Blood and Emeralds

Part III

He sat in the barebones cell, awaiting his fate. Well, his accommodations weren't that bad, what with a boy attending to his needs, a comfortable bed to sleep in, a desk and chair, plenty of paper and pens to write numerous letters to what remained of his family. He did, just this morning, write to his maternal cousin in faraway London, a titled lady named Emeline who he loved as the sister he never had. Now he realized he might not ever see her again, this is why he spent half the morning writing. He wondered if it was, indeed, the last letter he'd ever write.
What day is it? Is it the 16th? No it is the day after, and he knew his friend was dead, in fact she died yesterday. At least he managed to gain permission to visit her one last time, and from her he learned the fate of his Lucienne, the servant Valèry, and countless other family and friends who, for one fateful night, gathered for an evening of delightful entertainment to forget the rages of the people outside.
Why didn't he give himself up that night rather than light out, leaving all he knew behind. He felt extremely guilty for what had transpired since. His love, Lucienne, died in prison years ago, of a broken heart or so he was told. His faithful servant had been executed only last week. Valèry had been interrogated days before his death, finally revealing that his master had taken nothing except that ring.

That ring...
The very thing that exposed "Elmer" – a poor, down on his luck Englishman who for nearly three years haunted the villages on the outskirts of Paris – as Alban, Viscomte de La Porte, a vastly wealthy, highly cultured gentleman descended from a long line of French nobles going back to the days of Charles VII.
Alban, now having discarded his alter identity as "Elmer", regretted much, such as deserting Lucienne at the worst possible time and spending the past two years in complete anonymity. He could have simply fled to England like many of his peers, not worry about getting caught, not dreading the guillotine's blade. Yet he stayed on, albeit under the guise of a poor hermit but not forgetting his past.

That ring...
Alban thought nothing when he showed the priceless jewel to Cecille Gruelle. The girl, his first true friend since his arrival in the tiny village of Caché, asked many questions: who was he, from where did he hail, why live in poverty when he could have paid his passage home. Well, he did have his story partially straight when he showed that ring, and Cecille was highly impressed with his adventurous tales of his days on a merchant ship. Lies, all lies. How he wished he hadn't let that girl see the ring. It was obvious, from that confrontation weeks ago, the Gruelles were Revolution sympathizers. It was also obvious Cecille told her parents days before their so-called "journey to the orchards." It was all a trap; they knew "Elmer" emerged from his cavern home during the day. Those noises he heard during the early morning hours came from men on horseback – the sans-cullotes – who patrolled the area in search of one Alban de La Porte.
The moment Loys Gruelle called out Alban's true name and title, dozens of sans-cullottes sprang out of no where, surrounding Alban. It was of no use, no chance of escape; Alban knew his days of living in anonymity were over.

They clamped him in irons, threw him into a rough buckboard, then drove him to Paris where he was brought before a magistrate. But not before Alban was allowed to clean up, shave, and dress in attire – not the finery he gave up so long ago but comfortable, serviceable. This was to make positive identification easier; those Parisians who opposed the monarchy and nobility knew the Viscomte of La Porte on sight. Not that he was a cruel man or turned a blind eye to the plight of the poor, on the contrary. But that did not matter. In these horrific, chaotic days of the Revolution, all nobles and those remotely connected to the Crown, even servants, were executed by the scores. The reason? They were deemed enemies of the Republic. He recalled standing before the magistrate, surrounded by the peasant class, watching a succession of his peers paraded in and out of the courtroom. Many he knew personally, a handful since childhood, even some of his father's closest friends. Elderly and infirm gentlemen, elegant ladies, even youths and girls, all accused of the same crime. All awaiting their appointment with the guillotine.

So now he sits here in his cell, counting the days until his execution. At least Alban got a chance to see his special friend, a lady who he regarded as a cherished friend. Her husband had already met his fate months ago, not long after Lucienne passed on, only a few weeks before the faithful servant Valéry became another Terror statistic.

Alban recalled that meeting, and it both shocked and saddened by this lady's present state. So much had happened during his absence of nearly three years, events that he purposely ignored all the while living under the guise of "Elmer". Actually, he was quite grateful his captors had even granted such a request, but they allowed him to visit – albeit very briefly – to this lady in her prison cell.
What a shock to see the once elegant appearance woman transformed into a dejected soul. No longer attired in her usual silks and laces, she took on, in her plain dress, the look of any everyday Parisian. However, the inner fire was still there, but now it flickered feebly, slowly dying away. She had loss so much weight and appeared haggard, careworn, aged beyond her years. She even was not addressed by her given name. In her final days, her children had been taken from her, their fates unknown. He had heard this (the name change and the forced separation from the children) via prison gossip.
This is what greeted Alban de La Porte as a guard escorted him inside the lady's cell.

"Madame Capet, M. La Porte is here," said the guard unceremoniously. Alban noticed the man didn't have the decency to bow before her, but in light of recent years' events, and how the people now regarded this lady, Alban completely and finally understood.
After the guard left, she spoke. "Alban, it has been so long. What number did they give you? Mine is No. 280."
"Why, I'm known as Prisoner No. 389."

He knew this meeting had to be as brief as possible, and he did not want to distress her further. Instead, he mentioned Lucienne, to which she said, "Ah, she died a few months before my husband, but not from the blade. They say she died of a broken heart."
She noticed Alban's unadorned right hand, asking, "Where is it?"

"Where is what, madame?"

"The ring...that brilliant emerald ring you father bestowed upon you."

"It is gone, madame. They took it from me upon arrest. I had it with me the entire time during my exile, but I lost all reason and showed it to the daughter of a republican sympathizer."

"Ah, that is so unfortunate. They have taken everything."

"So I understand, madame."

At this point, Alban, noting Madame Capet's utter grief and disconnectedness, decided to wrap his visit with a few kind, consoling words:
"Madame, I wish this was happier times. How I wish for the power to turn back the clock and return to that little paradise we all loved. Alas, it is no more. That comfortable life we knew is long gone, never to resurface. Madame, I am so sorry for your loss: good husband, beautiful children. I, having been a widower so long, and now children of my own..."
His voice trailed off, his mind wandering back to that afternoon in the garden when he professed love to Lucienne. He then conjured images of his brief former life as Elmer and wondered if it was better to move on, leave France altogether. But it wasn't planned that way, and Alban, like this lady, resigned himself to his fate.

"Er, madame, when is it?"

"Tomorrow morning at 10:30."

"Mine is two days after yours."

Silence at first, then locking their eyes on each other, they said their good-byes, but not before Alban said, "I shall not part without addressing you by your true name, Your Majesty. You are Marie Antoinette, Queen of France, and that is always how I will remember you."

"And I will remember you, Alban de La Porte."

THE END

CWW Home
CWW Fiction Files