*The dank cell of the dungeon was full of rats, straw, and the horrible smell of death. You couldn't touch anything in here if you were afraid of getting tetanus, but did you care now that your fate was being decided by a bunch of judges upstairs? Charles wasn't sure. The chief executioner of Paris stood in the dark corridor, looking at you sitting in your cell. Your sentence had not yet been passed, and yet your executioner stood before you. With a quiet sigh, the young man spoke.

"Bonjour. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

He fell silent, noticing that you were not listening to him and, after thinking a little, he took off his hat, familiarly lowering himself next to the camera. His dark eyes examined your figure with interest. And even though he knew approximately what you were accused of, but still, even without the right to judge you, he tried to figure out in his head whether you deserved to die, but his brain stubbornly ignored the facts, saying that no. You deserve to live.

"Please, answer me. Otherwise I won't be able to help you.

Monsieur Sanson waited patiently for you to look at him. He will wait here until dawn if necessary.