. His hands were bound behind his back and his ankles fettered.

Simone nudged Nathalie. “Is he smiling?”

“That sounds like something the Dark Artist would have done. Or Madame la Tuerie.” Nathalie squinted. “He is! How defiant.”

A priest, walking backward with a crucifix extended, led Pranzini onto the scaffold. The murderer kissed the crucifix.

Nathalie crossed her arms. “I’m surprised that crucifix didn’t burst into flame.”

“It might yet,” said Simone.

The executioner placed Pranzini into position.

“SHAME!” yelled someone from the crowd. Others chimed in, and a wave of whistles and hisses overtook the crowd.

The blade released and Pranzini’s head tumbled into a trough.

Simone clutched Nathalie’s arm.

Nathalie’s mouth went agape. She clutched Simone’s hand with her own, never taking her eyes off the scene. “I expected it to be fast, but…”

“Life. Then…” Simone took her hand off Nathalie and snapped her fingers. “Death.”

A guard retrieved Pranzini’s head and tossed it into a basket. Sawdust, if Nathalie remembered what she’d read correctly. One minute he was breathing, the next he was in a basket of sawdust beside the rest of his body.

“My goodness, we were close enough to hear it fall! Louis is going to be so jealous when I tell him.” Simone hooked her elbow around Nathalie’s. “What did you think of it all?”

Nathalie shifted her gaze from the scaffold to Simone. “I’m repulsed.”

“By him or the guillotine?”

“Both,” said Nathalie. The execution was appalling, yet somehow a relief. She felt it in the crowd. “Despite my reservations, seeing it was satisfying.”

The crowd flowed like water afterward, people slowly moving in every direction. Nathalie and Simone filed into the herd and shuffled along for a few minutes when Nathalie’s eyes started to wander. The cusp of dawn bathed everything in shadows and orange-gray hues. She watched a squat man who walked like he was moving furniture, a bent-over beggar woman in a brown cloak, then observed a haggard man having a heated argument with himself.

“There’s Louis,” said Simone, nudging Nathalie. “If you make an incredible discovery at the morgue, consider making a special trip to the club to share it with your good friend Simone. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow night. Good luck!”

Nathalie smiled and said good-bye, waved to Louis, and turned onto Rue Gerbier. She spotted Christophe a few dozen meters ahead, leaning against a gaslight as the stream of Parisians passed. Papa wasn’t there yet.

The man arguing with himself wandered back in her direction and walked against the crowd. Someone pushed him out of the way, and Nathalie stepped back to let him pass. The beggar woman came up next to her, shaking her cup. Nathalie, taken aback by her stench, ignored her and kept going. The woman was persistent. Papa always said not to engage beggars, because he’d been robbed by them on two occasions. But sometimes a beggar would follow and follow until you gave them something.