Innocent IF: The Executioner's Blade That Saves the Future
In an age where the blade of the executioner is both reviled and feared, Charles-Henri Sanson carries the weight of his family's bloody legacy as the fourth Monsieur de Paris. Each dawn brings another life ended by his hand, each dusk another chorus of jeers from the crowd that cheers for death but curses the one who delivers it. Haunted by the wrongful execution of an innocent man and burdened by a profession he despises, Charles dreams of a future where the death penalty no longer exists—a dre
Innocent IF: The Executioner's Blade That Saves the Future - The Slum's Witness — The Looming Shadow and His Sister's Blade
The sky over Saint-Marcel had been heavy with clouds since morning.
Muddy water seeped up through the gaps in the cobblestones, forming black puddles throughout the alleys. Vagrants slumped against walls in sleep, beggars' hands stretched out, barefoot children ran past. This was the eastern quarter of Paris, a district packed tight with the poor and the laboring. Charles-Henri Sanson walked through it with the collar of his dark navy coat turned up.
Beside him walked his sister, dressed as a man.
Marie-Josèphe Sanson. Her golden curls were tucked beneath a hat, and she wore a man's jacket and trousers. Only her blue-green eyes shone with an eerie brightness in the dim alley. Sixteen years old. Daughter of the Sanson house. And now, alongside her brother, searching for a certain person.
" Walk around with a face like that, and you'll draw suspicion all on your own."
His sister spoke without turning her head.
"What kind of face am I making?"
" Like you're on your way to a funeral. Stand taller. We're just a brother and sister, just coming back from shopping. Make that face."
Charles sighed.
*Stand taller, she says.*
Easier said than done. Right now, they were trying to expose the crimes of a nobleman and assistant judge of the High Court—the Marquis Antoine de Luxe. If they were caught, an executioner meddling in such affairs would lose his head for it.
But there was no other way.
His closest friend Jean had been thrown in prison on a false charge. The crime: printing seditious documents inciting treason against the state—something Jean had never done. The execution was set for three weeks from now. And the one who would carry it out was none other than Charles himself.
" Marie. Do you really have a lead?"
"Of course I do. Who do you think I am?"
Marie-Josèphe snorted.
"Leave it to me. I'll dig up a nobleman's dirty secrets or two."
Masculine speech. A willful, defiant tone. That tone always filled Charles with unease.
*She's thinking of something dangerous again.*
His sister was consumed by the fire of revenge. Her first love, Alain, had been killed by the Marquis de Luxe. The school she had attended, the orphaned children there—all of it burned. That hatred drove her forward.
" Marie, I understand how you feel. But don't do anything reckless."
" Reckless? When have I ever been reckless?"
"You slipped out of the estate and tried to infiltrate the de Luxe residence alone."
" That was because you keep dithering forever! If I don't do it, no one will!"
Her voice rose. A beggar in the alley glanced their way. Charles grabbed his sister's arm.
"Keep your voice down."
"...I know."
Marie-Josèphe bit her lip.
*That cautious streak of yours—sometimes it infuriates me beyond words.*
She thought it, but didn't say it. This was no time to be fighting with her brother.
" So. Where are we headed?"
"The far end of Saint-Marcel. Behind the tanneries."
"A witness lives in a place like that?"
"She does. An old woman, a former servant. Her name's Hélène. My information network turned her up."
Marie-Josèphe quickened her pace.
The deeper they went into Saint-Marcel, the heavier the air became. The stench of animal fat and rot drifted from the tanneries. The alleys narrowed, the buildings leaned, and the sky was barely visible. Laundry hung from filthy ropes.
" Here."
His sister stopped.
It was a corner of a crumbling tenement. The wooden door was rotting, the walls cracked. Through the window, the dim interior was just visible.
"Hélène? Are you there?"
Marie-Josèphe rapped lightly on the door.
No answer.
She knocked again, harder.
"...Who is it?"
A hoarse voice came from inside.
"It's me. Marie. You talked to me the other day, remember?"
"Ah... from back then."
The door opened slowly.
A small old woman appeared. Her back was bent, her white hair a tangled mess. Her clothes were a faded linen dress, mended again and again. Deep wrinkles carved her face, and her eyes were clouded. But behind them burned a clear, unmistakable intelligence.
"This is my brother. Charles."
" Pleased to meet you, Hélène. My name is Charles-Henri Sanson."
Charles gave a slight bow.
"Sanson...?"
The old woman's eyes widened a fraction.
"The... executioner's..."
"Yes. That's right."
Hélène stared at Charles's face for a while. Then she nodded slowly.
"...Come in. It's cramped."
The room was dim and damp. Stains spread across the walls, and straw covered the floor. The only furniture was a single wooden crate and a broken chair. Light filtering through the window set the dust motes drifting.
"Sit. I've nothing to offer you."
Hélène lowered herself onto the crate. Charles and Marie-Josèphe sat directly on the floor.
" Hélène. I'll ask you straight. Tell us what you know about the Marquis de Luxe."
Hélène raised her clouded eyes to the ceiling.
"...That man is a devil."
She said it in a low voice.
"I worked in that mansion for nearly twenty years. As a servant. So I saw plenty. I saw that man's true face."
Hélène began to speak, slowly.
"On the surface, he's a devout believer, a merciful lord. But in truth, he's the lowest kind of beast—he devours women for sport. When he takes a liking to a woman, he stops at nothing. He threatens, he makes her weep, he takes her by force... and when he tires of her, he discards her."
" ...So it's true."
Marie-Josèphe's voice trembled. Her clenched fist had gone white with rage.
"You knew about this?"
"He killed... he killed someone precious to me. A boy named Alain. My first love."
Tears welled in Marie-Josèphe's eyes. But they were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of hatred.
"Is that so... So you're one of that man's victims too."
Hélène let out a deep sigh.
" Hélène. Do you know anything about Jean's case? He's a printer in Saint-Marcel, arrested for printing seditious documents against the state."
"Jean... ah, that cheerful printer fellow. I know him. He used to share bread with me now and then. A good young man. There's no way he'd commit treason against the state."
Hélène spoke with conviction.
" Hélène, you know Jean?"
"Aye. There's no one around here who doesn't. Always smiling, teaching the children their letters. A boy like that would never print seditious documents. It's a trap. That man's trap."
"A trap...?"
"I saw it. On the very day Jean was arrested."
Hélène's voice dropped to a whisper.
"From the back door of that mansion, that man's servant was carrying out a bundle of documents. I pretended to be a beggar and watched from the shadows. The servant burned those papers deep in the alley. I picked up what was left."
"What was left...!?"
Charles leaned forward.
"I have it. Right here."
Hélène pulled a small cloth bag from beneath the crate. What emerged was a scrap of charred paper.
"This is what was left."
Charles took the scrap.
It was blackened and scorched, but a few characters were still legible.
"...Saint-Marcel district... printer... Jean..."
"This is..."
"Jean's name was written on it. That man forged some document to frame Jean. And he burned it to destroy the evidence."
Charles's hand trembled.
*This is evidence.*
Solid proof of Jean's innocence.
" Hélène, would you testify to this at trial!? If you testify, Jean will be saved!"
Charles grasped Hélène's hands.
"...Who do you think would believe the testimony of a poor old woman like me?"
Hélène smiled sadly.
"That man is an assistant judge of the High Court. The judge himself is the criminal. My testimony would be buried, sure as anything."
"Even so, if we have evidence—"
" I know more. Far deeper sins of that man."
Hélène's eyes suddenly sharpened.
"That man assaulted women in his own jurisdiction. Not once or twice, either. Many women swallowed their tears in silence. Some tried to come forward. But that man framed one of them on a false charge, and she was executed."
" Th-that's monstrous..."
"Silencing them. That man will kill without a second thought to hide his crimes. Your friend was treated the same way."
Hélène's words pressed down on them like a weight.
" ...That bastard... I'll never forgive him."
Marie-Josèphe growled low in her throat.
" Brother, now you understand. Testimony alone won't bring that marquis down. A trial is pointless."
"Marie..."
" I'll settle it myself, directly. That's the only way."
Marie-Josèphe stood.
" Don't, Marie. Revenge breeds nothing. And you'd become a criminal yourself."
" Then what am I supposed to do!? Just watch quietly while that man lives on in comfort!?"
Marie-Josèphe's voice echoed through the room.
" We judge him by law. With Hélène's testimony and this evidence, surely—"
" Law!? A trial!? Are you serious!? He IS the judge! Who's going to judge him!?"
Hélène watched their quarrel in silence.
"...Take your sibling squabble outside."
Hélène's calm voice stopped them both.
" I'm sorry..."
" ...We weren't fighting."
Marie-Josèphe turned her face away.
"Hélène. Thank you so much for today. May I borrow this scrap of paper?"
"Aye, take it. I've no more need of it."
"I'll return it without fail. And I swear I will prove Jean's innocence."
Charles bowed deeply.
" Be careful. There's no telling where that man's ears are."
Hélène's words lingered strangely in his mind.
When they left the tenement, the sky outside had already edged toward dusk.
Beneath the overcast sky, the alleys of Saint-Marcel sank into an even deeper gloom. From somewhere far off, a factory bell tolled heavily.
" Marie. Did you tell anyone about Hélène?"
"Huh? Of course not. I'm not an idiot."
"I see..."
*Then why did she say that?*
Hélène's last words wouldn't leave his head.
*There's no telling where that man's ears are.*
It was as if she knew they were being watched.
" What's wrong, brother? You look pale. Did the old woman's story scare you?"
"No... I was just thinking."
" You're always like that. You think, and think, and end up doing nothing. I won't end up like you."
Marie-Josèphe strode ahead.
" Marie, wait. What do you intend to do now?"
"Isn't it obvious? I'm going to gather evidence. The women that old woman mentioned—the ones who were assaulted. I'll find their families and acquaintances and collect testimony. Then I'll destroy that marquis socially."
"Socially...?"
" Not the bloody thing you're imagining. Relax. I'll corner him my own way. You save Jean your way."
Marie-Josèphe turned back and grinned.
That smile frightened him more than anything.
*Is that really all she means to do?*
Watching his sister's back, Charles couldn't shake his unease.
That night, Charles returned to the estate on Rue de la Chapelle.
Marie-Josèphe had shut herself in her room without dinner. André had carried a dinner tray up with a worried face, but the door hadn't opened.
" Master, has something happened?"
"...No. It's the usual. Leave her be."
In his study, Charles held the scrap of paper Hélène had lent him up to the lamplight.
Charred paper. Jean's name. The remnants of a forged document.
*This alone isn't enough.*
Even if he submitted it to the High Court, he'd be turned away at the door again. He needed more certain proof. Hélène's testimony. And the testimony of the women who had been assaulted.
*But Hélène doesn't believe in the courts.*
The old woman's eyes had been steeped in resignation. The poor could defy the nobility and nothing would change—she believed that with all her heart.
*Even so, I—*
Charles clutched the cross at his chest.
*God, please forgive me. I will carry out my own justice.*
A line from his father's ledger drifted through his mind.
*"Had this execution been halted. The future of France would have changed."*
The Crow Affair. A man executed on a false charge. What had his father been thinking then?
*I will not repeat the same mistake.*
He would not let Jean mount the scaffold. Never.
Charles set the scrap on the desk and looked out
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