Sweet Saturday Sample

Charles' bound hands rested on the edge of the cart that bounced him past the crowd lining the street. The wheels creaked and squeaked, working with jeering voices to create a symphony of torture. Something hit his head and back. Slime dripped down the side of his face, slapping him with the odor of rotten egg.

“Murderer!" An old woman spit as the cart jostled him past her. “Scum!"

Yes, murderer. Yes, scum. But he had loved her. Sweet Jeanne-Marie. Her bloody, lifeless body was in his arms again, a sickening metalic smell replacing the rotten egg. He could hear Louisa's scream, her sobs. All for that fool of an earl. Altamont should have died, not his Jeanne-Marie. He curled his fingers, making tight fists. People swarmed the public square, even lurking from shuttered windows on the second and third floor of buildings. Their voices merged into a collective hum.

The world had gathered to watch him die.

At least he'd be at peace. And yet, uncertainty gnawed at his gut, mocking everything he'd been taught to believe. Would the simple ceremony of last rites convince God to allow him entry into heaven? If so, no doubt he'd endure a long purgatory. If not . . . If not, then come what may. How could anything be more painful than knowing that the one person who mattered was dead? By his hand. It hit again, a cannon ball ripping through his soul. The shock and confusion twisting Jeanne-Marie's features in those desperate, last moments. Her body trembling, coughing blood as she strained to speak. "Suzanne. Suzanne."

The cart halted underneath the wood beams. A priest stepped forward, making the sign of the cross and chanting in Latin, while a Maréchaussée officer on horseback prepared the noose. A peddler wove his way among the spectators, shouting advertisements for fresh bread. A blast of hot wind sent the delicious aroma his way, along with the less tantalizing odors of unwashed bodies and human and animal waste. Would there be food in purgatory?

As the noose was placed over his head and cinched tightly around his neck, a little girl caught his eye. She was about the same age as the freckle-faced footboy he'd killed – about nine or ten years old. Stringy dark hair escaped her white bonnet and cascaded over her shoulders. Her dark, intelligent eyes stared back at him with the same pensive look he'd often seen . . . Charles blinked. She can't be. I'm seeing things. He shook his head, but the little girl remained, looking at him with that same, pensive expression.

The back of the cart released with a rickety crash.

“Monsieur de la Motte, you have been found guilty of the murder of Madame de Crébillon, and are therefore sentenced to hang by the neck until you are dead. May God have mercy on your soul."