"It is?"
"Yes. I am going to England, you understand, and it occurred to me that if you wished it, Madame, it would be a matter of the greatest simplicity for me to carry any message that you desired. Should there be anyone with whom you wished to communicate, that is," he added, with his usual precision.
I glanced at Jamie, whose face had suddenly altered, from an open expression of polite interest to that pleasantly smiling mask that hid all thoughts. A stranger wouldn't have noticed the difference, but I did.
"No," I said hesitantly. "I have no friends or relatives in England; I'm afraid I have no connections there at all, since I was—widowed." I felt the usual small stab at this reference to Frank, but suppressed it.
If this seemed odd to Monsieur Forez, he didn't show it. He merely nodded, and set down his half-drunk glass of wine.
"I see. It is fortunate indeed that you have friends here, then." His voice seemed to hold a warning of some kind, but he didn't look at me as he bent to straighten his stocking before rising. "I shall call upon you on my return, then, and hope to find you again in good health."
"What is the business that takes you to England, Monsieur?" Jamie said bluntly.
Monsieur Forez turned to him with a faint smile. He cocked his head, eyes bright, and I was struck once more by his resemblance to a large bird. Not a carrion crow at the moment, though, but a raptor, a bird of prey.
"And what business should a man of my profession travel on, Monsieur Fraser?" he asked. "I have been hired to perform my usual duties, at Smithfield."
"An important occasion, I take it," said Jamie. "To justify the summoning of a man of your skill, I mean." His eyes were watchful, though his expression showed nothing beyond polite inquiry.
Monsieur Forez's eyes grew brighter. He rose slowly to his feet, looking down at Jamie where he sat near the window.
"That is true, Monsieur Fraser," he said softly. "For it is a matter of skill, make no mistake. To choke a man to death at the end of a rope—pah! Anyone can do that. To break a neck cleanly, with one quick fall, that requires some calculation in terms of weight and drop, and a certain amount of practice in the placing of the rope, as well. But to walk the line between these methods, to properly execute the sentence of a traitor's death; that requires great skill indeed."
My mouth felt suddenly dry, and I reached for my own glass. "A traitor's death?" I said, feeling as though I really didn't want to hear the answer.
"Hanging, drawing, and quartering," Jamie said briefly. "That's what you mean, of course, Monsieur Forez?"
The hangman nodded. Jamie rose to his feet, as though against his will, facing the gaunt, black-clad visitor. They were much of a height, and could look each other in the face without difficulty. Monsieur Forez took a step toward Jamie, expression suddenly abstracted, as though he were about to make a demonstration of some medical point.
"Oh, yes," he said. "Yes, that is the traitor's death. First, the man must be hanged, as you say, but with a nice judgment, so that the neck is not broken, nor the windpipe crushed—suffocation is not the desired result, you understand."
"Oh, I understand." Jamie's voice was soft, with an almost mocking edge, and I glanced at him in bewilderment.
"Do you, Monsieur?" Monsieur Forez smiled faintly, but went on without waiting for an answer. "It is a matter of timing then; you judge by the eyes. The face will darken with blood almost immediately—more quickly if the subject is of fair complexion—and as choking proceeds, the tongue is forced from the mouth. That is what delights the crowds, of course, as well as the popping eyes. But you watch for the signs of redness at the corners of the eyes, as the small blood vessels burst. When that happens, you must give at once the signal for the subject to be cut down—a dependable assistant is indispensable, you understand," he half-turned, to include me in this macabre conversation, and I nodded, despite myself.
"Then," he continued, turning back to Jamie, "you must administer at once a stimulant, to revive the subject while the shirt is being removed—you must insist that a shirt opening down the front is provided; often it is difficult to get them off over the head." One long, slender finger reached out, pointing at the middle button of Jamie's shirt, but not quite touching the fresh-starched linen.
"I would suppose so," Jamie said.
Monsieur Forez retracted the finger, nodding in approval at this evidence of comprehension.
"Just so. The assistant will have kindled the fire beforehand; this is beneath the dignity of the executioner. And then the time of the knife is at hand."
There was a dead silence in the room. Jamie's face was still set in inscrutability, but a slight moisture gleamed on the side of his neck.
"It is here that the utmost of skill is required," Monsieur Forez explained, raising a finger in admonition. "You must work quickly, lest the subject expire before you have finished. Mixing a dose with the stimulant which constricts the blood vessels will give you a few moments' grace, but not much."
Spotting a silver letter-opener on the table, he crossed to it and picked it up. He held it with his hand wrapped about the hilt, forefinger braced on top of the blade, pointed down at the shining walnut of the tabletop.
"Just there," he said, almost dreamily. "At the base of the breastbone. And quickly, to the crest of the groin. You can see the bone easily in most cases. Again"—and the letter opener flashed to one side and then the other, quick and delicate as the zigzag flight of a hummingbird—"following the arch of the ribs. You must not cut deeply, for you do not wish to puncture the sac which encloses the entrails. Still, you must get through skin, fat, and muscle, and do it with one stroke. This," he said with satisfaction, gazing down at his own reflection in the tabletop, "is artistry."
He laid the knife gently on the table, and turned back to Jamie. He shrugged pleasantly.
"After that, it is a matter of speed and some dexterity, but if you have been exact in your methods, it will present little difficulty. The entrails are sealed within a membrane, you see, resembling a bag. If you have not severed this by accident, it is a simple matter, needing only a little strength, to force your hands beneath the muscular layer and pull free the entire mass. A quick cut at stomach and anus"—he glanced disparagingly at the letter opener—"and then the entrails may be thrown upon the fire."
"Now"—he raised an admonitory finger—"if you have been swift and delicate in your work, there is now a moment's leisure, for mark you, as yet no large vessels will have been severed."
I felt quite faint, although I was sitting down, and I was sure that my face was as white as Jamie's. Pale as he was, Jamie smiled, as though humoring a guest in conversation.
"So the…subject…can live a bit longer?"
"Mais oui, Monsieur." The hangman's bright black eyes swept over Jamie's powerful frame, taking in the width of shoulder and the muscular legs. "The effects of such shock are unpredictable, but I have seen a strong man live for more than a quarter of an hour in this state."
"I imagine it seems a lot longer to the subject," Jamie said dryly.
Monsieur Forez appeared not to hear this, picking up the letter opener again and flourishing it as he spoke.
"As death approaches, then, you must reach up into the cavity of the body to grasp the heart. Here skill is called upon again. The heart retracts, you see, without the downward anchorage of the viscera, and often it is surprisingly far up. In addition, it is most slippery." He wiped one hand on the skirt of his coat in pantomime. "But the major difficulty lies in severing the large vessels above very quickly, so that the organ may be pulled forth while still beating. You wish to please the crowd," he explained. "It makes a great difference to the remuneration. As to the rest—" He shrugged a lean, disdainful shoulder. "Mere butchery. Once life is extinct, there is no further need of skill."
"No, I suppose not," I said faintly.
"But you are pale, Madame! I have detained you far too long in tedious conversation!" he exclaimed. He reached for my hand, and I resisted the very strong urge to yank it back. His own hand was cool, but the warmth of his lips as he brushed his mouth lightly across my hand was so unexpected that I tightened my own grasp in surprise. He gave my hand a slight, invisible squeeze, and turned to bow formally to Jamie.
"I must take my leave, Monsieur Fraser. I shall hope to meet you and your charming wife again…under such pleasant circumstances as we have enjoyed today." The eyes of the two men met for a second. Then Monsieur Forez appeared to recall the letter opener he was still holding in one hand. With an exclamation of surprise, he held it out on his open palm. Jamie arched one brow, and picked the knife up delicately by the point.
"Bon voyage, Monsieur Forez," he said. "And I thank you"—his mouth twisted wryly—"for your most instructive visit."
He insisted upon seeing our visitor to the door himself. Left alone, I got up and went to the window, where I stood practicing deep-breathing exercises until the dark-blue carriage disappeared around the corner of the Rue Gamboge.