35、They are not Ophelia 她们不是奥 ...
-
At noon on Germinal 24 of Year II of the Republic, a peculiar yet ordinary tumbrel made its way along the streets of Paris.
In the tumbrel, Lucile Desmoulins and Charlene Saint-Clemont sat side by side, while the widow of Hébert stood at the rear. They wore tattered, oversized gray-white prison garbs, their hands bound behind them with hemp ropes, their bodies swaying with each jolt of the tumbrel.
Charlene had grown even thinner, yet her exceptionally gentle and wise eyes shone brighter than ever. Her pale, heart-shaped face, never deemed good-looking, could now almost be called beautiful.
As the tumbrel passed by the old building where the Saint-Clemonts resided, Charlene barely reacted. It wasn't until they reached the gate of the Percys that she let out a sentimental sigh, "May our friends not be overwhelmed by sorrow!"
Lucile nodded and placed her hand on Charlene's.
"I have nothing to fear. In just a few more minutes, I will be reunited with my Camille!" She smiled tenderly, revealing genuine joy.
Charlene returned the same smile. "And so do I, dear Citizeness Desmoulins! We shall not be like Ophelia; nothing can defeat us. We, like all the virtuous people, march proudly to our deaths!"
However, when the tumbrel passed beneath the tightly closed blinds of the Desmoulins' house, the beautiful Lucile all at once flushed with tears.
"Alas, my poor mama! And my little Horace!" she sighed sorrowfully.
This time, it was Charlene who placed her hand on Lucile's knees. "Horace will grow up to be a man. He will remember that his mother and father embraced a death filled with dawn, as they stood for truth and liberty!"
"Thank you, Citizeness Saint-Clemont!" Lucile gratefully gazed at her young friend, with whom she had shared so little. "May our son always remember how dearly we loved him!"
The tumbrel drew closer and closer to the Place of the Revolution. Charlene and Lucile exchanged a knowing smile and clasped each other's hands.
Charlene noticed the elderly man sitting across from them, consumed by despondency as the execution site loomed ahead. His hair was grizzled, his body stooped, appearing like a refractory priest, his entire being trembling ever so slightly.
"If you are afraid, you may hold my hand as well, citizen," Charlene softly spoke, extending her other gentle hand to the old man.
He raised his clouded, reddened eyes, surprised by the sight of this slender and pale girl, akin to a reed. He tremulously gave his hand to her. She held his rough and aged hand, transmitting courage into the depths of his soul.
"I do not know my charges, kind-hearted young lady," he murmured.
"Me either, old Monsieur," Charlene smiled and shook her head. "They read us a list of accusations, but the things described there are not what we understand."
"Will we meet again in heaven, brave stranger?"
"We will," Charlene squeezed his palm. "We shall reunite there in a minute!"
"There, there is no war, no guillotine, is there?"
"No, dear Father. There is nothing. Only good people and angels living together."
"Thank you, good girl," the old clergyman nodded.
By the side of the street, near a second-floor window, two residents were engrossed in pointing and gossiping about the tumbrel carrying notables.
"Which one is Desmoulins' wife?"
"The prettiest one."
"Nice indeed! And that one is Citizeness Hébert?"
"That's her."
"She doesn't seem to have the same fever as her husband. And who is the girl beside her?"
"Not sure. Never seen her before."
"Seems like a former aristocrat, sister of an emigre," a woman chimed in, leaning in to tend to the flowers by the window. "Yesterday still bedecked in gold and silver, casting sidelong glances from atop her silk fan. Today wrapped in hessian sacks, serving at Madame Guillotine's dinner table."
"An aristocrat! Fantastic!" exclaimed the most curious one, clapping his hands. "I just enjoy watching the heads of noblewomen being chopped off, especially the blonde ones! I must call for Sanson to lift that head for me to have a good look later."
These words reached Charlene's ears, but failed to create any ripples on her composed countenance. Her nonchalance did not manage to stir the onlookers upstairs either.
Such aristocratic young ladies had been witnessed by the spectators alongside the tumbrels, one after another. Initially, there were some who admired their noble demeanor. But as familiarity grew, it gradually turned into a pretentious display in the eyes of the people.
"They just can't let go of their noble airs. As if by doing so, they can still be the superior lords, above us common folks," commented a working silversmith. It's hard to imagine that a year ago, this same person shed tears for the composure of King Louis XVI.
Even the most easily moved heart can grow jaded. This posturing is akin to a series of reenacted Mystery-Plays, no longer commanding reverence among the multitude.
Every day, there were people riding firmly and proudly on the tumbrel along this road - whether singing the Marseillaise loudly until their final breath or agonizingly bidding farewell to life, it had become a repetitive spectacle that wearied the people of Paris.
Eight days ago, as Danton's friend Philippeaux descended from the tumbrel in this square, he loudly exclaimed to the people, "Those who have pushed us here will soon ascend this guillotine themselves!"
Such a shattering prophecy could have been expected to shake even the most numb souls, but the crowd below merely jeered and shouted.
"We've heard those words until our ears have calloused!" "The previous cartload said the same thing!" "Give us something fresh!"
The brave women on the tumbrel knew full well that they lived exactly in such a time - a time where ordinary sympathy and conscience could no longer be awakened by simple words or heroic bearing. Hence, they remained admirably silent.
When the tumbrel came to a halt before the scaffold, Charlene humbly gestured to the old priest, "Please, you go first, so as not to prolong the agony of waiting!"
As the elder stood up, she leaned forward and planted an encouraging kiss upon the corner of his wrinkled lips. His eyes rolled, a tear welled up and swirled within the sockets, and eventually rolled down his deeply furrowed cheeks.
In the twenty years of the young girl's life, this was the only kiss she had ever given.
Upon ascending the steps, the old clergyman shed his former timidity. Perhaps the glory of God once again enveloped his heart, for though his back remained hunched, he now resembled Jesus carrying the cross. In the final two minutes of his life, he was as brave as the women beside him.
As it was the turn of Citizeness Desmoulins, the two women who had formed the deepest friendship on the eve of their endings, embraced each other, bidding their last farewell.
"Adieu, my dear friend!" Lucile pressed her cheek against Charlene's.
"No, let us say see you, good friend!" the former noble girl responded with a smile.
"Yes, see you, see you!" Lucile kissed her young friend one last time.
She turned around and let them bind her to the plank. The young mother's golden hair fluttered in the wind, appearing pure and proud, displaying the serenity and courage inherent in an innocent soul.
Among the onlookers, there was a cuisiniere who would bring a stool and find a seat beneath the guillotine whenever she had idle time, hardly willing to miss any of the tragedies and dramas unfolding there. However, at this moment, she quietly lowered her headscarf and veil, unable to bear witnessing this scene of martyr any longer.
Charlene was the last one on the tumbrel.
"There is no need for that, Monsieur." As the executioner tugged at the hemp rope in his hands, gesturing with his eyes for the girl to turn away, she smiled and shook her head, reminding him of her crippled legs.
The waiter of Madame Guillotine's did not respond to her words, maintaining his expressionless motion.
"Alright, if it makes you feel more convenient," she sighed, lowering her pair of eyes, so adept at enduring, and clasped her arms behind her back.
After neatly fastening Charlene's body with the rope, the executioner placed one hand beneath her knee and lifted her neck with the other, carrying her effortlessly. The maiden's supple body bent in a graceful arc. She was meek, virginal white, yet far from resembling a lamb about to be sacrificed.
As the executioner carried her step by step up the stairs of the guillotine, she cast one more deep glance in the direction of the Percys' house. It was a gaze reminiscent of the expression Jeanne d'Arc had when she looked up at the sky from the stake.
As her head extended through that opening, there remained a smile on her lips. When Sanson grasped that lever, the spectators below all lowered their eyes. In that moment, each and every one of them felt that this young woman, with her withered hair and submissive nature, radiated a ruthless brilliance that contrasted their own insignificance.
The blade, stained with Lucile's saintly blood, rose high and then fell. The man who had previously been eager to see Charlene's blonde head did not voice that request to the executioner.
Edith did not witness this scene. The curtains in her room were tightly drawn, preventing even a ray of sunlight from entering. The girl who had lost her friend buried her head in her chair, crying with a broken heart.
作者有话说
第35章 They are not Ophelia
