Pebbles from a Northern Shore

THE GIFT

  Gaston was good at his job. As an executioner during the Terror, he dispatched aristocrats, clerics and other enemies of the Revolution with the calm efficiency of a butcher preparing meat for the market, the dispassion of a bookkeeper filling the pages of a ledger. If the abject cowardice of a former tyrant might give him a moment of contemptuous satisfaction, or the severed head of a pretty girl a twinge of regret, he showed no sign of either. To all appearances he was merely a smoothly-functioning instrument of the Revolution, doing what had to be done with the least possible fuss.

  He never mentioned any family, friends or mistress, living or dead, locally or in some other part of the country. His accent suggested an origin in one of the southern provinces, though none in particular. What had brought him to Paris was equally obscure. He had simply appeared when the need for him arose, spoke of nothing but the work to be done and no more than necessary of that, and at the end of each working day vanished until the next. His most inquisitive colleagues, after some vague thoughts of following him that always gave way to more pressing business, had long since given up trying to find out more about him.

  The day when the Comte de Soissons turned up in the tumbrel started no differently from many another. There was a rather chilly breeze, enough to give the prisoners an excuse for shivering, but most appeared to be calmly resigned to their fate; after all, death was inevitable sooner or later, the guillotine at least put a swift end to material anxieties, and if there was anything to follow, they had the clearest possible warning to prepare themselves for it. The few in an open state of funk, and even fewer who tried to disguise their fear with a show of bravado, at most irritated the more stoical. The Comte, however, was an exception to all this; he seemed almost cheerful. For all his seventy-odd years he trotted up the steps as though to a promising assignation, winked at Gaston and drew him slightly aside.

  "You seem a reliable sort," he said. "I'd like you to look after this. You might even find it useful." And producing a curiously-designed ring, he passed it over. Gaston was too nonplussed to do more than stare at it for a moment and put it in his pocket. "Right," said the Comte. "Better get on with our business. Adieu ­­- or should I say 'Au revoir'?"