"The gallows shall mete your punishemnts," the executioner cried triumphantly. Then five trapdoors swung open and five pairs of stockingless feet dangled in front of me. I waited patiently, lying as if dead, until the executioner bid all the crowd a good day, then I looked at my bounty. I cursed silently. After all, I had not spoken a word for the three years since the Revolution began. It must have been March.

I looked at all the bodies hanging. Only two had nice trousers. Seeing as that was a blessing to itself, I took a moment to thank the Holy Mother. Then, ducking under the feet, I began to work. The smell was what some would call revolting, but over the years one could get used to such accommodations. One fat man had extremely frilly pants; I took those. They could last me a year, or be traded for shoes or food. The next man was quite large; luxurious loyalist, I would guess. I reached into his pocket and pulled out twenty francs. That would buy me (and I pause to do the ciphering) about ten loaves of bread or four loaves and a pound of beef.

I repeated this action from man to man until I accumulated thirty-five francs. Then I pushed the panel in back of the gallows out onto the ground and slid out. In the days before the Revolution, the panel was used to retrieve dead bodies. The panel was now only used by me, as the executioners used stronger rope than they used to and therefore broke less, but the gallows were old. No one had thought to seal it up, so that detail alone was greatly to my benefit.

It was now about midday. I thanked the Holy Mother yet again, for no one had seen me. The last two days I had been spotted, but by this time I had been so used to survival at any cost that I could dispose of them easily. I don't dare think how my behavior would have been apalling, even sacrilegious, to myself just three years ago.

The butcher and the baker were on Rue Viande and Rue Pain respectively. I would visit Jacques Carstairs. Jacques was not a man to trifle with. He had always traveled to London to learn new ways to cut his meats, for both practical and aesthetic purposes. For years he also did not speak to any man. His reasons were different than mine, however, for he actually could not speak. The very day after I vanished from the public eye, Jacques was dragged to the gallows by Robespierre's men and hanged in Marseilles. Due to some accident, he did not die that day but rather injured his throat so terribly his voice never returned. It is said that he had his tongue cut out as well, just to ensure he would never speak against the Jacobins again before he was thrown into a moldy prison to die of age. How Jacques escaped and arrived in my city is not certain, and as he has never and can never have told anyone, I suspect it will stay a mystery until the Judgement Day.

Jacques looked up at me and smiled. He pointed to a sign that denoted his prices. I pointed to the beef and pulled out six francs. To any observer, it would seem we were simply bargaining the price I wanted to pay. No one would know the silent exchange. He took the money and handed me a half-pound of beef. I tossed him an extra franc and then sauntered off. Then I simply snagged some firewood from a vender's cart and a book from another. I always hated this part. It was a Voltaire novel too. I had always loved Voltaire; now I had to burn it to survive. It was really a shame. With a guilty heart I tore a few pages out, set the wood in a crosshatching style, and struck a well-worn piece of flint on my knife for a flame. I cut the beef into four strips and speared one strip on my knife. Holding it over the fire, I soon had an acceptable lunch. As I ate, my mind flashed back to the days before the Revolution; how the meat was always seasoned to my liking, how Annamarie would always complain that our food was too hot or that her dress was choking her, and how the meals were carried by white-clad servants. Oh, to be with Marguarite, to hold her once again. To have a stern talk with Noble about his schooling, or to dance with my Sonya again. Even to have one last walk through town with Gallant, my faithful cur to his last breath on that fateful night. Would I ever see my children again? I shook my head at the thought. Noble was truly a man now; I would not pain him with my disheveled state. He would think me a bandit, trying to steal his money. Sonya was married to a man I despised; she would not even look at me.

I finished the last of my beef. My knife's sharp edge glinted in the sun, and I stowed it as not to alert any authorities. I must have been too late, as I heard footsteps behid me. Maybe he would believe I was a simple passerby. But luck was not on my side.

"Oi! No fires in the streets!" I was trapped. Feverishly I looked for a place to hide. If he saw my face, I was dead.