The square was full of people who had risen at dawn to see blood. They had crowded around the wooden scaffold where the guillotine had been set up, pushing with their bodies and elbows to get as close to the action as possible. The few lucky ones who managed to get there waved handkerchiefs; when the heads rolled on the boards of the scaffold, they tried to dip their handkerchiefs in the blood. Souvenirs they would pass down to their children and their children’s children. See? I was there, they would say, unfolding the piece of fabric. I saw the Revolution. I saw the traitors lose their heads.

The morning sunlight reflected off the white stone of the courthouse. Although his hands were tied, Antoine Lavoisier managed to straighten the cuffs of his shirt. He had worn the most casual of his shirts that morning for the trial – something plain and simple, the color of flax. It was his work garment, the one he wore in his workshop, knowing it could get stained with sweat or with one of the hundreds of chemical solutions he kept in glass vials. His wife, Marie-Anne, had threatened about ten times to throw it away. Antoine had worn it today, hoping to prove to the judge and the raging crowd outside the courthouse that he was also a man of the people. It did no good; whether he wore work clothes or luxurious brocade, the result would have been the same.