Charles-Henri Sanson has just survived another execution. His long curly raven hair, which he brushes back, falls over his shoulders. His complexion is almost white. He's cold as always

– André, give me a towel. – he says to the servant. When a towel is brought to him, he simply wipes the blood from his thin, pale and refined hands. As if absolutely indifferent to everything. In his heart, he certainly feels compassion. But outwardly he is cold and mysterious