Reign of Terror (1793-1794)
It was the year 1794 and the world around me had become a nightmare.
Revolution.
The French Revolution, which had started with hopeful cries for equality, had transformed into the Reign of Terror—a period as dark and unforgiving as any storm I had known in my past life as Arjun. I had once been a poor boy in Bengal, familiar with hunger and hardship, but nothing could have prepared me for the cruelty and bloodshed that was about to begin in Paris.
To my family and the world outside, I was the young Mademoiselle Juliette, daughter of Comte Louis and Comtesse Isabelle, born to privilege and trained for a future yet to come.
I lived within the grand estate of my family, surrounded by walls meant to keep us safe. And outside the tall, grand windows of my family’s estate, the world had become a place I barely recognized. The Revolution was spreading, raging through France like a wildfire, tearing apart families, histories, and legacies.
I felt the fear and desperation of everyone within the estate. The servants moved with silent and quick steps, their eyes avoiding ours, as if they were afraid that any moment of kindness toward us might mark them for punishment. My mother and father whispered in hushed voices, their faces pale and tense. Even as they dressed in the finest silks, their faces showed fear that even wealth and status could no longer conceal.
Somehow, even in this life, it seemed the hardships never ceased to exist.
News of daily executions traveled fast, carried by the whispers of frightened maids and hurried notes smuggled into our estate. At first, it was only the other noble families—the distant acquaintances, the relatives of friends, who were taken. But soon, it was neighbors, people my family had known all their lives. Some were dragged out of their homes in the early hours of dawn, paraded through the streets as the townspeople jeered and threw stones.
In the marketplace, I heard people speak with terror about the guillotine—the “National Razor.” It was no longer a tool of justice; it had become a weapon of terror. Every day, people gathered in the square to watch as heads fell one after another, each thud met with cheers and cries for more. It was as though the crowd had been possessed by a dark hunger, demanding vengeance without pause. And every time I heard these stories, a part of me—a part that still remembered what it meant to be Arjun—felt sickened by the frenzy, the unending thirst for death. It was a strange thing to witness—the speed at which society turned upon itself. One day, a family would be the honored hosts of a lavish soirée; the next, their heads would roll beneath the guillotine, cheered on by the same people who had once applauded their hospitality.
My mother tried to keep up appearances, arranging flowers, setting the table with silverware polished to a mirror’s shine. She insisted that we eat our meals together, dress in our finest, and speak as if nothing had changed. But the tension, the grim atmosphere never left or decreased. My father would glance over his shoulder, his eyes flicking toward the windows as if expecting someone to appear, to drag him away. My father no longer spoke of loyalty to the monarchy, no longer voiced his opposition to the Revolution. Instead, he had begun to carefully mention support for “the people’s cause” to any who would listen, hoping to distance our family from the fate that had already claimed so many of our friends.
But it was too late. We were marked by our name, by our blood. And no amount of words or alliances could erase the truth of who we were.
Sometimes, Arjun’s memories would resurface. I could remember the despair of watching loved ones waste away from hunger, the desperation of finding even a crust of bread. In those memories, I had once believed that if I had wealth, if I had power, then I could shelter my family, protect them from the world’s cruelties. But here I was, surrounded by every luxury, and it offered me nothing. All the wealth my parents had accumulated, all the titles they clung to, meant nothing in the face of the guillotine.
It was ironic, perhaps even poetic, that in this life I sat in the seat of the predator rather than the prey. But I didn’t feel powerful. I felt like a lamb wearing a wolf’s skin, wrapped in luxury but trapped and helpless, waiting for the end. I could see how people outside our walls might hate me, might see me as a symbol of everything wrong in their lives. Yet, I couldn’t deny that I understood their suffering. Starvation was a memory that never quite left me, reminding me of the cruelty in a world that grants so much to some and nothing to others.
Every day, news of more executions trickled in, slipping through the closed doors of our estate like an icy wind. It was a strange thing to witness—the speed at which society turned upon itself. One day, a family would be the honored hosts of a lavish soirée; the next, their heads would roll beneath the guillotine, cheered on by the same people who had once applauded their hospitality.
One evening, I overheard my parents talking, their voices low and strained. My mother’s hands were clenched tightly, her knuckles white, as she begged my father to take us somewhere safe, to leave France before it was too late.
“We cannot stay here, Louis. Don’t you see what’s happening? They won’t stop until we’re all dead.”
My father shook his head, his face pale. “Running would only make us look guilty. We have done nothing wrong. We are loyal citizens of France. If we flee, we admit that we are what they say we are.”
“But they don’t care, Louis! They don’t care if we’re loyal. They want someone to blame, and we are… we are right here.”
Over the next few days the tension only grew more. Servants and friends had disappeared, fleeing for their lives or turning on those they had once served. My father grew more anxious with each passing day, and mother tried to keep up appearances, but even she had taken to wearing simpler gowns and avoided the few remaining servants.
The very next day, father came to my room with a grim expression. “Pack your things,” his voice a low whisper. “We are leaving tonight.”
My heart was pounding with a mixture of fear and relief. I had been waiting for this moment, hoping that we could escape before it was too late. I packed my belongings quietly, choosing only the bare essentials. Mother came in later, giving me a quick embrace, and I could feel the trembling in her hands. She was a mother to this child, to Juliette albeit stricter than usual parents, she had always loved me. And watching such a strong woman tremble in fear made my heart ache.
It was past midnight and all the preparations to leave the estate were done. But maybe we were too late.
We heard the sound of shouting, muffled but frantic, and a sharp rap on her door. My heart skipped a beat as I heard mother’s panicked voice outside the door, and then her father’s hurried footsteps as he entered my room, his face pale and drawn.
“Juliette,” he said, gripping my shoulders. “We must leave. Now.”
The urgency in his voice left no room for questions. I quickly pulled on my shawl wrapping it around tightly. Mother joined, her eyes wide with fear, clutching a small bag that contained all we could take.
Father led us through the darkened halls, his hand steady despite the danger that awaited us outside. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant shout, sent a chill through my spine. We slipped through the servants' quarters, hurrying to the rear gate that led to a hidden path.
A carriage was already there, and my father sat on the drivers seat as we set forth. The estate was becoming smaller and smaller as we moved far and far venturing into the forest.
After what felt like an hour we reached the edge of a small village. Father stopped and motioned for us to stay hidden. He left to speak with a local farmer, hoping to secure safe passage for us. But all we could hear was shouting and hurried voices.
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We stepped out of the carriage into the cold night, and there we were met by a group of men. Peasants armed with pitchforks and torches, their eyes gleaming with a hatred. At the head of the group stood one of their former servants—a man her family had trusted for years.
“Pierre,” her father said, his voice trembling. “Why are you doing this?”
Pierre stepped forward, his expression hard. “For too long, we’ve suffered while you lived in luxury,” he spat. “Tonight, the Revolution claims what is rightfully ours.”
Just then, we heard the sound of boots pounding against the cobblestones, the shouts of soldiers as they surrounded us. They wore the tricolor cockades proudly, their rifles gleaming in the dull afternoon light. It was clear they were no longer simply enforcing laws; they were enforcing fear. Every step they took seemed to echo through the ground, a reminder that the Revolution had eyes and ears everywhere, that no one was beyond its reach.
"Comte Louis of the .....estate, come forward" One of the soldiers, perhaps with the highest authority ordered.
My mother held me close, her arms wrapped tightly around me as we watched. I remember her whispering prayers under her breath, clutching a small silver cross that hung around her neck. It was the first time I had ever seen her so frightened, so powerless.
My father stepped forward, his shoulders squared, but I could see the ever so slight tremble in his hands. He raised his chin, trying to meet the officer’s gaze with dignity, but his voice wavered.
"I am Comte Louis... of this estate. I demand to know the charges you hold against us."
The officer scoffed, a look of disdain crossing his face as he gestured to the peasants, who murmured angrily, some glaring at us with unmasked hatred. "The Revolution holds no patience for demands, Comte. You stand accused of betraying the Republic, of living off the blood and sweat of these people. For such crimes, there is only one punishment."
As he said these words, he leveled his gaze at my father. A murmur rippled through the crowd, they had waited too long, endured too many injustices, and now we were the ones to bear the full force of their anger.
Mother clutched me tighter, and I could feel her heartbeat racing through her chest. Her hands were clammy, shaking as she whispered into my ear, "Stay quiet, Juliette. Just stay quiet."
But her words were futile. The officer gestured sharply, and two soldiers stepped forward, seizing my father by the arms. He struggled, but they wrenched him forward with a cruelty that made my stomach twist. I had never seen my father so vulnerable, so utterly defeated. He was no longer the towering figure of authority I’d known, but a man stripped of all power and control, subject to the merciless hands of the Revolution.
His face was pale and set, his eyes a storm of emotions—fear, anger, and the quiet dignity of a man who knew that his fate had already been decided. He met my gaze, and for a brief moment, I saw my father, not as the proud Comte who had ruled over our estate with authority, but as a human being who was just as terrified as I was. My heart clenched painfully in my chest as he mouthed words I would never forget:
“Stay strong, Juliette.”
My mother cried out, reaching for him, but one of the soldiers pushed her back, shoving her down to her knees in the mud. They ignored my mother’s pleas, her desperate cries as she fell to her knees, begging for mercy. She reached for him, her fingers grasping air, and then clutched the ground beneath her as though it would stop the world from spiraling out of control. I could see the tears streaming down her face, mixing with the dirt and tried to comfort her, but my own hands were shaking, my heart pounding so loudly I could barely hear her over its insistent drumbeat.
I understood: this was just the beginning.
Memories flared up inside me like a wildfire. Arjun. My other self. The boy who had lived a life soaked in hardship, who had known hunger. A boy who had lost his parents, his family, everyone he had ever clung to. The vision of that memory crashed over me, choking me as though I was back there, back in the dirt and desolation of those days. I could almost feel the texture of the torn, rough blanket I had once shared with my father of first life sister, huddling close against the bitter cold of endless, hungry nights.
The villagers watched, some with pity, others with satisfaction. Pierre, our former servant, stood at the forefront.
He stepped forward, his voice loud and cold. “Look at them,” he spat, motioning to us. “These are the ones who feasted while we starved, who bathed in luxury while our children begged for bread. Tonight, justice is served.”
The crowd responded with a roar, and I felt a wave of nausea rise within me. I had always known there was hatred toward us, a simmering resentment that bubbled beneath the surface. But to see it like this—to see people I had known all my life transformed by such anger—was more horrifying than any nightmare I could have imagined.
The soldiers turned toward us next, their faces cold and emotionless, hardened by the sheer number of lives they had ruined. I had heard people speak of these soldiers as "the people’s heroes," liberators who tore down the old order to bring about a new France. But there was no heroism in their eyes, no glint of pride in what they were doing. It was as if cruelty had become their only language, and we were merely the latest victims in a long line.
The officer gestured toward my mother. “Take her as well.”
Two soldiers stepped forward, grabbing her roughly by the arms. She struggled, her voice cracking as she pleaded with them. "Please," she cried, her voice filled with a desperation I had never heard before. "Please, have mercy. We have done nothing wrong! Please just spare my child!"
But her words fell on deaf ears. The Revolution cared not for pleas or innocence. It demanded blood, and it would not be satisfied until it had drained every last drop.
They dragged my father and mother forward, binding their hands with coarse ropes. My mother looked back at me, her eyes wide with terror. "Juliette," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Stay strong. Remember who you are."
But who was I? In this moment, I was not Juliette, not a noblewoman, not a privileged daughter, not even Arjun, the poor boy. I was merely a child, stripped of my identity, caught in the relentless storm of a world that had turned against me.
They ordered me forward next, their rough hands grabbing my arms, pulling me along. I bit back a scream, but tears burned in my eyes as I fought to stay silent. I knew they were watching, and the last thing I wanted was to give them the satisfaction of seeing me cry. But I was only a child, and the weight of the fear pressing down on me was almost too much to bear. Memories of my past life as Arjun flashed before me—the hunger, the desperation—but it felt hollow, distant, as if it belonged to someone else entirely.
I had known them for only over two years but somehow during that time I had been attached to them. It hurt me to see them begging to save me when in reality I didn't even know if I was really their child.
This was a different kind of suffering, and I was drowning in it.
They forced us into a carriage, a crude, rickety thing with splinters that jabbed into my skin. My father sat beside me, his face pale and his hands trembling as he tried to comfort me, though his own fear was all too clear. And mother clutched my hand tightly, her grip bruising, as though I was the only thing keeping her anchored to reality.
I couldn’t look her in the eyes. I didn’t want her to see the terror etched across my face. But in the dark, I could feel her shoulders shaking, could hear her whispering broken words under her breath, prayers to gods who had turned their backs on us.
The journey was rough, the carriage lurching and jolting as we were taken through the darkened streets, and the silence between us was filled with a sense of impending doom.
We arrived at the prison by dawn, a towering, oppressive structure that loomed over us like a beast waiting to devour its prey.
They separated us from my father, dragging him down a different hallway. My mother screamed his name, reaching out for him, her fingers stretching toward him in a last, desperate bid to keep us together. But the guards yanked her back, and I watched as she crumbled, her sobs echoing down the endless halls.
They led us to a cell and threw us inside, the door slamming shut behind us with a heavy finality. I stumbled forward, my knees hitting the stone floor as I struggled to keep myself upright. The cell was damp, dark, and filled with the stench of rot. The air was suffocating, with the despair of those who had been here before us.
My mother sank down beside me, her eyes hollow and unfocused. She didn’t speak, didn’t even seem to see me. It was as if the fire that had once fueled her had been extinguished, leaving only an empty shell. I wrapped my arms around her, trying to comfort her, but the weight of our reality settled over us like a shroud, and I knew that nothing I could say would ever bring her peace.
Days bled into one another in that dark cell, marked only by the distant sounds of footsteps and the occasional shouts from other prisoners. My mother barely spoke, and barely ate, lost in her own world of grief and despair. I was left alone with my thoughts, haunted by memories of my father, by the sound of his voice as he was dragged away. I clung to the hope that he was still alive, that somehow he had managed to escape the fate awaiting us.
But deep down, I knew the truth. None of us would leave this place alive.
To be continued...