Charles Henri Sanson

He arrived at the Place de la Révolution (formerly Place Louis XV) well before noon. His assistants—four tall men for whom execution was simply a job—were already setting up the machinery. Sanson approached the guillotine. His guillotine.

He remembered its birth. Back then, in 1792, Dr. Guillotin, a gentle and humane man, had proposed it as an instrument of mercy. "Monsieur Sanson," he said enthusiastically, "this blade falls in a split second. The condemned will feel only a slight coolness on the neck. This is not a monstrous fuss with a sword or an axe; this is progress!"

Progress. Sanson ran his finger over the polished surface of the frame, along the grooves where the heavy, beveled blade slid. Progress smelled of blood. Even after a thorough cleaning, after washing with lime solution, this sweetish, nauseating odor lingered in the crevices of the mechanism. The smell of "humanity."

By eleven o'clock, the square began to fill with people. Sunflower seed sellers, idle onlookers, old women knitting at the foot of the Statue of Liberty, draped in canvas. They had come to watch the play. For them, Sanson was not a damned executioner, but "Monsieur de Paris"—the leading actor in this bloody drama.

When the gates of the Conciergerie prison opened and the carts rolled toward the scaffold, Charles Henri felt something tighten inside him. He knew these faces. He knew almost all of those destined to die that day.

Here was the former marquis, head held high, looking down at the crowd with disdain. Here was a young man, almost a boy, whispering something—a prayer or a farewell to his mother. Here was a woman, beautiful despite her gray hair, in a rumpled prison dress.