gerembeau
Tribune
I apologise for the interruption due to a mistake on my part in giving the text to be translated to Eulalia, God bless her!
September 6, 1705-Louisiana, the French camp on the border of the Natchez territory, east of Fort Challeau.
She sometimes found some comfort in Peter Three Fingers, who had convinced her to try her luck in the trapper's camp. She was able to tell the Breton, a fellow-countryman, how she had been unable to ever see her father again. He himself had narrowly escaped the galleys, and knew very well how Jeanne felt. He was clever enough to make progress in winning her affection, standing out as he did from the brutality and rudeness of the other wild men of the woods. In those days when a strong, well-made man could be a good match for a woman, he knew he had a chance if he took his time.
But Jeanne had begun to grow bored, she had become accustomed to the harsh life of the trappers and their wives, but this routine was beginning to weigh on her, and she did not see herself ending her life just skinning venison and hollering at night, pint in hand, around a campfire.
4 August 1705, Fort de Challeau in the morning a little later
Fort Challeau proudly dominated the narrow roadway that divided the Louisiana waterfront to the south into two spray-swept coasts facing each other. The girls walked slowly along the path towards the ring of high palisades. Their relief at having escaped a horrible end mingled with deep concern for Marie.
They had been able to buy some balm in the town to treat their wounds, and they took advantage of a corner to drop their calico shifts and anoint each other's burning backs.
"My dear god, whatever's going to happen to the poor girl?
"In the colonies, it's hanging in an iron cage. I've been told its over very quick."
"No, I saw a chopping block, I think she will be beheaded."
"Either way, no more torture, she won't suffer."
In their eyes that met, each one read the hope of being right.
They remained stretched out for two long hours, leaning against the thick wooden piles, not bothering to respond to the salacious remarks of the soldiers who were doing their rounds, just giving a smile to the women who passed by to take a look at them, some out of sympathy, others to revel in their past sufferings.
Around 11 a.m., the first drum roll brought them to their feet. They got up quickly and leaned against the parapet overlooking the central square of the fort. They observed that the scaffold that had been empty the day before was now cluttered with various materials, and they looked at each other in dismay. There was no gallows or block, but a large wheel resting on a thick wooden plinth sloping 30 degrees towards the square, and facing the crowd that was beginning to gather. Grey smoke was rising from a brazier placed next to two long pikes. The owners of the two inns had placed more chairs on their terraces and the wealthiest of the inhabitants had occupied the place early, even if it meant drinking earlier than usual, and also more than necessary. Some rich merchants had even rented rooms for the day, and were strutting on the balconies to show off their wealth.
Renfroy d'Ormonville had been particularly complimentary in his eulogy of Ballancourt. The three judges, with grave faces, had listened to him for several minutes. The murder of a man of God had never before occurred in the small colony, and there was no precedent for assessing the punishment that should be inflicted on Marie. It was the executioner who told the judges what punishment should be meted out to the murderer. It was not by chance that he listed all the tortures he could inflict, for every task was meticulously paid to the nearest sol, and he would earn himself a small nest egg for the day. Struck by the exceptional nature of this case, the judges agreed to all of Justinian Roubrac's proposals.
Marie walked slowly, her bare feet sometimes slipping on the wet cobblestones, many were soiled with the shit of the multitude of dogs that were barking incessantly, excited by the murmuring of the crowd getting ever more aroused up under the hot sun. Behind her, a priest was holding up a cross while chanting a prayer that Mary refused to listen to. Eggs were thrown, one burst on Marie's head, but the soldiers calmed the more aggressive settlers in groups along the street with sharp blows of their rifle butts, so the procession could continue.
Soon, calm returned and only a few jeers accompanied Marie in the rest of her walk of shame. At the last crossroads before arriving the square, Justinian put a firm hand on Marie's shoulder to stop her. He pulled the lace that held the immaculate linen dress around her neck and slipped it off. He held her firmly by the shoulders to force her to straighten her torso and prevent her from pulling up her chain-laden wrists to hide her breasts from the crowd.
Cries rose up, laughter sizzled. The women were both amused and jealous:
"Did you see the fat cow's udders? I wouldn't like to carry those around all day"
"Just wait and see what Justinian will do with them, she'll regret being so well-endowed!"
The men were more silent, their throats dry, anticipating all that each of them was hoping in his secret garden to see inflicted to these guilty teats. Jeanne put her hand to her mouth when the tragic procession arrived in the village square. Justinian and a soldier were dragging Marie more than they were supporting her. Her legs had refused to carry her as soon as she had seen the preparations on the scaffold, she understood only too well the fate that was in store for her. Her reflexes of modesty had faded at once, she struggled weakly without caring about her shaking breasts, her slit which yawned open when she tried to give feeble kicks, imploring "No, no, hang me, just hang me, pleeease!"
But her pleas were drowned out by the flood of invective from the crowd. From the inns came clamorous, already drunken, yells of glee as Marie was skilfully bound to the wheel. With her arms and legs crossed, her vulva open to all eyes, she experienced a moment of respite under the hot sun tempered by a cool breeze. By arching her torso, she managed to detach her back from the big pointed hub of the wheel, but she understood that this effort made her breasts protrude even more, for the greater satisfaction of the males in the audience. The tributes paid to her ample chest reached her in spite of the surrounding hubbub.
"My God, what a pair! I'd need four hands!"
"Would my dick disappear between those two titties!"
"The fort would be well defended with such bastions!"
September 6, 1705-Louisiana, the French camp on the border of the Natchez territory, east of Fort Challeau.
She sometimes found some comfort in Peter Three Fingers, who had convinced her to try her luck in the trapper's camp. She was able to tell the Breton, a fellow-countryman, how she had been unable to ever see her father again. He himself had narrowly escaped the galleys, and knew very well how Jeanne felt. He was clever enough to make progress in winning her affection, standing out as he did from the brutality and rudeness of the other wild men of the woods. In those days when a strong, well-made man could be a good match for a woman, he knew he had a chance if he took his time.
But Jeanne had begun to grow bored, she had become accustomed to the harsh life of the trappers and their wives, but this routine was beginning to weigh on her, and she did not see herself ending her life just skinning venison and hollering at night, pint in hand, around a campfire.
4 August 1705, Fort de Challeau in the morning a little later
Fort Challeau proudly dominated the narrow roadway that divided the Louisiana waterfront to the south into two spray-swept coasts facing each other. The girls walked slowly along the path towards the ring of high palisades. Their relief at having escaped a horrible end mingled with deep concern for Marie.
They had been able to buy some balm in the town to treat their wounds, and they took advantage of a corner to drop their calico shifts and anoint each other's burning backs.
"My dear god, whatever's going to happen to the poor girl?
"In the colonies, it's hanging in an iron cage. I've been told its over very quick."
"No, I saw a chopping block, I think she will be beheaded."
"Either way, no more torture, she won't suffer."
In their eyes that met, each one read the hope of being right.
They remained stretched out for two long hours, leaning against the thick wooden piles, not bothering to respond to the salacious remarks of the soldiers who were doing their rounds, just giving a smile to the women who passed by to take a look at them, some out of sympathy, others to revel in their past sufferings.
Around 11 a.m., the first drum roll brought them to their feet. They got up quickly and leaned against the parapet overlooking the central square of the fort. They observed that the scaffold that had been empty the day before was now cluttered with various materials, and they looked at each other in dismay. There was no gallows or block, but a large wheel resting on a thick wooden plinth sloping 30 degrees towards the square, and facing the crowd that was beginning to gather. Grey smoke was rising from a brazier placed next to two long pikes. The owners of the two inns had placed more chairs on their terraces and the wealthiest of the inhabitants had occupied the place early, even if it meant drinking earlier than usual, and also more than necessary. Some rich merchants had even rented rooms for the day, and were strutting on the balconies to show off their wealth.
Renfroy d'Ormonville had been particularly complimentary in his eulogy of Ballancourt. The three judges, with grave faces, had listened to him for several minutes. The murder of a man of God had never before occurred in the small colony, and there was no precedent for assessing the punishment that should be inflicted on Marie. It was the executioner who told the judges what punishment should be meted out to the murderer. It was not by chance that he listed all the tortures he could inflict, for every task was meticulously paid to the nearest sol, and he would earn himself a small nest egg for the day. Struck by the exceptional nature of this case, the judges agreed to all of Justinian Roubrac's proposals.
Marie walked slowly, her bare feet sometimes slipping on the wet cobblestones, many were soiled with the shit of the multitude of dogs that were barking incessantly, excited by the murmuring of the crowd getting ever more aroused up under the hot sun. Behind her, a priest was holding up a cross while chanting a prayer that Mary refused to listen to. Eggs were thrown, one burst on Marie's head, but the soldiers calmed the more aggressive settlers in groups along the street with sharp blows of their rifle butts, so the procession could continue.
Soon, calm returned and only a few jeers accompanied Marie in the rest of her walk of shame. At the last crossroads before arriving the square, Justinian put a firm hand on Marie's shoulder to stop her. He pulled the lace that held the immaculate linen dress around her neck and slipped it off. He held her firmly by the shoulders to force her to straighten her torso and prevent her from pulling up her chain-laden wrists to hide her breasts from the crowd.
Cries rose up, laughter sizzled. The women were both amused and jealous:
"Did you see the fat cow's udders? I wouldn't like to carry those around all day"
"Just wait and see what Justinian will do with them, she'll regret being so well-endowed!"
The men were more silent, their throats dry, anticipating all that each of them was hoping in his secret garden to see inflicted to these guilty teats. Jeanne put her hand to her mouth when the tragic procession arrived in the village square. Justinian and a soldier were dragging Marie more than they were supporting her. Her legs had refused to carry her as soon as she had seen the preparations on the scaffold, she understood only too well the fate that was in store for her. Her reflexes of modesty had faded at once, she struggled weakly without caring about her shaking breasts, her slit which yawned open when she tried to give feeble kicks, imploring "No, no, hang me, just hang me, pleeease!"
But her pleas were drowned out by the flood of invective from the crowd. From the inns came clamorous, already drunken, yells of glee as Marie was skilfully bound to the wheel. With her arms and legs crossed, her vulva open to all eyes, she experienced a moment of respite under the hot sun tempered by a cool breeze. By arching her torso, she managed to detach her back from the big pointed hub of the wheel, but she understood that this effort made her breasts protrude even more, for the greater satisfaction of the males in the audience. The tributes paid to her ample chest reached her in spite of the surrounding hubbub.
"My God, what a pair! I'd need four hands!"
"Would my dick disappear between those two titties!"
"The fort would be well defended with such bastions!"