Henri Auguste and the Little DeathMature

The first and last time I recall anyone doubting Monsieur Auguste’s conviction was a dreary, black week in June. Plague was upon the city, outbreaks of a curious disorder, a fatal condition afflicting the mind; imagining great gashes and blisters upon the skin. Though with clear suspect for its design, ‘twas a chevalier, and we dared not apprehend him without certainty. Sure of himself and foul from the weather, Henri strode forth and beheaded the Lord- the plague dispersed thereafter. Grinning as they unlocked his cell, he explained: “Of course, were he innocent, I’d have killed him for fooling me.”

The End

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