In the Shadow of the Guillotine: A Revolutionary Romance

Letter I: Henri Laurent to Élise de Chamont
Dated: 14 July 1793

Citoyenne Élise,
The bells of Notre-Dame toll this morning not for Mass, but for the execution of another traitor to the Republic. The air reeks of smoke and iron—always iron. I write to you now at great peril, for if this letter is intercepted, we shall both meet the National Razor before dusk. Yet silence is a heavier sentence.

Do you remember the garden at Château de Vaux? Where we first spoke of Rousseau beneath the cherry blossoms? You called me *un rêveur*, a dreamer, even as I mocked your lace parasol. How naïve we were! The world was a salon then, our debates mere playacting. Now, the stakes are written in blood.

Élise, you must flee Paris. Your uncle’s name is on the Committee’s list. They will come for your family before the week ends. I have secured passage for you aboard a merchant cart bound for Calais—it departs at midnight on the 18th. Tell no one, not even your maid. Come alone to the rue des Rosiers, where the old bookshop stands. A man with a red scarf will aid you.

Do not mistake this for a lover’s plea. It is a command from an agent of the Committee of Public Safety. Yet know this: beneath the tricolor cockade, my heart remains yours. I have condemned aristocrats to the Tribunal, but I would burn the République itself to spare you.

Vivre libre ou mourir,
Citoyen H. Marceau

(Postscript: Destroy this. Tear it to ashes.)
Diary Entry of Élise de Chamont
Dated: 16 July 1793
Mon Dieu.
Henri’s letter arrived hidden inside a loaf of bread, the ink smudged by flour. How like him—practical even in treason. I traced the words until my fingers blotted the page. *Vivre libre ou mourir.* How many times did we shout that slogan in the streets, drunk on liberty and each other?

They have taken Tante Adèle. Soldiers dragged her from Mass this morning, her prayers drowned by their *ça ira* chants. Maman weeps in the chapel, clutching Papa’s crucifix. He rots in a cell at La Force, accused of funding émigrés. And I—coward that I am—hide in the attic, quill trembling.

Henri offers escape. But to abandon my family? To live as a fugitive while they face the blade? Yet if I stay, what then? The Tribunal cares nothing for a daughter’s devotion. They will shave my head and parade me to the scaffold, a *ci-devant* puppet for the mob.

I have until tomorrow night to decide.
Letter II: Élise de Chamont to Henri Laurent
Dated: 17 July 1793
Citoyen Marceau,

Your warning is acknowledged. Rest assured, I shall act in accordance with the Republic’s interests.

Meet me at the Pont Neuf at midnight. Come armed.
É.
Letter III: Henri Laurent to Élise de Chamont
Dated: 18 July 1793
Ma chère ombre,

You were a ghost last night—pale as moonlight in that ragged cloak. When you pressed your mother’s ring into my hand, I nearly shattered. You ask the impossible: to save your father. The Committee has evidence of his correspondence with Condé’s army. Even Danton could not sway their verdict.

Yet for you, I will try.

There is a jailor at La Force, a brute named Lefèvre. He owes me a debt from the September Massacres. For a price, he may grant your father a quicker end—a vial of opium instead of the crowd’s jeers. It is a wretched mercy, but all I can offer.

As for you: the cart departs tonight. Do not let sentiment make you its martyr. France’s future is a delusion, Élise. Liberty, equality, fraternity—they are words we paint over corpses. Survive. For me.
H.
(Postscript: Burn this.)
Letter IV: Élise de Chamont to Henri Laurent
Dated: 19 July 1793

*Mon rêveur,*

Forgive me.

I kissed Maman’s brow as she slept and slipped into the streets. But at the rue des Rosiers, I turned back. How could I board that cart knowing Papa would wake in chains, awaiting your poisoned charity?

I went to La Force myself. Lefèvre leered but accepted the last of our silver. He led me to Papa’s cell. My father, who once danced me on his boots at Versailles, now hunched like a beggar, muttering Psalms. When I showed him the opium, he wept. “God will pardon us,” he said. Then, “Go. Live.”

I am done with running, Henri. Meet me at the bookshop at dawn. There is a priest in the Marais who still dares to marry *ci-devants* and traitors. Let us spit on the Republic’s laws one last time.

If you do not come, I will understand. But know this: I would choose you a thousand times over any revolution.

Ta rose fanée,
Élise
Final Diary Entry of Henri Laurent
Dated: 20 July 1793

The Tribunal sentenced me at noon.

Robespierre’s voice dripped honeyed venom. “Citoyen Marceau, once a patriot, now corrupted by aristocratic *vices*.” They found Élise’s final letter sewn into my coat. Stupid, reckless love.

She waits still at the bookshop, I imagine. Her hair unbound, lips parted in hope. Let her hate me for my absence. Let her live.

The tumbril arrives. The crowd howls for my head.

*Vivre libre ou mourir.* We shall do both, *ma rose*.
Author’s Note:
This epistolary exchange imagines a clandestine romance during the Reign of Terror (1793–1794), a period marked by mass executions of perceived enemies of the French Revolution. Historical details, such as the Law of Suspects and the role of the Committee of Public Safety, anchor the narrative, while the lovers’ conflict mirrors the era’s ideological chaos.