She Was There! - The Cilly Black Chronicles. Chapter 3 - The French Revolution

“Oh I do hope one of them loses soon. I can’t bear all that noise any longer,” groaned Cilly, rubbing her eyes and massaging her temples.

“How is it you manage to wake up with a hangover each morning, even whilst in prison?” asked Cilly’s cellmate

“Well Comte, the answer to that is two fold. One, when you have collectively drunk the amount that I have in my time, you will always wake up hungover. Secondly, when you are as friendly to the guardsmen as I am, libations are not too hard to come by.”

The gunfire had started earlier that morning and it was now way into the afternoon. Neither of them could reach the window in their cell to try and get a look at what was going on, so they sat awaiting their fate. 

“I can’t imagine it will last much longer,” the Comte mused. 

“No the Fort’s garrison is certainly not what it used to be,” Cilly agreed.

“You better get to telling me your story then.”

“Pardon?”

“You told me that if we were ever going to get out of here, you’d tell me how you wound up in this cell.”

“Did I? Well what makes you think we’re getting out?”

The Comte shot her a look, and Cilly chuckled wryly.

“Fine, if you must know. I am here, because I, how can I put it? Had a misunderstanding with the Queen.”

“Murde! What did you do?”

“Not what. Who.”

“Mademoiselle, you must reveal their identity at once.”

“Oh I don’t think you would know him,” Cilly giggled. 

“Try me.”

“The King!” Cilly threw her head back and cackled, as the Comte stared at her, his mouth agape.

“And believe me, I ate a lot more than cake!” 

They both laughed.

“Why did the Queen not just have you killed for such a crime?” the Comte asked.

“My dear boy, you don’t survive in this world as long as I have without learning a trick or two. Marie and I have been friends, and rivals, for many years. Let’s just say that a little something I know about a diamond necklace may have just bought me my life.”

“You can’t mean…?”

Cilly nodded knowingly. The Comte shook his head in disbelief.

Now there’s a thought. If I do get out of here, I may just have to go and pay my old friend a visit.

The noise from outside swelled, a number of much louder bangs could be heard, and the sound of panicked voices grew closer. Both of them forgot the story they were enjoying and looked up to the window, high in the stone wall of their cell. They then looked to the door of their cell and walked over to it. 

“I think this might be it, ma petite,” commented the Comte.

“I think you might be right,” Cilly agreed, peering through the barred window set into the door. “It’s been enchanting,” she said, offering the young man her hand. He took her hand and kissed it. 

If only there were more time.

“More than you know, mademoiselle,” said the Comte kissing her hand once more. Cilly withdrew it before he could start making his way up her arm. She hovered her hand over her cleavage. The Comte stared inquisitively. From between her breasts she produced a string and as she pulled upon it, suddenly revealed, a key. Cilly walked to the door and unlocked it. It’s old hinges groaned as it swung open.

“You’ve had that all this time?” gasped the dumb struck Comte. 

“I was very friendly to a particular guard.”

“Then why haven’t you used it before now?”

“Well the garrison has never been this busy,” she quipped. 

“I think I’m in love.”

“I know you are my sweet. But this is goodbye. For now. You may want to think about running,” Cilly pecked him on the lips before disappearing out the door. 

“Bon Chance,” she called back to him. 

Four years and some months later, a crowd had formed around a scaffold. Atop which stood a guillotine, next to it stood a masked figure ready to discharge themselves of their duty. An eerie hush had grown over the crowd whilst they waited for the proceedings to begin. Mutterings and whisperings could still be heard, but there was a solemnity and seriousness to this affair.

These were all brought to a halt as the Queen appeared and was led to the guillotine. As she made her way to it, she trod on the boot of her executioner.

“Pardon me, sir, I did not do it on purpose,” the Queen said in apology.

The executioner removed their hood and replied,

“What I do next, I do with great purpose!”

“Cilly!” the Queen gasped.

Moments later Cilly was holding aloft the head of the last queen of France, to a crowd of cheering people. She looked up at the face of her old rival.

You should have let me eat that cake!