"I see."

". . . and this is Charles Rapskeller. Brother to the Duchesse d'Angouleme."

"Mm."

"The lost dauphin, do you hear? If you harm a hair on his head, you will be guilty of regicide. Do you know what that means?"

And for a second, the word actually seems to splinter his self-possession. His eyes startle open, and with a shrug of apology, he says:

"Honestly, where's my head? We've one thing to do before we go."

He gives a nod, and two of his assistants seize Charles, spread him across a stone platform.

"Wait," I say. "Wait."

They unroll the sleeve of his shirt. ("Nice fabric," I hear one of them mutter.) They pin down his right forearm. Unfurl his balled fingers.

"What are you doing?" I shout.

"Just a little formality," answers Sanson.

Like a child with his nose buried in a primer, he begins to recite in a singsongy voice.

"By order of Penal Code Provision 23-A, subsection 9 . . ."

"Please," I say. "You've got the wrong man."

". . . any person found truly guilty of conspiring against the King's life is, in the eyes of the state, guilty of parricide . . ."

His hand gropes toward a butcher's cleaver. Raises it toward the ceiling.

". . . and receives punishment commensurate with same."

For a second or two, the blade hovers there, jeweled in a prism of light. Then down it comes.

"No!"

In the same breath as my cry, the blade bisects the exact point where Charles' arm meets his hand.

A shriek . . . a squall of red . . . and Charles sinks to the f loor, blood rolling out in tides.

With a businesslike motion, Sanson sweeps the severed hand into a potato sack, calmly ties it round. Then, catching sight of my face, he says:

"No worries, Monsieur. You get to keep yours."

"For God's sake," I gasp. "Can't you-can't you wrap the wound? Can't you . . ."

The words f ly out before I see their absurdity.

"He' ll bleed to death!"

"Give the fellow a blanket," instructs Sanson. "And don't worry so much about waking him up. Best for him if he doesn't."

All their attention turns to me now. The assistants bind my feet together. They throw a jacket over my back and knot the sleeves under my chin. A cold sweat breaks out across my brow. My brain is dashing against the walls of my skull.

"Come, my son," says Father Montes.

I t's raining. Some how in the last hour, the sun went into hiding, and the clouds came, and none of it makes the slightest difference to the thousand spectators gathered in the Place de Greve. They've been here, many of them, since early this morning (before I even knew I was to be their entertainment), and now, as the four o'clock hour approaches, they lie piled atop one another with a geological force, like layers of shale. They jockey for views on the steps of the Palais de Justice, they dangle from alehouse balconies, they make the very bridges shudder beneath their force.

A group of gendarmes walks me toward the gatehouse threshold, dragging Charles close behind. At the sight of us, the roar comes down like a gale. I stagger back, but a hand keeps me erect. Another guides me toward the waiting cart.

Sanson heaves himself in first. Then comes Charles, still unconscious, still bundled in that blood-sodden towel. Then I come.

Around us, a single word is being chanted again and again, a million times over.

"Two! Two! Two!"

Guillotinings are rare enough in these early days of the Restoration, and to have the spectacle of two condemned men in the same afternoon is an unheard-of pleasure. Just like the old days, you can feel the crowd thinking. Before the Old Growler got a bad flavor to it.