1793, Conciergerie, Paris
The cold comes up first through the straw and then through the stone, so that by dawn my hands ache before I have moved them. Keys strike against one another in the corridor long before the door opens, and after weeks of this I know each keeper by the rhythm of his approach. The air is never clean here. It holds damp masonry, stale water, wool left too long unwarmed, and the sourness of a body watched too closely to forget itself. They no longer enter my room as men entering a queen’s chamber, only as officials verifying a number, a condition, a presence that must be carried forward to the next stage intact. I hear the river faintly at night when the prison settles. I hear, too, the sudden hush outside when my name is spoken by someone who enjoys speaking it. They mean to strip even the manner of my ending from me. What I know is that the account they are constructing is false. The true account exists. I am the only one who holds it. If I am to be reduced, I would rather set down what is true before they have finished choosing the words.
