The Hour of the Damned

A Story by Rowen Cameron

Amidst the French Revolution, Cécile Renault is awaiting execution for the attempted murder of the leading instigator Robespierre. As the hour approaches, she reflects on the events that led her here.

17 Juin 1794

The sun shines through the bars and caresses the walls that confine me. But it pales before the shine of her, dressed in red from many a lover she kissed. As I peer out, my heart feels as heavy as the stone that surrounds me, knowing that soon I will go to meet her. I struggle to breathe, the air suddenly thick and putrid. Tears escape my eyes and leave shining pools upon the floor. But I remain silent. Fear may cripple me and leave me broken, but no words of remorse shall I utter. My only regret is that I was unsuccessful. Nothing more. The smell of damp moss and rotting flesh engulfs me. My ears are steadily assaulted by the haunting screams as prisoners break under violent torture by their fellow men. I wonder at their offences, whether their hearts are truly burdened with guilt. Like mine own. But I did not confess it under torture. My offence was plain and needed no further revelations.

Remembering the events of the month before, it seems like a hazy dream, like it had never occurred, that it was not I who went to carry out the deed. I saw Benoir approach with steady steps as I prepared the vegetables. Even then I could sense a burning of intent within him, a fiery will behind his dark eyes. He kissed my cheek and pulled me further into the house, putting his finger to his mouth, an indication I should keep quiet.

"It is time."

His words were low and definite. I understood immediately and nodded.

"He will arrive home just before nightfall. That is when it will be done, ma cherie."

"How?"

My own voice was quiet and laden with anticipation. Benoir produced two knives from his coat pocket. They were no larger than my own hand, but their glimmering blades sent a shiver through my body.

"These will be his end," he said with passion "and we have decided that by your sweet hands shall it be done."

My heart missed a beat. I had been chosen. Me. I kissed his hand and took the blades, placing them within the folds of my apron. I trembled with a powerful mix of pride and anxiety. The weight of responsibility had fallen to me and I held it close to my heart.

I waited for darkness to consume the sky before I made my way to the house. I shivered as I crossed the silent streets, but it was not from the icy breath of the wind. So many thoughts and emotions swept over me like the ocean sweeps over the shore. I was determined to succeed but yet I doubted my will to deliver the blows, to open a door to let out life. I knocked upon the door, anxiety almost threatening to claim me with the will to walk away. But this was the point of no return. The door opened and there he stood. Maximilien Robespierre, Le Dictateur Sanguinaire. For a moment I was silent and stunned, unable to move.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

The sharpness in his voice brought me to my senses.

"M'sieur Robespierre, I have some information regarding a fugitive. I would prefer not to divulge it in a public street, where it may reach the ears of collaborators."

His eyes widened intently and he motioned for me to quickly come inside. His back was turned to me as he led me into the drawing room. My hands began to twitch nervously. I knew this was the time to act, but my hands felt heavy as lead. Time slowed to a crawl. Robespierre's back was still turned as he threw some parchment into the dying fire. I edged closer to him, my hand tightening on one of the blades and my body wracked with fear. Then a voice within me screamed "NOW!" I lifted the blade above my head, ready to plunge it into the bare flesh of his neck, ready to put an end to the Reign of Terror. Another scream rang in my ears. But it was not from my mind, nor my lips. I span round and saw the quaking figure of the maid, her hands pressed to her cheeks in fear. I felt a surge of pain to the back of my head before all around me descended into blackness.

My trial was succinct, as it was expected to be. Needless, many would agree, for the crime was so horrendously severe and the punishment already all too clear. It was simply a formality, to show there was still some sense of 'justice', to show that they were not merely butchers. But as I sat alone in the dock, all I saw were butchers, their hands drenched in innocent blood, and I was a lamb, plump and ready to be led to the slaughter.

Now here I linger, counting the hours until they come, plagued with fear and unquenchable hate. Noises of a gathering crowd begin to pour into the cell, their speech incomprehensible. I peer through the bars again, trying to find Benoir among the spectators, hoping that I will have one last look from him before the end. But I do not see him. I pray he is at home. Planning to avenge me. Planning to see Robespierre drowning in his own blood and begging for a swift death. Perhaps this is the desperate hope of a damned fool, but now it is all I have.

I hear their steps coming nearer. With every step I hear her voice calling to me, cold and shrill. They open the cell door.

"It is time, Cécile-Aimée Renault."

Her shine bathes my body. My face is cast in shadow. I come now, Madame.