Tightening The Screw-Type Boots
After a little wine and some bread, he prayed with his priest before writing to his mother, asking her to pay all his debts.
At 3 p.m. he and Gaston were taken by coach to the Place des Terrau, on the banks of the river Saône, where the scaffold had been erected. The thousands of spectators who packed the balconies and the area around the platform, even those perched precariously on the rooftops, greeted the traitors’ arrival with cheers and cries of abuse. Supported by Father Malavette, Cinq-Mars mounted the scaffold steps with great difficulty but, with the bravado of youth, he then saluted the crowd. There was little doubt that he had dressed for the occasion, for he wore a court suit trimmed with gold lace, his black hat being ornamented with red feathers, his stockings were of green silk, and diamond buckles glittered on his fashionably high-heeled shoes. Over his arm he carried a large scarlet cloak, to be used to cover his body after his decapitation, and a contemporary chronicler reported that:
‘his fair young face was perfectly serene, and his clustering curls, slightly powdered, were scented and tended as carefully as if he were in the royal presence. He bowed to the crowd, then replaced his hat on his head and looked about him. Nearby stood the executioner; he was only a city porter, the regular official being ill, and his replacement was a coarse and brutal fellow with a bloated face. When he approached Cinq-Mars with scissors to cut off his hair, Monsieur le Grand waved him away with a motion of disgust and instead begged Father Malavette to do him this office and to keep his hair for his mother.’
While the priest-turned-barber snipped away the long shoulder-length ringlets, Cinq-Mars turned to the executioner, who had not yet taken his sword out of the dirty bag which lay beside him and, according to the chronicle:
‘asked him haughtily what he was about, and why he did not begin. The rude fellow making a wry face in reply, Cinq-Mars left him and said to the priest, ‘
Mon Pére
, assist me in my prayers, then I shall be ready.’ After he had prayed very devoutly and kissed the crucifix, he rose from his knees and in a firm voice exclaimed, ‘I am ready – begin.’
He threw aside his hat, unloosed the lace ruff about his throat and put back his hair from his face. But the executioner, being unready and new to his office, delivered no fewer than eleven blows ere his head was severed from his body. When it fell, it gave a little bound, turned itself a little to one side and the lips were seen to palpitate, the eyes being wide open. His body was then covered by the scarlet mantle and carried away to be buried.
Meanwhile, the King, having been previously informed by the Cardinal of the precise date and hour when Cinq-Mars would suffer death, took out his watch at the precise time and, with the most perfect unconcern, remarked to a companion, ‘At this moment Monsieur le Grand is making an ugly face at Lyons!’
A victim of political intrigue, in 1766 the Chevalier de la Barre refused to kneel for the French executioner Charles-Henri Sanson to behead him, saying, ‘I cannot! I am no criminal – strike me as I am!’ Whereupon Sanson, an expert with the heavy, two-handed sword, swung it so accurately that it severed the victim’s spine and passed through the neck without dislodging the head from the shoulders. And true or false, as the victim’s body started to sway, onlookers reported that they heard Sanson exclaim, ‘Shake yourself – it is done!’
Thomas Arthur de Lally-Tollendal
One night in 1731 a group of young men left a bar in the suburbs of Paris after spending a convivial evening together and, losing their way entirely, found themselves on the Rue d’Enfer where they saw a house, the windows of which were brilliantly lit. They heard faint sounds of music and, peering through the gate, saw the figures of couples as they danced past the windows. The young men, somewhat elated by the wine they had been drinking, resolved to join in the fun; they boldly knocked on the door, requesting the servant who opened it, that they be allowed to participate in the revelry.
The master of the house appeared, a man of about 30, of distinguished appearance, the elegance of his dress suggesting that he was one of the upper classes. He greeted them with courtesy and listened to their request with the smile of a man who understood the foibles of youth. He informed them that the ball which was taking place was to celebrate his marriage, saying that he would be honoured if they would join the festivities, but adding that perhaps the company they wished to join was not, perhaps, worthy of them. The young men, however, insisted, and the bridegroom, having conducted them to the ballroom, introduced them to his new wife and to his family.
On meeting the dancers the young men realised that, despite their pleasure, they all seemed to look very severe, an aspect which dampened the gaiety they had anticipated; their faces remained rather grim and sinister even while they expressed the goodwill they felt for the strangers. Some of the women, however, were pretty, and the young men, who were all of noble birth, were in high spirits, and too youthful and light-hearted to let that bother them, and they proceeded to dance the night away, thoroughly enjoying themselves.
At daybreak, the bridegroom, still smiling, told them that his name was Jean-Baptiste Sanson, that he was the Paris executioner, and that most of the gentlemen whose pleasures they had shared, followed the same profession.
Two of the young men were visibly disturbed by this piece of information, but the third one, who wore the uniform of Dillon’s Irish Regiment, burst out laughing and said he had long wished to make the acquaintance of the official who decapitated, burned and broke (on the wheel) so many good people, and he was very glad now of having the opportunity. He then begged M. Sanson to have the kindness to show them his instruments.
Jean-Baptiste acceded to the request and led the party to a room used as the arsenal of his tools of torture and death. While the officer’s companions were expressing their astonishment at the curious shapes of certain instruments, the young man examined the swords of justice with much attention. The executioner took one down and handed it to the officer, who looked at it carefully and, taking it with both hands, wielded it with uncommon strength and dexterity, meanwhile asking his host whether it was possible to strike off a head with it at a single stroke. Jean-Baptiste answered in the affirmative, adding jokingly that if he, the officer, ever committed the same crimes as one Cinq-Mars, he, Jean-Baptiste, would pledge his word that he would not allow him to suffer! The young man thanked his host, little knowing that his curiosity might almost be termed a prediction of things to come, and then made his farewells, giving his name, Count Thomas Arthur de Lally-Tollendal.
Thirty-five years after that chance meeting, on 6 May 1766, the Parliament assembled in the Court of Justice and condemned the Commander of the French Forces in India, Lieutenant-General Thomas Arthur de Lally-Tollendal to death by the sword, for betraying the King.
De Lally-Tollendal was of Irish extraction and at the age of twelve obtained a commission in Dillon’s Irish Regiment (of the French army), and later took part in the siege of Barcelona. By 1740 he commanded his own regiment and at the age of 37 he was promoted to Lieutenant General. Ambitious, possessing a strong streak of ruthlessness, he hated the English and even devised a plan involving the landing of 10,000 men on the English coast to support the Stuart Pretender, a scheme that was rejected by the French High Command who, however, gave him command of their colonial troops. But the unmitigated violence of his temper, his eschewal of any action other than brutal strength, led him to make appalling military errors. In India he captured Goudelour, swept along the Coromandel coast and took St David, where he permitted frightful excesses to be committed by his troops, who proceeded to ransack the town. Completely contemptuous of the Hindu religion, he allowed local revered sanctuaries to be violated, and caused any native suspected of spying to be blown from the mouth of a cannon. Against the advice of his generals, he later advanced northwards, only to be attacked by the English forces; in the retreat that followed, he lost a quarter of his troops and eventually had to surrender, together with most of his army, and was taken to England as a prisoner of war.
In France he was, probably correctly, made the scapegoat for the disastrous defeat, but on news of this slur on his honour reaching him, he was filled with outrage and obtained permission from the English Government to be released on parole in order to return to France and defend his reputation. But his enemies, of whom he had many, were only too pleased, and soon after his arrival, as a result of their machinations, he was imprisoned in the Bastille prison and put on trial, charged with treason, an ordeal which dragged on for nineteen months. Still full of an overwhelming sense of his own importance, his arrogance remained unabated.
On appearing before the judges he always wore the full uniform of a general, together with all the Orders which had been bestowed on him, but the President of the court ordered that he should be deprived of them. De Lally-Tollendal, protesting that he would rather be deprived of his life than the rewards of his bravery, resisted vehemently, but to no avail; in the struggle which followed, he fought with the soldiers as they tore his uniform and ripped off the epaulettes and decorations.
In court he was no more able to control his temper than when he had been in India. He disputed the evidence step by step, protesting against the charges, disputing, fuming, retorting, and accusing others of cowardice and the Government itself of failing to support him in the field. But there were too many witnesses testifying about his abuse of power, the cruelty to the natives, and the violence against all who dared to cross his path. And on 6 May 1766 the court found him guilty as charged.
After the sentence was read out, he remained dumbfounded and stupefied, but only momentarily, for he then started cursing, calling his judges assassins and executioners, and it was not until he had been taken back to the Bastille that he regained his composure. Some time later, however, he was approached by an intermediary who offered to raise a petition for his release; unfortunately the man mentioned the word ‘crime’ in connection with de Lally-Tollendal’s military campaigns; at that, it was reported:
‘the prisoner was overwhelmed by a fit of fury greater than any he had ever experienced before and, seizing a pair of compasses [a measuring instrument, both arms of which have sharp points] with which he had used to draw the map of the former scene of his successes and reverses, he stabbed himself near the heart. The weapon encountered a rib and only inflicted a slight wound; whereupon the gaolers rushed upon him and wrenched the instrument from his hand.’
The day of execution finally arrived, and, irony of ironies, his executioner was to be none other than Jean-Baptiste Sanson. He, recalling his promise made that night so many years ago, resolved to honour it to the full. Also on the scaffold would be his son, Charles-Henri, his assistance being essential, for Jean-Baptiste was now white-haired, and although only sixty, appeared to be much older, probably because of the stroke he had had some years earlier which had partially paralysed his right side. Accordingly, Jean-Baptiste selected from his collection the very sword which de Lally-Tollendal had handled while at the wedding party, and the two men went to the Bastille to collect their prisoner. There they found traces of a struggle which had just taken place, the authorities having decreed that in order to stop the victim inducing the crowds to attempt a rescue, he was to be gagged, and it was not until his fierce resistance had been overcome, that an iron gag was forced into his mouth.
Charles-Henri was about to order his assistants to escort the bound prisoner down the stairs when his father stepped forward, saying that he alone had a right to command. He knelt down before the Count and, perceiving that the cords were so tight that they almost cut into the flesh, ordered that they be slackened. De Lally-Tollendal looked down and, recognising him, smiled, a tear coming to his eye.
On reaching the scaffold he ascended the steps with firmness, then turned to the old executioner; at that, Jean-Baptiste, after showing him his withered arm, pointed to his son, who was standing at the other end of the scaffold in order to conceal the sword he was holding, and explained that he was too old to strike, and therefore his promise must be discharged by a stronger arm and a steadier hand than his. De Lally-Tollendal thanked him by an inclination of the head, whereupon Charles-Henri now approached, and was about to raise the sword when his father stopped him. With a firm hand he took the gag out of the Count’s mouth and, bowing respectfully, said ‘Monsieur le Comte, I am the master here. Just as it happened thirty-five years ago, so today you are my guest. Accept the supreme hospitality which I then promised you.’
De Lally-Tollendal then prayed, after which he asked Charles-Henri to untie his hands, but the younger Sanson explained that it was not allowed. ‘Then,’ said the victim ‘help me take off this vest and give it to your father.’ Charles-Henri obeyed, taking off the vest, which was made of gold Indian cloth, each button being a large ruby of the finest quality. The Count then exclaimed in a loud voice, ‘And now, you can strike!’ Charles-Henri raised the weapon and brought it down on the Count’s neck, but the hair, which had not been cut but only drawn back, obstructed the blade; instead of decapitating the Count, it only inflicted a severe head wound.
According to the
Memoirs
of the Sansons:
‘The blow was so violent that de Lally-Tollendal was struck down to the earth, but he sprang to his feet in an instant and glared at Jean-Baptiste with an expression of indignation and reproach. At the sight, the old executioner rushed towards his son and, suddenly recovering his former strength, he took the bloody sword from his son’s hands and, before the cry of horror which rose from the crowd subsided, de Lally-Tollendal’s head was rolling on the scaffold!’