Désirée Read Free Page A

I know, mademoiselle, that it is a presumptuous request."
    It was indeed. Papa had always kept the broadside on little bedside table, and after his death I had taken it for myself.
    "I shall always treasure it and revere it, mademoiselle," said Persson.
    Then I teased him for the last time. "So you've become a Republican, monsieur?"
    And once more he wouldn't say. "I am a Swede, mademoiselle," he replied, "and Sweden is a monarchy."
    "You may keep the broadside, monsieur," I said, "and show it to your friends in Sweden."
    At that moment the door flew open, and I heard Julie´s voice, shrill with anger. "When are you coming to b Eugénie? . . . Oh," she added, "I didn't know you were sitting here with M. Persson. Monsieur, the child must go to b Come along, Eugénie!"
    Julie was still scolding me when I had put almost all my paper curlers into my hair and she was in bed. "Eugénie, your behaviour is scandalous. Persson is a young man, and it's not proper to sit in the dark with a young man. You forget that you are a daughter of François Clary. Papa was a highly respec ted citizen, and Persson can't even speak decent French. You will disgrace the whole family!"
    What rubbish, I thought, as I blew out the candle and got into bed. What Julie needs, I decided, is a husband; if she had one my life would be easier.
    I tried to sleep, but I could not stop thinking about tomorrow's visit to the Town Hall. And I kept thinking, too, of the guillotine. I see it so often, close up, when I am trying to get to sleep, and then I dig my head into the pillow to drive away that memory, the memory of the knife and the severed head.
    Two years ago our cook Marie took me secretly to the square before the Town Hall. We pushed our way through le crowd that swarmed around the scaffold. I wanted to see everything, and I clenched my teeth because they were chatting so badly. The red cart brought up twenty gentlemen and ladies. They all wore fine clothes, but dirty bits of straw clung to the gentlemen's silk breeches and the ladies' lace sleeves. Their hands were bound with rope behind their backs.
    Sawdust is spread on the scaffold around the guillotine, and every morning and evening, immediately after the executions, fresh sawdust is put down. Nevertheless the sawdust is always a terrible reddish-yellow mess. The whole square smells of dried blood and sawdust. The guillotine is painted red like the carts, but the paint is peeling off; for the guillotine has been there for years.
    On that afternoon the first person brought in was a young man who was accused of being in secret correspondence with enemies abroad. When the executioner jerked him onto the scaffold his lips were moving; I think he was praying. He knelt, and I shut my eyes; I heard the guillotine fall.
    When I looked up, the executioner was holding a head in his hand. The head had a chalk-white face; the eyes were wide-open and staring at me. My heart stood still. The mouth in the chalky face was wide-open as though about to scream. There was no end to that silent scream. I could hear confused voices around me. Someone sobbed, and a woman gave a harsh giggle. Then the noises seemed to come from far away, everything went black before my eyes, and—well, yes, I was horribly sick.
    I felt better then, but people were shouting at me for being sick: I had spoiled someone's shoes. I kept my eyes shut so as not to see the bleeding head. Marie was ashamed of my behaviour, and took me out of the crowd; I heard people abusing us as we passed them. And ever since then I often can't sleep for thinking of the dead staring eyes and the silent scream.
    When we got home I cried and cried. Papa put his arm around me and said, "The people of France have suffered for hundreds of years. And two flames rose from the suffering of the oppressed—the flame of Justice, and the flame of Hatred. The flame of Hatred will burn down and be extinguished in streams of blood. But the other flame, the sacred flame, little