Yet even so, he was taken aback by the completeness of the transformation. The courtesy de Cygne had shown, the confidences he’d shared, had vanished so suddenly, it was as if they had never been there at all. Vicious though he was himself, Le Sourd was astonished. He stared at the young noble with hurt and almost disbelief.

But then he saw, in a flash, into Guy de Cygne’s soul. The young man had been poor. Now he was rich. But it hardly made a difference. For Guy de Cygne was noble. And Jean Le Sourd was not. And it was that social chasm, more even than the fact he was a thief, that made the difference between them.

Before, the young man had to wear a mask. Now, backed by his noble friends, the mask was dropped.

To Guy de Cygne the hospitality of a Le Sourd was nothing. The friendship, the gift: nothing. His honor—for even thieves have honor—nothing. His son, nothing. His very soul—for even thieves have souls to be saved—also, nothing. He was less than a horse, less than a dog. He scarcely had the merit of a rat. Because he was not noble. Jean Le Sourd understood, and he looked at his son, and he knew bitterness.

“Well, Le Sourd,” said Charles de Grenache, “you and your stooping friend are going to hang.”

It was a month later that they brought Jean Le Sourd to execution. He and the stooping man had been kept in the Châtelet’s stout jail. Naturally, the provost had ordered them tortured. It was assumed that Le Sourd in particular had murders to his name, and the provost wanted confessions. It took a little while, but he got them. After a certain amount of pain, most men would confess to anything if they knew they were going to die anyway. It was only reasonable.

The stooping man’s claims to be a churchman had been easily disposed of. He had no proof, and he couldn’t read. They’d hanged him the day before on one of the city gallows. But Le Sourd was special. They needed to make an example of him. And the crowds always liked to see a powerful villain die.

Early in the morning, they’d erected a gallows with a high platform in the open spaces of Les Halles, his center of operations. The whole market would be there to watch. And it was a sunny day as well.

But they had let him see his son.

“Are you going to watch?” he asked the boy.

“I don’t know. Do you want me to?”

“They’ll take me from the Châtelet to Les Halles in a cart, so that everyone can see me. You can watch that. Then go away. You know what they’re going to do to me? Hang me for a while, then cut my head off.”

“I know.”