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The tumbrel moved slowly through the streets that were swarmed with people. There were people cheering and cursing, with some of them throwing whatever items they had at the tumbrel. Those projectiles, however, only struck the gendarmes escorting the condemned as the procession marched forward.
Antoine stood on one of those tumbrels. Each one of the condemned was guarded by a gendarme standing behind them, with the ropes binding their hands being tightly gripped, probably to ensure that the tyrants could not escape under the watchful eyes of people.
Maxime’s jaw was bandaged, making it impossible for him to utter a single word. Due to heavy blood loss and his wounds, he had to be supported by two men just to stagger forward. Antoine was also wounded. A bayonet had made a cut on his arm, leaving bloodstains on his white sleeve, yet the pain felt distant and blurred, just as the shouts of the crowd.
After being arrested at the Hôtel de Ville, they were taken to the Conciergerie. The cells were quiet to the point of terrifying. Darkness would occasionally be pierced by wails—he had no idea whether they belonged to humans or wind—echoing over the despair of the dying. He could not tell where the screams were coming from, and could only pray to whatever entity that still listened, that it was not Maxime.
He had never prayed so devoutly after leaving the front. He remembered the sound of footsteps coming from far away, treading on the stone floor, approaching step by step. Two gendarmes stopped before his cell. He held his breath, hoping for even a whisper of news about a friend or acquaintance, but all human voices were lost in the howling wind.
Only after the footsteps faded did he collapse onto the piles of hay. Blood seeped through the white fabric of his shirt. He had to lie on the side that was not injured to keep the wound from touching the floor, the hay or whatever things that would exist on the floor of a cell.
It was a sleepless night. The enormous jail returned to a deathly stillness after the gendarmes left. Antoine closed his eyes, remembering that Maxime once held him, fingers lingering in his hair, murmuring words of comfort in his ear. The nights they had shared remained warm in his memory, as if they had happened only yesterday. It had begun as nothing but holding each other to sleep after a day of frustration and exhaustion, followed by several timid, tender kisses, and eventually, the clumsy first taste of forbidden fruit after a few glasses of wine.
Then he remembered their arguments. He remembered his own ill-considered outbursts in a fit of anger. The suppression and pain in Maxime’s eyes flashed before him, making the wound on his arm feel as though it were being pierced by a dagger. Yet reconciliation always came so swiftly, and forgiveness was always granted so easily—too easily, as if he were merely a child throwing a tantrum, who would be forgiven at any rate. He hated his own emotions, hated that he always upset those closest to him, hated that he was easily forgiven, and hated that he was frustrated by the very leniency he was granted. All his feelings were folded and compressed into a corner in his mind, waiting for someone to inadvertently release them all, only for them to accumulate, to explode, and to start all over again, as if his life was destined to be exhausted in such endless cycles.
He thought of the very week where everything seemed to be torn into pieces. He had just returned to Paris from the front, tortured by consecutive nightmares and insomnia while the conflict between the Convention Nationale and the Comité de salut public escalated. Amidst the whirlwind of quarrels and insults, he had thrown a stack of documents in a deputy's face and slammed the door in storming out. Back in his rented apartment, he hid under his blanket and cried until drained. He remembered Maxime’s unexpected visit later that day—his hands, his touch, his warm embrace. Antoine had cried in his arms like a child until drifting off to sleep, with Maxime never leaving his side.
He was not always the one being taken care of. He remembered visiting Maxime when he was ill, bringing flowers and oranges, or running all over Paris to find a fruit tart. During those times, they would stay on the first floor of the Duplay’s, one lying in bed, the other sitting by its side, discussing about the Convention, decrees, insurrections, and war. They had fretted over disputes, raged at the unrest, trod on thin ice amidst distrust and betrayal, and wept over the signings that were to be stained with blood.
Two years. The brief two years held the most significant place in his life. Now that his life was ending, had his sisters back home heard about his news? And his mother, had she heard of the death sentence of her disobedient son? Would she weep for this failure of a child? Louise and Victoire would grieve him, but what of his stern mother? She never shed tears, at least not in front of her children. Even during the very period of time he preferred not to recollect, his mother only silently bandaged his wounds. Though there were no more punishments, the nameless fear and anger nowhere to vent had been turned into a fire buried under snow, half-dead beneath the ice.
It wasn’t until years later, when Maxime’s fingers brushed over those old scars, that they began to heal. For the first time, his restless life dared to look up, and to catch a glimpse of a mirage of tranquility. There was a time when the stars felt so close, as if merely by stretching out their arms, they would be able to touch the eternal liberty and happiness.
But Maxime’s illness worsened after Germinal. Their countless sleepless nights could no longer redeem the Republic of virtue they had once envisioned. The 9th of Thermidor was their final wager. He remembered the night before, where heavy clouds shrouded the moon and stars. He held the draft for his speech, his steps heavy with apprehension for the next day as he left the Duplay’s. Beneath the trepidation, somewhere in his heart, he still yearned to see that look of approval in Maxime’s eyes once more. He revised his manuscript until sunrise, staring in a daze at the sun rising afar as the last drop of ink dried.
If they succeeded, the dawn of the Republic would still advent.
If they failed, the guillotine would bear witness to their sacrifice.
Antoine had always been confident in his speech, but The Fates did not leave them with one last stroke of luck after all. Now he was here, here in this pitch-black and freezing dungeon, wearing thin clothes stained with blood and lying on the straw, reflecting upon his life in the presence of death.
I am going to die, he thought as he stared at a crack in the stone wall. What would be the destination of soul? Heaven? Hell? Or did the soul not exist at all?
Will I see Maxime again? Will we be sent together to the scaffold, or will we be cruelly denied a final reunion? Antoine couldn't help but shiver. What if he never saw Maxime again? Could they meet after death, or was the arrest at the Hôtel de Ville already their farewell? He closed his eyes, allowing all his fear, weakness, and childish dependence to take hold, allowing the Maxime in his dreams hold him tightly, and never to let go.
In the afternoon of the 10th of Thermidor, it was not the nightmares that had haunted him his entire life that woke him from the timeless darkness, but an expressionless gendarme. "It’s time, L’Archange de la mort." The gendarme said with blank expression, only when addressing him with the title did a brief mockery raise at the corners of his mouth.
Antoine did not defend or retort. He stood as straight as a serviceman and held out his hands to the gendarme. Judge me, he said soundlessly.
The gendarme took a rope and tied his hands behind his back. The man seemed to hesitate for a moment before pushing him roughly all of a sudden. Antoine let him lead the way. Until being cut the hair, his mind was a complete blank.
The dark little room was a more qualified judge of death than the tribunal révolutionnaire. Everyone who entered would realize that they had already set one foot into the grave. Those ready for the guillotine remained silent at first, until one man shoved a gendarme aside, stumbling out of the room. He immediately fell to the ground, and screamed like a madman as he was dragged back in.
"Marie! Pierre! I have a wife! I have a swaddled child!" He clutched a gendarme’s collar. The young soldier flinched, staring at a loss at the condemned man. "Do you hear me? Do you hear me! Young man, have you ever been to the front? Do you know what death is!"
The crowd watched apathetically. They always laughed at such a scene, didn't they? Antoine looked at them and felt a chill, as if there was some kind of demon in that grim room, waiting to strip the dying of their sanity.
He recalled that Desmoulins looked almost like this before his death. He had screamed the names of his wife and son incessantly, a sound that made the onlookers’ skin crawl. Wailing like that—how shameful, Antoine had thought back then. Even in the face of death, one should die like a Spartan martyr. If it is a glorious sacrifice, why mourn with weak tears?
Besides, he had nothing to lose.
But he was still afraid.
He turned his head, searching for that reassuring figure. Maxime leaned on the arm of others, his eyes half-closed, the bandage on his jaw a dark brown. Antoine approached him without being stopped by the gendarmes. They did not utter a word, merely glancing at him.
"Maxime," He called gently. "Maxime, it’s me."
His lover opened his eyes, his gaze full of agony. Antoine wanted to kiss him, but no, not here. The others watched them in dead silence, forcing Antoine to swallow his tears. He wanted to hold Maxime, to lean against his chest, to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat, to wake up to find that this was nothing but another nightmare. And yet he felt ashamed of his willfulness and escapism at the same time—how could he act like those weak and corrupted, clinging to life and the warmth of another person?
But I love Maxime. How can I deny that? Isn’t loving another person a virtue? How has it become a sin? Still, I cannot yield, I cannot show weakness before these people—
"Saint-Just." A gendarme pushed him roughly into the small, dark room. He could only faintly see a middle-aged man sitting there, with a pair of slightly rusted iron shears in his hand. The gendarme shoved Antoine onto a stool, and the man grabbed his collar and made a first cut. He shuddered slightly as the cold blade touched his neck. He closed his eyes and bit the inner side of his cheek, as if pain could drive away the fear, until the taste of blood spread in his mouth.
The scissors made a sharp snap with every movement of the barber. Antoine felt his curls fall in locks, mingling with the hair of those dead and those about to die. A wave of nausea churned in his stomach. He remembered a banquet in his childhood, where he had vomited all over himself. Louise dragged him with her hurriedly to sneak back home and get change. He never knew how his sister explained it to their mother, but no one ever mentioned it again. Such irony that despite being the elder brother, Louise was usually the one looking after him. There was a time when Louise and Victoire took turns staying with him every day, fearing he might do something foolish.
Now I am really going to die. He thought as the gendarmes pushed him back outside. Two gendarmes hauled Maxime to the last tumbrel, and then shoved Antoine up beside him.
The procession began. The closer to the Place de la Révolution, the larger the crowd of spectators. There were people shouting insults and throwing things, there were also others carrying children on their shoulders to look on. A group of children drilled their way in and out of the crowd, with sweets and flowers in their hands. An old lady crossed herself. Such crowded and noisy places used to suffocate him, but now they felt nothing more than being foreign, as if he were merely a spectator.
It’s almost over. Antoine looked at Maxime in front of him. Are you afraid?
He wanted to take Maxime’s hand, to turn him around, and to kiss him, just as they had done in his apartment. But his hands were tied behind his back. He could only watch the man he deeply loved in silence. Maxime looked at the people around them, a hopeless despair reflecting in his eyes.
This day would eventually come. When the guillotine came into view, Antoine thought to himself. The first time he arrived in Paris and saw Dr. Guillotin’s creation, he knew he would likely die under its cold blade. I will be dead soon. He once told Louise, half out of sulk, half because he truly believed it. And Louise, with her expression always mixed with worry and understanding, would tell him to rest early. Tomorrow, tomorrow you will feel better. She would always console him with a weary smile. Perhaps at the end of the day, even she no longer believed in those words. From some moment on, she never said them again.
Thank you, Louise, and Victoire, and Maman… I’m sorry…
The procession stopped. The gendarmes began to confirm their identities one by one. "Adrien-Nicolas Gobeau, Claude-François de Payan, Denis-Étienne Laurent…"
"Louis Antoine de Saint-Just," the gendarme stopped before him and Maxime, "and Maximilien Robespierre."
Maxime turned his head. The gendarme frowned, made a mark on his parchment, and then turned to Antoine.
"The Constitution of the Republic." He said, looking down at the soldier from the tumbrel. "I wrote it."
The gendarme nodded and made the final stroke on the parchment. At the same time, the roll call had begun at the very front of the line. Citoyen Sanson stood by the guillotine. Only now did Antoine see clearly that those eyes, which had witnessed so much death, were filled with pity. And yet the gaze did not fall on any single person, as if the executioner himself could not tell exactly who to pity.
The first man was secured under the blade. Sanson pulled the lever. The blade accelerated downward. Antoine stared at the guillotine. Only when the head fell and the blade was soaked in the blood of the first dead did he turn away to look at Maxime.
Maxime’s eyes were closed. Perhaps he was praying for their souls, or perhaps he was mourning for the Republic. Antoine did not know what he was thinking, and he would never have the opportunity to know. Let us take all our secrets to the grave, he thought. We shall stay forever beneath the earth, together and undisturbed.
The blade fell again and again, blood reddening the wooden floor of the scaffold and the straw beneath it. Soon, it will be soon. Antoine thought as if he was walking in his sleep. What should I say to Maxime?
He looked at the man beside him—his mentor, his leader, his brother, his friend, his lover. What should he say to him? I love you, hold me, please don’t leave me… Are you praying, Maxime? We are about to die—are you afraid? Are you crying, Maxime? No, it’s me who want to cry, but I cannot cry here, I cannot kiss you here, nor can I say those sweet things we once exchanged in bed. We can never again talk together, discuss together, dine together, walk the streets together, ride in the same carriage, or return to the same house. Do you remember the stars that night, Maxime? Your song was so gentle… I miss your embrace, your voice, your smile. I already miss you, Maxime, but perhaps—I hope it is only a perhaps—we are about to bid an eternal farewell.
"Saint-Just." Two men in bonnets rouges approached them. The time had come.
Say something, quickly, say something. It felt as though he had said everything and that rendered him speechless, but in reality, he hadn’t said even a single word. Think, quickly, we are about to be parted…
Antoine closed his eyes, took a deep breath, leaned toward Maxime, and placed a light, soft kiss on his lips.
"Adieu, mon Maxime." He whispered. Tears fell, and dampened the bandage on Maxime’s cheek.
He did not wait for the tears to dry before holding his head up and stepped off the tumbrel, allowing the two men to seize him and lead him up the steps to the scaffold. Both of them must have seen it when he kissed Maxime. So be it—let them see, let them talk about it, it didn't matter anymore. Nothing mattered anymore.
Sanson was expressionless, and Antoine could no longer look at the sadness in his eyes. He felt those hands supporting him from behind as he ascended the steps.
"Citoyen Louis Antoine de Saint-Just, your last words, please."
He stood on the raised wooden platform, looking at the people on the square who were cheering and shouting. They had started to applaud since the first man went up to the scaffold. Eight consecutive executions had not tired them; rather, the splatter of blood had added to their ecstasy. A flower was thrown at Antoine’s feet. He suddenly recalled that people used to give flowers to Maxime. The latter would always lower his gaze, give Antoine's hand a little tug, and finally accept the bouquet with a sheepish but gentle smile.
And now, people were still holding flowers and fruits, sending them off on their final journey in a completely different way.
He smiled, though he didn't know what he was smiling for. His gaze swept over the shouting crowd. When he spoke, the taste of rust rose in his dry throat:
"I despise the dust that forms me and speaks to you;"
The people in the first few rows went silent for a moment, then began to clamor again.
"This dust, you may persecute it and kill it." He could no longer tell if he was shouting or whispering. "But I defy you to snatch from me this independent life that I have given myself in the centuries and in the heavens."
He was tied to the wooden board, and it was rotated in the air. As he was pushed under the blade, he remembered a time long ago, his father and mother would hold his hands as they walked through the fields, golden wheat ears dancing in the wind. His father had picked him up and spun him around. His mother had hummed a tune of Blérancourt in his ear. He remembered Louise and Victoire chasing each other, both of them pouncing on him, and the three children rolling on the ground laughing. He remembered meeting Thérèse on the roof. That night, their shy first kiss had melted the entire starlit sky. He remembered his first speech at the Convention Nationale. He remembered the applause and cheers that dazzled him. He remembered the days and nights with Le Bas at the front. He remembered the touched thrill in the soldiers' eyes when they received the boots. He remembered the poorest people of Paris, remembering that they were finally capable of affording a loaf of bread.
Liberty is buried today beneath this earth. Perhaps one day, its ashes will take root and sprout.
He remembered Maxime’s smile.
Antoine closed his eyes, and smiled as well.
And the blade fell.