Final Hours by Savannah Stakenburg

Final Hours BY SAVANNAH STAKENBURG

(1793)

My prison cell is in the basement of the La Conciergerie. I am no longer “Marie Antoinette, the Queen of France,” rather, I am now “Prisonnière 280.” Despite all the civil unrest outside, within these walls, I no longer hear the commotion. I no longer feel anything. This cell is dimly lit by a barred window which is placed several meters above the ground. When the sun shines at its brightest, I can see that the walls are covered with shreds of an old blueish wallpaper with a fleurde-lis pattern. In my room, a screen divides the room in two. I can hear the guards drinking and playing cards or smoking throughout the day on their side. With only a bed, a small table, and a few wooden and straw chairs, my side of the room was fully decorated. For ten long weeks, I have been imprisoned here, in this bleak, dreary, damp hell.

There were two prison wardens who were tasked with overseeing me at first. Madame Richard and Monsieur Toussaint were kind to me and were able to provide me with a pillow. A small comfort, but a comfort, nonetheless. I pray they did not suffer for their kind actions towards me, for I was assigned a new warden, named Madame Bault, a few weeks ago. She has been far more cautious than the others, but she, too, has been caring towards me and worries for my comfort in this barren cell. Their kindness means a great deal to me. Fortunately, I will not trouble Madame Bault very long, seeing as the Tribunal has found me guilty of treason and sexually abusing my own children. When the verdict was announced, I was stunned, yet I had anticipated as much. The people of France may have hated the king, but they especially despise me, their supposed queen, for living luxuriously as they suffered in poverty. After the execution of my beloved Louis, I realized that the people would soon demand my head next. My ten weeks of imprisonment end today as I will be executed before the sun sets. This long nightmare will finally end, as I will be sentenced to death by guillotine, just as my husband was, ten months before me.

Time moves so slowly in this cell. I have little to do but stare at the walls, sleep, pray, mourn those dear to me, and reflect on my actions. These ten weeks have been agonizing, but I have had time to ponder over the last few years of my life. Non, I now realize that I have been living the last two decades incorrectly. Perhaps, I was doomed from the very beginning when I first stepped foot on French soil as a young Austrian girl. I should have been more educated, and I should have shown more interest in France’s political climate as well as her economy in order to bring an age of prosperity. Perhaps then, the people would not have directed their hatred towards me and started such vile rumors. Instead, I was infatuated with the luxuries of this lavish lifestyle, and I never bothered to learn how to manage it. I see now how I was foolish and fled from my duties as queen to live a life filled with pleasure and delusion at Le Petit Trianon. I realize now that I was given the title of Queen, which was one that I did not deserve, nor was I qualified enough to receive it. If I could go back in time, I would, and I would prove to the people of France that I am a woman of honor, one who has France’s best interests at heart.

For ten long weeks, I have been unable to hold my sweet children in my arms. I think about them every single day and night. Every day, I sit in front of the cross on the small table and pray that Marie Thérèse and Louis Charles are well and taken care of, especially after I am gone. The thought of them being treated poorly as innocent children breaks my heart. But I am no fool and I see the world

for what it is now. We are detested by the people. Being descendants of the royal family will surely place a target on their backs. To bring upon the end of a monarchy means that my guiltless children will also meet their untimely demise in due time. I can only pray that the revolutionaries will show them some mercy.

They have manipulated my impressionably young son into making false immoral accusations against me. Why they have done so, I will never know, nor will I understand. During the trial, I could see that my son had been mistreated by his jailers. His brown hair was disheveled, and he looked malnourished. Seeing him so sickly and pale continues to bring tears to my eyes. Perhaps, they did so simply to make me suffer. If so, then they have succeeded. I felt powerless to change his circumstances. All the rumors about my alleged infidelity did not bother me nearly as much as this one did. Being accused of performing sexual acts with one’s own child is not only disturbing and immoral, but also a mother’s worst nightmare! Oh, how I long to hold my children in my arms one more time and tell them how much I love and adore them. I want to tell them not to weep for me, as I will be going to join their father in Heaven. Will their jailers even tell them what has become of their parents? Children should not have to witness the execution of their own mother. Will they be forced to watch my head as it rolls down the guillotine at the Place de la Révolution? These thoughts plague me more and more as my execution draws near.

With a knock, Madame Bault tells me that it is time for me to prepare for my imminent death. I requested to wear a black dress, for I am still in mourning, but my request was denied. I am forced to change in front of the guards. It has been decided that I will leave this earth in white. Sanson, the man who executed my husband, is here to make further preparations. Sitting on the uncomfortable wooden chair one last time, I watch white locks of my hair lightly fall to the ground as my hair is crudely cut with scissors to fit in a white bonnet. Ah, there was once a time when I took so much pride in my hair and appearance, but now, it resembles nothing more to me than an added expense. Accompanied by several guards, I am escorted onto an open cart to make way for the Place de la Révolution.

The streets are filled with people who glare at me with disdain as the cart makes its way to the guillotine. They belittle me, spit on me, demand my head, and curse my name as we pass by. These things no longer bother me, for it will be over soon enough. The ropes they have used to bound me are unnecessary, as I will not try to escape. I have accepted my fate. They have assigned a priest to me so I may make a final confession, but it is pointless to me. This man has pledged his allegiance to the Républic. He has no interest in hearing my confession. I have already confessed my sins and begged for forgiveness from God directly through my prayers.

As I made the way up the wooden stairs of the guillotine, I accidentally stepped on Sanson’s shoe. “Pardon me, sir. I did not do it on purpose,” I quietly apologize. I am truly sorry. Even when I am about to be executed, I continue to make errors. Looking at the animated crowds, I am grateful to see that my children are not among them. Surrounded by jeering crowds who are demanding my head, I will no longer deprive the people of France of what they want. Retaining as much of my dignity as I can, I bend forward, lay on the bascule, and place my head in the lower part of thelunette. The executioners fastened the top part of the lunette, which caused the crowds to roar even louder. “Vive la République!” the people of France boomed.