Nicolas-Jacques Pelletier lay flat. His breathing fast and heavy for they would soon be his
last. Rope bound him. His wrists stung from constant friction. Five days earlier, France had declared war on Austria. The blade slipped free of its release. Found guilty of robbery and murder, Pelletier became the blades first victim. The reign of terror had commenced.
The public square was busy. Words rumbled across the cobble streets. Anticipation
percolated in a slow and lustful buildup. This day had been set aside to appease the appetite of
the masses. The people wanted a show. The powers who be wanted their flesh. The wood was
stained a deep shade of crimson, slicked by the blood of friends, family, and enemies of the state.
Like a young David holding high the head of Goliath, so too would the executioner hold high the
heads who met death by the falling blade of the guillotine. The year was 1792.
State side the cornerstone of the White House was laid. George Washington was entering
his second term and John Adams would be his Vice President. American was expanding.
Kentucky would become the 15th state. The young country looked to grow as hearts were mending from war. Quite the contrast to Europe.
Time passed in a slow arch. War persisted. Smoke from cannon and musket fire lingered.
The blade continued to drop. Names of soon to be victims scrawled in ink, passed out to gathering crowds on flyers. Songs were sung, poems written, all to “celebrate” as gathering masses came to witness death. Ladies known as tricoteuse gathered, these women who had supported the Jacobin Club, held box seats at the bloody event. Repeatedly the blade fell. Blood dripped into the basket.
The Tricoteuse watched. Between the falling of the blade and the next victim, they would knit.
The “National Razor” pitied no one, and soon royalty of the highest stature would meet their
day with the blade.
They had no bread. She said, “Let them eat cake.” Desperate and starving, her subjects
clung to hope. The Queen cared not. Luxury was her robe and she draped herself in the finest
fabrics. Cries of death fell at her side. Louis XVI proceeded her in death. Maria would join the
10,000 plus victims. Found guilty of high treason, she was walked to the guillotine. The blade
had tasted the flesh of royalty. The people cheered. Maximilien Robespierre, who oversaw this
period of time, is overthrown. His death signals the end of the reign of terror. But it does not end
the long history of the guillotine.
183 years would pass between the first and the last death conducted by the French.
America gave the keys to the White House to Jimmy Carter. Vietnam draft evaders were
pardoned and Apple was entering their second year as a company. And for the last
time, France would use the guillotine to bring a swift death to man. In September 1977 the blade made its final fall. Like his predecessor, Nicolas-Jacques Pelletier, Hamida Djandoubi was convicted of murder and sentenced to death for acts of torture, kidnapping and murder of a 21 year old French woman named Elisabeth Bousquet.
Death comes for all. It will find its victim for the blade is impartial. Countless times it
would be released, raised, and released again. Heads fell in swift fashion. Some cheered while others cried. Peasantry and royalty found common ground, and the actions of two men bookended by nearly two hundred years are forever connected.