On the morning of January 21st, a crowd had gathered in the square at the break of dawn, eagerly awaiting the arrival of a tumbrel like none had ever seen in a millennium. Many women had taken special care to dress in their finest attire, resembling the garments they wore to the chapel, while young girls with filthy hair held vibrant, colourful flowers in their hands.

"Mama, is the king getting married today?" asked a little boy, perched on his mother's shoulders and sucking his thumb.

"Yes, young man, to Lady Guillotine!" replied a nearby man, prompting laughter to ripple through the crowd.

In the back, an elderly woman, her face etched with anguish, clutched her eyes shut even more desperately, continually making the sign of the cross over her chest.

The arrival of the prisoner carriage had been delayed for quite a while, testing the patience of the gathered masses. Rumors circulated that the king had already been robbed by the ambushing nobles and their cavalry on the way. The executioner paced restlessly on and off the platform amid the growing grumbles of impatience.

"He's here!" exclaimed a keen-eyed young girl shortly after ten o'clock.

The black carriage carrying the king finally came into view from a distance. The horse, with its head hung low and movements languid, appeared reluctant.

"Try harder, mate. This is your last time in service to the monarchy," a man in the front called out to the horse with a laugh.

The king was led off the carriage. Unlike the dismay during his trial, he now appeared perfectly composed. Neither too disheveled to provoke malice nor too proud to incur disdain. Among the crowd, those who had harbored the greatest hatred for him now felt the deepest sense of pity. In their imagination, when he had been toying with the jewels on his crown and swaying among his mistresses, they only thirsted for his blood. Yet, when they saw him, just like them, shivering in the cold, with a haggard and troubled countenance, he transformed into a vulnerable soul. If the king were to plead for mercy at this moment, they might even turn against the opposition to save him.

As he walked to the centre of the guillotine, the king suddenly broke free from those restraining him and rushed towards the edge of the platform. His hands were bound behind him, making it almost impossible for him to maintain his balance, but several soldiers around the execution platform immediately assumed a defensive stance.

"I die innocent," he shouted to the people below, his words carried away by the wind in the vast square, with only occasional fragments audible. "I forgive those who have condemned me to death. May my blood be the last to stain the soil of France! I..."

Before he could finish his last sentence, one of the executioners hastily gestured, then the sound of the drums announcing the execution interrupted his confession.

"What did he say in his last words?" someone in the crowd asked as the king was led back to the execution platform.

"I couldn't hear. Who cares?"

"I don't know why, but I can't help feeling it was something quite meaningful. If only someone had heard!" another voice exclaimed.

Edith, with a stubborn resolution, maintained a dignified and unflinching demeanor all along, holding her chin as stiffly as if to maintain balance. As the final moment drew near, she also held her breath in both anxiety and anticipation.

The chopper fell. Initially, there was a deathly silence in the crowd below. Suddenly, someone shouted, "Long live the nation!" Then the crowd erupted, with deafening gun salute thundering out in the air, heralding the dawn of a new era. Children felt granted permission, tossing their bouquets high into the air, while young girls held hands, forming circles and dancing together. Standing beside her, Philippe also raised his arm, joining in the jubilant cheers.

Edith was, after all, easily swept up by the atmosphere and couldn't help but giggle. As she struggled to keep her footing in the surging crowd, a young woman next to her reached out and grabbed her arm.

"Citizeness Lucile?" Edith exclaimed with surprise and joy. "How did I not recognize you just now?"

"Are you alone?" She noticed that Lucile was not with her husband today and asked curiously.

Lucile nodded. "Some moments I prefer to witness on my own."

"We have finally triumphed!" Edith intoxicatedly embraced her friend. "How are you so composed, my friend?"

"I won't cheer loudly for someone's death," Lucile replied without a smile, but her eyes sparkled. "But the overthrow of a tyrant burst ecstasy to my heart."

———————

After the crowd dispersed from the Place of the Revolution, Edith strolled through the Tuileries Garden, heading eastward along the bank of the river. The sounds of carriage wheels on cobblestone streets, the flocks of birds scattered as she passed, and the myriad golden reflections dancing on the Seine's surface, all seemed especially joyous and moving today.

If one were to claim that Edith embodied the essence of Paris, those of sophisticated tastes who had fled to the opposite shores of the Channel might burst into tears of laughter. Yet this Paris at the moment was spirited and bold, a perfect match for a girl like her. Edith had styled her long locks in a fashionable updo today, tucking them inside and securing them with a narrow red ribbon around her head. At first glance, it appeared as though her hair had been cut to ear-length. However, her dense and unruly curls seldom complied with any restraint, plus she rarely remembered to gather them time and again, so that when viewed head-on, they enveloped her face like a bundle of straw in a hen's nest, lending her a somewhat comical air.

Edith was oblivious to all this; a happy soul always deems itself the centre of the world. She held her head high with pride, maneuvering through the pedestrians like
a deer, occasionally finding herself bouncing a few steps when she felt that walking was too slow. Then, remembering that such behavior wasn't quite suitable for her age, she reluctantly halted and proceeded with an air of decorum.

It wasn't until she reached the vicinity of Hôtel de Ville that she finally spotted Andre, standing by the bridge in all black. At that moment, he seemed to transform back into the painter he once was by the riverside in Rouen. There were no easels and paints beside him, but the way he gazed into the distance with an unfeigned solemnity and melancholy reminded her so strongly of the days gone by. The layers of his hair over his shoulders billowed backward in the breeze, with the same rhythm as the ripples of the river, adding a picturesque touch to the scene. As Edith's gaze locked onto that figure, she broke into a trot towards him.

"I've been looking for you everywhere," she called out with cheerful breathlessness before reaching the centre of the bridge. "Why weren't you at the execution? I thought you would be there for sure."

"Was everything going smoothly?" Andre turned to face her, smiling lightly.

"Yes, it's quite a spectacle. Aunt Adele declared she 'couldn't bear this farce' and demanded that the curtains be drawn shut. Margot was planning to come too, but Aunt seemed to have a nervous condition again, so she had to stay at home to keep her company. Cousin Philippe was also surprised you weren't present. We all thought you wouldn't want to miss witnessing our victory!"

"Perhaps I didn't want to feel responsible for someone's death. I heard the final gun salute. That was enough for me."

"A true republican would never be weak. Didn't you say that yourself on stage?" Edith tilted her head, puzzled and somewhat dissatisfied.

Andre shook his head. "I did not regret nor fear. But I detest the death penalty from the bottom of my heart."

The girl became even more perplexed, but her emotions were too elated at the moment to delve further. She raised her arm, smugly showing off the handbag to him, boasting about the tricolored flag Margot had embroidered on it.

Andre walked alongside her as they descended from the bridge, strolling together along the banks of the Seine. Edith was immersed in the joyful air, occasionally swinging her handbag in front of her and twirling in place. Her skirt brushed against his trousers now and then, making him itch.

She chattered away to the young man beside her, "Oh, how happy I am to be able to come to Paris! I just could never bear to sit indoors all day like Margot, doing nothing but needlework. If I were like those girls in the provinces, trapped in the countryside, watching the world change and everyone is making history, while I could only sit at home, by the fireplace, sewing bandages for the soldiers on the front lines, oh, the mere thought of it makes me shudder! I would surely die of boredom. To be born in this era, what a blessing I am! If only I could also join the battlefield to fight the Austrians!"

"Join the army? That's not fun at all, Edith. Are you going to put on trousers and ride a tall horse?" Andre was amused by the delightful mischief of the person beside him, and he couldn't help but burst into laughter.

Edith was somewhat annoyed by Andre's response. "Why not? As long as I cut my braids, take off my dress, put on boots, wrap myself in a coat, no one would be able to tell!" She gestured with her hands around her body as she talked, "And I know there are women who do this! If I didn't care for Margot and Aunt, I would have done it long ago! My face is tanned, and my looks aren't that comely anyway. If I dressed like that, I'd look more like a man than you do! Don't you try to scare me."

"Isn't writing essays right here good enough?" Andre shrugged, but didn't lose his smile. "The battlefield is no joke; there's blood, lots of blood. Don't snivel when you see it."

"Snivel?" Edith immediately exclaimed, "Don't I see blood each and every month? I dare say if that happened to you, you'd be the one sniveling!"

Andre was momentarily bewildered, but when he realized what she meant, his cheeks blushed like two crimson clouds, made even more apparent by his fair complexion. "Oh... Edith, you..." He averted his gaze, awkwardly scratching his neck and mumbling softly.

As Edith's words fell, she felt a tinge of embarrassment herself too, regretting not heeding Aunt Adele's exhortations to curb her unabashed speech. However, when she saw the young man across from her even more sheepish, she all at once became bold, almost triumphant. Her hands rested on her hips, a mischievous grin playing at the corners of her lips, and her voice rose along with her chin. "Well, what's this? I'm not the little girl in Rouen anymore! You've left me behind all these years, and I've grown up! I'm not like you, never growing up after all!"

Andre could only chuckle resignedly, "Me? Never grow up?"

"Aren't you still as you were when you were sixteen?" She reached out to pinch his cheek. Intending to take revenge on him for dismissing her aspirations for childish fantasies, her fingertips applied a bit more pressure, causing the young man to wince in pain.

"You think I should wear a wig and grow a beard to match my status better?" He put on a serious, contemplative expression.

"Ah, no, please don't!" Edith cried out urgently, both hands holding onto his ears, cupping his head as if afraid that it would change in the blink of an eye. "You're fine just as you are now!"

Seeing the smile so close to her lips, the girl belatedly felt awkward about her impulsive actions and hastily withdrew her hands.

"It will only get better and better from now on, right?" She asked, attempting to change the subject.

Andre hadn't had a chance to respond when the wailing of two children at the street corner interrupted him. The excitement of watching the execution had worn off, and the desperate mother still couldn't bring out any bread. The children were crying from hunger. A passerby, hands in his pockets, hummed the cheerful tune of Ça ira as he walked by.

---------------　　

On hearing that Roland had resigned as Minister of the Interior, Edith hurried to visit Madame Roland.

"It was I who made my husband resign," Madame Roland told her. "The death of the king contained too many unsettling factors. The revolution is like a runaway horse that can no longer be tamed. I am afraid that the scenes like the September Massacres will eventually be repeated."

"The September Massacres! You are using the language of the aristocrats and royalists!" Edith exclaimed in agitation.

"Were not the events in September an insult to the ideals of the revolution?" Madame Roland countered.

"The people's anger was just! Perhaps the means were not strictly legal, but those so-called victims were not innocent either! How could the soldiers of the Republic march to the front with peace of mind, if not eliminating the enemies threatening their loved ones from behind? Your words are nothing but harsh criticism!" Edith protested, her cheeks puffed up in wrath.

"Is that so? There was too much animalistic indulgence in that, pardon me for not complimenting it," Madame Roland replied coldly.

Edith slammed her hand on the table and stood up.

"Ah, yes, you are the only daughter of a wealthy family. You had governess and learned piano, dance, and etiquette, nothing different from those noble ladies at the top!"

Her shoulders were trembling as she yelled at her most admired idol.

"You have never run in the darkest alleys of the city, never seen those women who sold their dignity for a piece of bread, or the barefoot children with famished pallor! But I have seen them. You are right, in September there was a disgusting massacre. But are these women, these children not also victims of a massacre? Is this slow, soul-tearing slaughter not even more cruel than the momentary pain inflicted by blade and axe? "

Madame Roland seemed somewhat shaken. She looked serious and leaned back slightly on the chair.

"You are deliberately disregarding the suffering on the other side! I respect you, but I must say this: you lack justness!" Edith dropped the sentence, rushing out of Madame Roland's mansion.

--------------　　

That evening, as Margot pushed open the door to her bedroom, she was greeted by the sight of her sister sitting on the edge of the bed in her nightgown, her eyes swollen and red from weeping.

"I yelled at her like that! Madame must hate me now! I don't think she'll ever let me in again!" Edith's expression was one of utmost dejection.

"Oh, my poor sister. I don't think Madame Roland will mind for too long," Margot couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy. She put down the candle and sat down beside her sister on the bed, wrapping her arm around Edith's shoulders.

"But Margot, I don't regret what I said! I still believe that my understanding of liberty is more profound than that of Madame's! "Edith's voice was choked with emotion.

"I believe you. You know I'm always on your side," Margot soothed her as she ran her fingers through Edith's tousled hair.

Edith clung to Margot's waist, sniffling and pouting. "Sister, tonight I want to sleep with you. Like when we were little, squeezed together on one bed. Is that okay?"

Margot smiled resignedly.

Edith buried her head in Margot's soft bosom, just as she did in their childhood. She had cried tired, soon drifting off to sleep.

In the darkness, Margot kissed Edith's forehead. "Goodnight, my dear Edith."

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

The Jacobin Club was packed that evening.

Philippe sat in a seat on the edge, while Edith pushed Charlene's wheelchair, insisting on standing by his side in the aisle.

Andre followed Robespierre onto the stage to deliver a speech against Roland.

"...But Roland has retreated," he spoke calmly, hardly glancing at the notes in his hand. "He claims to be a patriot, yet abandons his responsibility when the republic needs him most. And what for? The death of a tyrant!"

"No wonder you are fixated on him!" Charlene quipped, turning her head back towards her friend with a playful smile. "This Quenet of yours truly looks like a Helios!"

Edith blushed and gave her friend a light pat on the shoulder.

Indeed, he looked particularly handsome tonight. The lights highlighted his square and graceful jawline, adding more colour to his otherwise too pale cheeks.

As the speech ended, a sharp male voice suddenly broke out in the hall.

"I accuse Quenet of being an aristocrat! His position is suspicious!" He pointed his arm mercilessly at Andre on stage.

"What's the evidence?" Andre was unmoved, coolly questioning in return.

Another person in the crowd shouted, "Someone saw you frequently entering a lord's castle in Vendée! Just in last year!"

At this, Andre appeared to become uneasy. Edith saw him slightly moved back, his arm on the lectern tense, while the other hand unconsciously pulled at his bow tie hanging from his chest.

Inside the club were still many supporters of Roland. Dissatisfied with the accusations made by the speaker, they chimed in one after another, demanding an investigation into the allegation against Quenet.

As Andre remained silent, the audience burst into an uproar, people began to murmur in a flurry amongst themselves.

Suddenly, a ringing voice stopped the commotion: "I demand to speak."
　　
***Author's notes***

①Regarding the "September Massacres": On September 2, 1792, a group of armed mass in Paris stormed into prisons and slaughtered prisoners due to rumours that imprisoned royalists were plotting an uprising. Within five days, around 1,200 prisoners were brutally killed, many of whom were aristocrats, including Princess Lamballe, a close friend of Queen Marie Antoinette. Some refer to this event as the "First Terror" of the French Revolution. It later became a significant political issue of contention between the various factions governing the National Convention.

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