by Ronnie Jay

Created on: July 09, 2011

Paris, 1789

Every day for more than a month now, Monique had sat here, waiting. In time, she knew, her vengeance would be complete. How she had loved him! But the divide between the most passionate love and bitterest hatred is the narrowest gulf of all; and so it had proved. She had divulged her secret, trusting him to show compassion, remorse; at least a modicum of sympathy and promise of help. Instead, there had been only rejection, fury at what he called her “mindless stupidity.”

Now she looked up, her interest quickening yet again as the tumbrel, for the seventh time this morning, heaved into view. There was no hint of urgency in its approach, its pace dictated by the slow, measured plod of the oxen, disinterested and with the patience of ages. Would this be the one? If not, it mattered little. Her own patience was equal to every delay, every disappointment; she could wait forever, sure in the knowledge that, sooner or later, she would have satisfaction.

The cumbersome vehicle creaked to a halt beside the raised platform. The hinged flap was lowered, allowing the doomed cargo to alight in obedience to the impatient prodding by the brutish attendants. Mais oui!There he was: Le Comte Edwarde Beauville, her erstwhile master and paramour, tall and handsome as he had always been, his demeanour betraying not the slightest concern at his having fallen from the pinnacle of fame and fortune to his present parlous state, mere fodder for Madame la Guillotine's ravenous maw.

She stood up, caught his eye and stroked her swollen belly. Then, smiling, she sat down and resumed her knitting.

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