The large crowd in the Place du Gr�ve was buoyant and there was a party atmosphere in the air. It was almost as though they were awaiting a wedding feast rather than a brutal execution. Memories of the recent May Day celebrations were still fresh, the cloudless morning sky presaged a fine Spring day, and their anger at being denied a view of the recent beheading of Otto Chabot would soon be assuaged. Oeufs Brouilles, a Marquis and Lt.Colonel until stripped of his rank and title upon his recent conviction, would die a proper traitor's death. No sword or rope awaited him upon the bleak scaffold that arose from the centre of the square, only the cartwheel - almost as tall as a man - on which he would be broken in the manner laid down by the law.
An earsplitting cheer finally brought the hours of eager anticipation to an end - the tumbril carrying the condemned man had entered the square from the side of the H�tel de Ville, whose balconies would give the best view of the forthcoming tableau. The city officials charged a fortune for this viewing space on execution days, and only the richest members of the nobility could be seen hanging avidly over the balustrades. The tumbril had taken a circuitous route from the Conci�rgerie, whose cells had held the condemned man during his last night amongst the living, so as to parade him as a warning before as many of the unruly populace as possible. His clothes and scratches bore eloquent witness to the stones, rotting fruit and ordure with which the spectators lining the route had pelted him in the course of his final journey. Now it was the turn of the crowd at the place of execution - and they laid on with a vengeance. One badly aimed handful of dung hit the driver of the tumbril. He rose to his feet bellowing angrily and lashed out with his whip so as to clear a way for his doomed cargo. >From a private room on the second floor of the H�tel de Ville a man trained a military spyglass on the condemned prisoner, noting that he had been securely bound to the tumbril's sides so as to prevent escape. Looking at the man's face the watcher could see that, even now, it displayed the last vestiges of a desperate hope. Could a reprieve, at the eleventh hour, miraculously appear to put an end to this nightmare...? The watcher knew full well that such hopes were futile. His Majesty had broached the subject of clemency but the Minister of State had advised strongly against it - which had obviated the need of the watcher to do so. Brouilles was one of the vilest traitors to which France had ever given rise and richly deserved the traitor's death which awaited him. Dispassionately, the watcher observed the four burly brutes on the scaffold snatch the prisoner from the tumbril and bind him securely to the cartwheel, arms and legs splayed wide. The Chief executioner read a list of the traitor's heinous crimes to the assembled crowd then nodded to his four assistants. At his signal, each picked up a long heavy cudgel in a two-handed grip and the execution began. Taking a limb each, the muscular apprentices slowly rained crushing blows on their victim in turn, beginning at the extremities and working methodically towards to the torso. With each heavy blow flesh ripped, sinew twisted, bone crushed, the victim screamed and the eager crowd answered with a gleeful cheer. The traitor was dying an inch at a time, and so it went on...crash, scream, cheer....crash, scream, cheer...crash, scream, cheer... The watcher evidenced no pity - despite the fact that he and the condemned man had once been as close as brothers. The traitor's first horse and commission had been paid for from the watcher's purse. He had secured Brouilles the enviable position of aide to an army commander, which had furthered his military career considerably and, in return, the traitor had asked him to serve as best man at his wedding (an honour - at least at the time - which the watcher had been unable to accept due to a previously arranged meeting with an important Minister). But marriage had changed Brouilles beyond recognition. His honour and loyalty - to his friend, his commanding officer and, ultimately, to his Sovereign - had disappeared like morning dew on a balmy Summer's day. The traitor had connived unsuccessfully to secure for his erstwhile friend the very death which he was now himself suffering in order, as now seemed clear, to reduce the chances of his own perfidious treason coming to light. No, the traitor deserved no pity, though the watcher shuddered as one of his elbows was shattered nevertheless. The man snapped shut his spyglass and, hands trembling, shakily poured himself a glass of cognac. He had never before witnessed the method of execution reserved for traitors and the realization that he had come so close suffering such a fate himself momentarily shook his steely resolve. It was not the pitiful heap of broken flesh outside the window whose efforts had almost led to his unjust conviction, however, but the machinations of an imbecilic egomaniac who was now lording it over the abject slaves and fawning colonists of Hispaniola. Still, the watcher was a patient man and, as a Corsican worker on his father's vineyard had once told him, vengeance is a dish best eaten cold... A succession of blows to the victim's thorax ruptured his spleen and he expired quickly thereafter. The chief executioner, using what appeared to be a butcher's cleaver, hacked off the traitor's head and, holding it suspended by the hair, displayed to the crowd with the shout "Behold the head of a traitor!" Their entertainment now over, the crowd rapidly began to disperse. The watcher noted that workmen were already beginning to dismantle the scaffold on which the traitor had met his ignoble end. He motioned to a lackey, who appeared rapidly from the shadows, and gave him some brief instructions... The Chief Executioner, shuffling the rim of his hat nervously before him, limped into the room, followed by the lackey who quietly closed the doors behind him. Upon seeing the occupant, the executioner stood to attention, throwing his chest out and shoulders back. "Were you a military man before taking up your present duties, perchance?" "I served as a sergeant in the Archduke's Cuirassiers 'til I got this leg wound earlier this year, Sir. I was, er,..hinstrumental in bringin' the traitor what we've just topped to justice, Sir, which is why they gave me the job of finishin' 'im off, like." "I see. Your diligence is indeed to be commended, Sergeant. I'm told that you have responsibility for the disposal of the traitor's remains? Am I correct in this assumption, Sergeant?" "Yessir, but if it's the 'and o' glory your honor's after, they's very poor quality from a traitor's hexicution. Not much left of 'em, see? Your Honour 'ud be better to wait for a nice tidy 'angin'." "It's the traitor's head I'm interested in, Sergeant, rather than the hand. It seemed from here to be in reasonable condition...?" "The head, Sir?" "Yes. I have one on my desk which I feel is in need of some company..." [NB The death described above was that actually meeted out to traitors in the reign of Louis XIV]
