In the summer of 1783, the city of Rouen, Kingdom of France, nine-year-old Edith led her aunt's hand, curious eyes taking in a shabby low-rise building before them.

Edith was an orphan. At the age of seven, both her parents running a small farm in the countryside died of cholera within a week.

Aunt Adele, the widow of a cavalry lieutenant in Rouen, became the guardian of this child. She supported Edith and her own son and daughter with a small pension.

This small and agile girl, with a smattering of freckles beneath her big eyes and chestnut hair always tied into two thick braids swaying behind, was naturally optimistic and adaptable. Losing her original home did not make her sad for long.

What the little girl found unbearable was loneliness. Her cousins were much older and grew up in the city, ignorant of the various tricks played by rural children. Neither had she same-aged companions nearby to play together with.

As an indulged only child from an affluent rural family, her childhood had already instilled in her a pampered disposition. This did not develop into a princess temper; rather, she was too free-spirited, close to nature and wilderness.

The adults were busy with farm work and hardly restricted their daughter. Little Edith robbed bird's nests, waded in streams, and rolled around in the mud. Her mother doted on this child, never willing to scold her.

For a child like her, the life of a petty bourgeoisie family in Rouen was stifling. Fortunately, her aunt didn't much control the girl's wild behavior. She just muttered a few words, asking her to follow the demure example of her 14-year-old cousin, Margot. It was said that a lady of wealth passing by several years ago had once praised Margot's refined elegance and ladylike demeanor.

Aunt Adele, a short, plump middle-aged woman, didn't particularly care for any of her kids, always complaining that Edith worsened her nervous condition. But in truth, she cherished each of the children deeply in her heart.

These days,there was a rumour going around that a beautiful young painter had newly arrived in town. He appeared to be only fifteen or sixteen years old, was said to be very talented, mysterious and flirtatious looking. Some believed he was a noble childe who had escaped from his home. Others were convinced that he was the young prince of Denmark. In short, the more the words got around, the more bizarre they became.

And now Edith had come with her aunt to see what was new.

The little girl jumped briskly up the stairwell first.

"This is the bastion of the genius beautiful youth painter?" Edith looked with amusement and incredulity over the drab wooden door of the inn's lowest-rated tiny room.

The door was unlatched. It's easy to imagine that the house was too empty for a burglar to bother with.

Aunt Adele, following her with small, panting steps, knocked on the door and called inside, "Monsieur le painter? Monsieur le painter?"

There was a sound of paper being gathered inside; only after a moment did they hear approaching footsteps, soon stopping behind the door.

The door was opened by a tall man who looked somewhere between a juvenile and an adult.
　　
The lustrous blonde curls fell over his shoulders, his features refined enough to be those of Narcissus in Greek mythology, while the angular face added a lot of masculinity. The lips were quite rosy, yet thin and always pressed, implying the virtue of prudence and self-control of their owner. His brow was always slightly furrowed beneath the marble forehead, creating a contemplative look even during conversation. It was difficult to tell whether these characteristics detract from or contribute to his allure.

Aunt Adele exclaimed in surprise as she usually did, "Oh Notre Dame, what a handsome child! You shouldn't be confined to this stuffy attic. Honestly, you should be serving as his Majesty's page, my dear."

"You jest." Edith caught a hint of disgust in the painter's eyes, but he quickly lowered his gaze and humbly replied, "How could someone like me, born into poverty, ever aspire to a position at court?"

Edith didn't have a good first impression of this young man. It wasn't just because of that fleeting expression - she could tell it wasn't directed at her well-meaning aunt - but because his demeanor didn't match his age of fifteen at all.

Despite his bright lapis lazuli blue eyes, there was always a weathered look about him, a lack of youthful vitality.

When he spoke to her aunt, he didn't sound deferential to his elder, and as for Edith, he almost completely ignored her.

So the little girl pouted, "What's your name?"

"Andre," the painter seemed to notice the girl for the first time, looking down at her with surprise.

"This is Edith, my poor little niece," Aunt Adele introduced, "I am Mrs.Percy, a widow for five years now, and two years ago my only brother left me as well! God bless them..."

The aunt began to babble, irresistibly interjecting some occasional flattering remarks to the young man before her.

Andre merely nodded occasionally, remaining silent the whole time, his mind seeming to have already transcended to another realm. His face was still wearing that proud and melancholic expression.

"What an annoying person!" young Edith thought to herself, indignant on behalf of her aunt.

"Perhaps, madam, you wouldn't mind if I finish the painting you request as soon as possible? I am ready," the painter abruptly interrupted the aunt's rambling during one of her brief pauses for breath.

"Ah, of course."

The artist had already turned away and returned to his easel, his eyes urging the customer to pose.

That evening, Aunt Adele brought home a sketch of herself. As for Edith, she was determined not to sit still in one position for even half a minute.

"Captured a vivid likeness," Margot murmured softly, giving such an evaluation.

------------

Early the next morning, Edith knocked on the door of the painter's room in the inn.

"You are...yesterday?" The painter was surprised to see the young girl standing alone in front of him.

"Edith," she replied, folding her arms over her chest to appear more grown-up. "May I?"

The painter gestured for her to enter.

The room was much messier than yesterday, with scattered paper and paint everywhere. The furniture was minimal, almost non-existent.

The painter continued to work, while Edith wandered around the cramped room. She knew nothing about art appreciation, yet put on an air of connoisseur.

"What is this painting about?" She pointed at a piece of bright watercolour.

"That's Prometheus stealing fire, little one." He didn't lift his head, concentrating on the painting in front of him.

After a while, she pointed at another oil painting and asked, "What about this one?"

"That's a political painting. You're too young to understand." His voice remained monotone.

Such conversation repeated itself several times, until Edith began to find it tedious.

She finally stood in the centre of the room, arms crossed, and sternly said to the painter, "Why do you always act like an old fogey?"

The painter was amazed. "Me?"

"Yes, you. You're only five or six years older than me, right? About the same age as my cousin Philippe. But your eyes and your attitude make you seem like an old grandpa. I can see it."

The painter suddenly stood up, also with an austere expression. He walked towards Edith step by step.

He's not going to get enraged just at such a bit of accusation, is he? Or did I unintentionally reveal some secret of his? Edith felt kind of uneasy.

But he stopped in front of her.

"You have a pair of perceptive eyes." He leaned down to her, a spreading smile lit up his face. "Perhaps it would be a nice idea to bring you along for my next sketching trip."

Edith breathed a sigh of relief. This was the first time she had seen him smile. When he smiled, he finally looked like a real big kid just like her.

But she put on a solemn look again. "You've got to invite me."

The painter went blank for a moment, then burst into laughter.

"Mademoiselle, would I have the honour of your guidance in sketching the sunset by the Seine tonight?" He made a pretty ceremonious bow.

"Out of town? Take a carriage to the outskirts?" Edith's eyes sparkled.

"Look at this room, young lady. How could a struggling artist like me have so much spare money?" The painter gave her a wry smile. "Just in Rouen, this city is also new to me. Won't you come?"

Edith's lips drooped in disappointment at first, but her natural optimism soon brought a proud glow back to her cheeks.

"I know Rouen like the back of my hand. Let me show you all around this town!"

------------

As the sun began to set, Edith complacently walked hand in hand with Andre along the street, always a step ahead of the young man, like a proud little swan.

Groups of workwomen walking in pairs down the road caught sight of this youth dressed in trousers① with inconspicuous patches but with lofty and adorable face, cast bold or shy glances at him, chirping amongst themselves as they passed by.

Edith felt unaccountably annoyed with the young man beside her. "You have a lot of love affairs, don't you?" she asked.

"Why do you ask that?" The painter looked at the petite curiously.

"They're all talking about you. You're good-looking. Ladies get easily infatuated with you."

"Which girl would come close to a penniless boy like me?" Andre shrugged.

"Here we go again," Edith shook her head disdainfully. "I always feel that you sound a bit hypocritical when you say things like that, but I can't explain why."

They walked towards the centre of the bridge.

"There's still some time before real sunset. Here, you can paint for a while. The view from here is magnificent."

As the painter set up his easel, Edith leaned against the railing, gazing into the distance. The view from the top of the bridge was vast. At the far end, the grandest and most majestic castle could be seen. However, up close, the scene was chaotic:

Along the street and beneath the bridge arches on the opposite side, there were ragged children begging for alms, while disheveled bottom-tier prostitutes flung themselves at passersby.

Yet the wealthy with their swollen bellies hurried past, while ornate carriages carrying powdered and bewigged aristocrats rushed by, only turning a blind eye to the surroundings.

The rich and the poor, the beautiful and the ugly, the light and the dark, were all mixed together in a chaotic swirl of colours. This was the panorama that could be seen from high above this city.

Edith found this sight peculiar when she first arrived in the city. After two years, she had somehow grown accustomed to it.

"City is really weird!" yet mumbled the young girl once again.

"This city is riddled with scars, yet people shut their eyes to them! It's as if a person with a face full of wounds stands in the middle of the road, the wounds festering and oozing, while passersby simply hurry past, some even pause to admire her beauty."

Edith turned to the painter in amazement. He spoke with a scowl and a slightly hoarse voice, his hands gripping the railing so tightly that they looked bloodless.

Andre seemed lost in his own thought. Only after a moment did he realise that Edith was staring at him.

"My apologies," he whispered to the child.

　　
***Author's notes***

①Regarding the painter wearing trousers - at that time, men of higher social status typically wore tight-fitting culottes with stockings, while trousers were a style worn by lower-class.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

Vote/comment to buy Andre a new trousers!