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Authors: Shana Chartier
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smirked at each other before carrying on.
Minus a few snide comments here and there, Jeannette stayed silent through most of the winter and into the spring of 1793. We hadn’t received a letter from Bastien since Christmastime, and the morale in the house became decidedly low. Even as the weather blossomed into a beautiful summer, a sense of foreboding had taken over all of us. This, of course, was made worse when the news came that the new committee of public safety apprehended the king and queen and then began beheading nobles for ridiculous reasons. One afternoon, my father gave me a small dagger to keep by my bed in case we faced attack, and we all waited through the summer, all the while pretending to go about our normal business.
It was a bit after Robespierre was elected to the committee of public safety that we began to hear about the beheadings. Members of the aristocracy were being singled out and charged with false accusations, given a joke trial, and then murdered. As autumn cooled the earth, the coming freeze set in heavily alongside our terror. I slept each night with my hand inches from my dagger, not knowing what I would do if it came down to it. Jacqueline and I began sharing a bed, more out of comfort than for protection. Jeannette coiled in on herself like a snake waiting to strike, rarely leaving her room. Our fathers holed up in the library, mine in particular scoping out anyone who would help us…and finding little response.
The night they came, I was awoken by the torchlight first. It was late October. They had already killed the queen the week before, though we had just gotten word out in the country. My heart began to race, and I think a part of me knew that it would be my last night on earth. I shook Jacqueline awake and held my hand to her mouth, gesturing to the flickering light outside the window, the echo of voices floating up to our ears. We shivered as our feet touched the cold ground, though the floor had nothing to do with it. I grabbed my dagger, the pearl white handle slippery in my clammy hands. As I approached the window I was surprised to see that it wasn’t torchlight at all…someone had caught fire to my home, and it was burning its way towards us.
We ran from the window, not bothering to throw a robe on over our nightgowns, and threw open the bedroom door to the sounds of blossoming panic. Beyond the cries of fear we could hear the yells of aggression, and I knew as sure as the cut of a knife that we were under attack.
“Jacqueline, quickly! To the attics!” I whispered fervently.
“Won’t that be more dangerous, what with the fire?” she asked. Although we had mapped out just how we would handle an attack, someone burning us alive had never occurred to me.
“You’re right. We must try our luck getting down into the cellars,” I decided, and she nodded in agreement before we quickly padded our way through the hallway, my useless knife wobbling precariously in my shaking hand. I tightened my grip. Servants ran by us in a panic, and we ignored them as we tried to make our way quickly down a staircase near the servants’ quarters on the other side of the house. We made it all the way to the kitchen before we were discovered.
“I really should have taught you more stealth,” Bastien said, his silhouette impossible to make out in the shadows, but his dear voice unmistakable. We all rushed at each other, holding each other close in the last embrace we would ever have.
“What are you doing here?” whispered Jacqueline. Bastien motioned for us to keep following him toward the cellar. We crept down the stairs slowly, blindly holding the walls we could not see as we made our way lower into the ground.
“I got word of the attacks reaching the countryside and made haste as soon as I could to get out to you. It looks like I may be too late.” I felt his hand grasp for mine in the dark, and I held his fingers tightly, squeezing into them everything I possibly could—my
Minus a few snide comments here and there, Jeannette stayed silent through most of the winter and into the spring of 1793. We hadn’t received a letter from Bastien since Christmastime, and the morale in the house became decidedly low. Even as the weather blossomed into a beautiful summer, a sense of foreboding had taken over all of us. This, of course, was made worse when the news came that the new committee of public safety apprehended the king and queen and then began beheading nobles for ridiculous reasons. One afternoon, my father gave me a small dagger to keep by my bed in case we faced attack, and we all waited through the summer, all the while pretending to go about our normal business.
It was a bit after Robespierre was elected to the committee of public safety that we began to hear about the beheadings. Members of the aristocracy were being singled out and charged with false accusations, given a joke trial, and then murdered. As autumn cooled the earth, the coming freeze set in heavily alongside our terror. I slept each night with my hand inches from my dagger, not knowing what I would do if it came down to it. Jacqueline and I began sharing a bed, more out of comfort than for protection. Jeannette coiled in on herself like a snake waiting to strike, rarely leaving her room. Our fathers holed up in the library, mine in particular scoping out anyone who would help us…and finding little response.
The night they came, I was awoken by the torchlight first. It was late October. They had already killed the queen the week before, though we had just gotten word out in the country. My heart began to race, and I think a part of me knew that it would be my last night on earth. I shook Jacqueline awake and held my hand to her mouth, gesturing to the flickering light outside the window, the echo of voices floating up to our ears. We shivered as our feet touched the cold ground, though the floor had nothing to do with it. I grabbed my dagger, the pearl white handle slippery in my clammy hands. As I approached the window I was surprised to see that it wasn’t torchlight at all…someone had caught fire to my home, and it was burning its way towards us.
We ran from the window, not bothering to throw a robe on over our nightgowns, and threw open the bedroom door to the sounds of blossoming panic. Beyond the cries of fear we could hear the yells of aggression, and I knew as sure as the cut of a knife that we were under attack.
“Jacqueline, quickly! To the attics!” I whispered fervently.
“Won’t that be more dangerous, what with the fire?” she asked. Although we had mapped out just how we would handle an attack, someone burning us alive had never occurred to me.
“You’re right. We must try our luck getting down into the cellars,” I decided, and she nodded in agreement before we quickly padded our way through the hallway, my useless knife wobbling precariously in my shaking hand. I tightened my grip. Servants ran by us in a panic, and we ignored them as we tried to make our way quickly down a staircase near the servants’ quarters on the other side of the house. We made it all the way to the kitchen before we were discovered.
“I really should have taught you more stealth,” Bastien said, his silhouette impossible to make out in the shadows, but his dear voice unmistakable. We all rushed at each other, holding each other close in the last embrace we would ever have.
“What are you doing here?” whispered Jacqueline. Bastien motioned for us to keep following him toward the cellar. We crept down the stairs slowly, blindly holding the walls we could not see as we made our way lower into the ground.
“I got word of the attacks reaching the countryside and made haste as soon as I could to get out to you. It looks like I may be too late.” I felt his hand grasp for mine in the dark, and I held his fingers tightly, squeezing into them everything I possibly could—my
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