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After such psychological complexities, it is a relief to learn that Citizen Sanson, the executioner, was suffering from a simple modern grievance—poor pay and working conditions. There is some irony in his complaint that "the abolition of class prejudices I thought would make it easier for me to find assistants, but on the contrary . . ."
Sparing Shoes. The book is rich in such raw slices of life; like any day's newspaper, it is an anthology of comedy and horror. In the style of a film documentary, it flicks through some terrible hours of history. One moment it is a priest disguised in a red waistcoat waiting fearfully in the streets to give a last blessing to a tumbrel full of ladies on their way to the knife. Another provides a vignette of an aged émigré aristocrat in the counter-revolutionary army marching barefoot with his shoes slung on his bayonet to save the wear and tear. A last note in the book—a letter from an obscure Parisian called Bonaparte to his brother back in Corsica—gives promise of more to come. Napoleon was crazy about the Paris women; all he wanted to complete his happiness was a "chance to take part in a battle."