The Last Laugh
by Robin Knabel
*** Top 4 Finalist in The Writer’s Digest Your Story #101 Contest
Leaves littered the winding path of the Jardin des Champs Elysees, my feet crunching and tearing at their red blades. I stepped with purpose, the ruffle of my collar waving so fiercely I feared my chin would chafe.
I’d arrived in Paris during Napoleon’s Hundred Days as part of a circus troupe that toured the city entertaining and easing wartime thoughts. I called myself Le General de Fou – an homage. When Louis XVIII reclaimed the throne, he ordered those sympathetic to Napoleon to be killed. Some of the first to be sacrificed were the members of my troupe, publicly paraded to kneel at Madame Guillotine to meet their fates. King Louis suffered from coulrophobia, and the mere sight of clowns, let alone a group, caused him to panic and break out in hives. Since their deaths, I have wandered alone in the city, waiting for my moment to avenge them.
Bitter bile rose in my throat as I approached the throng of sycophants. Louis XVIII waved his delicate, bejeweled hand from inside a golden carriage. The outer décor rivaled the fresco paintings of the Cistine Chapel, each scene displayed by heavenly cherubs carved into the ornate framework of the coach. Ladies swooned at the sight of the handsome monarch, feigning weakness as his eyes grazed their heaving bosoms.
“Bonjour, Monsieur!” I called out over the genuflecting rabble, waving my red gloved hand in the air as I mockingly bowed, pouring myself into a front somersault. Bouncing back to my feet, I sprung forward toward the carriage. The eyes of the crowd were upon me, and I felt empowered.
The King recoiled, pressing his back against the plush, velvet seat cushion as if he would rather disappear into it than see me. As I dusted off my white tunic, the red puffy balls lining its front shimmied and danced toward him; His mouth screwed up into a scowl. The driver of the coach scuttled toward the window, bowing and apologizing, apparently not having repaired the broken wheel quickly enough to remove his eminence from the harrowing situation. He hustled back to his duties as the King removed his gloves and loosened his cravat. Beads of sweat erupted on his forehead the closer I hopped. My collar bounced around my face, and the bells tinkled on the toes of my upturned jester slippers.
The crowd laughed, unaware of the King’s extreme discomfort with my presence. I marched before the carriage like a toy soldier, my mannerisms exaggerated and ridiculous. As I entertained his daft devotees, a member of the Garde de Corps crept behind me. Turning to taunt the King anew, the tip of my bulbous, red nose grazed the guard’s shoulder. A delighted roar came from inside the carriage; His Highness had recovered from his pallor with his defender present.
I faced the carriage and inserted my hand into an opening in my tunic, mimicking Napoleon’s infamous stance. The King’s lips curled back, exposing his teeth as his beady eyes bored through the boorish buffoon before him. I spun around, bent over, and exposed my derriere, waggling it with fervent vigor as the crowd gasped. The crunch of the pistol handle sinking into my temple nauseated me. I lay face down on the path, my blood mingling with the fallen red leaves, oblivious to my lewd exposure.
King Louis barked an order, and his carriage wheels creaked into action. Grasping my tunic, the guard lifted me and urged my feeble frame toward the Place Louis XV. The blade glistened above me in the afternoon sun as my crinkled collar was replaced by a wooden noose. Before the curtain came down on my final act, I looked out to see the crowd cheering. They shouted and thrust their fists toward me. The smile remained on my face as my head landed in the basket.
Your Story #101
Write a short story of 650 words or fewer based on the photo prompt above. You can be poignant, funny, witty, etc.; it is, after all, your story.
