Losing my head was an unfortunate mistake. An invitation to attend the Tribunal Revolutionaire, an all-expenses-paid holiday at la Bastille and then away it went – the ‘national razor’ dropped, and that was that!
Silly, careless when I stopped to think about it. I know I was outspoken, loud sometimes, just a drunken, forlorn bore, but I did enjoy my cousin Louis’ company. He dressed immaculately and was generous, to a fault. Those soirees at Versailles, the champagne, the costumes – merveilleux.
He and I would hunt stag, sometimes pheasant across the estate or enjoy a dalliance in a woodland glade, the perfumed companions always such a joy! These were exquisite times, although head winds were definitely blowing.
Hardly a week went by without some boisterous street protest. La Bastille was bursting at the seams, le Widower was in constant demand, with reports that it has become a hazard even for the executioner, with the residues causing dangerous, slippery surfaces. The peasantry were revolting!
Difficult times were upon us. I was left sightless, at what was to become the Place de Bastille, left to wander – blinded, as the city fell into mayhem and I heard degenerate crime was rampant.
I found eventual refuge in the towers of Notre Dame – splendid elevation, and reasonable security. The only inconvenience was meeting up with that infamous tenant, that windbag Quasimodo. Supposedly gone centuries before, but actually just in retirement. He scared the hell out of me.
But he taught me several survival tips. The deadly boredom of death – the unending non-existence. I needed to amuse myself, to pass the time. I found strolling on the streets, of an evening, restorative, joining the throngs of deceased, wandering amongst the living. We would compare notes as the revolution swirled around us. Executions were responsible for many joining the outings.
On occasions, Quasimodo amused himself with devilish ‘guest appearances’. He’d laugh uproariously.
I was still unsure of my modus operandi and was often out on the streets by myself, mingling with the left bank set, once even returning to the Place de la Bastille. But the memories were overpowering. Screw them: I never returned!
Time moved at a funerary pace. We heard about the new decrees, promising egalitarian liberty and fraternity. There were decades of unrest. Armies came and went: soldiers, armaments, destruction but our creamy white sandstone towers remained secure.
Centuries passed, new technologies, new fashions in vogue. At some point, the universities poured out onto the streets demanding egalitarian reform. Our cathedral remained aloof, above the occasional spot of social unrest.
In recent times Quasimondo rarely travelled beyond the towers, whereas I needed the stimulation of the nighttime crowds. The laughter, that heady excitement in the cafes. I was back in the towers by daylight.
But it was all about to change! Some bureaucrat decided the Cathedral’s bells needed retuning. Digital replacements were temporarily installed. An electrical short circuit, a fire destroyed the cathedral, and we lost the roof over our heads – so to speak!