Raphael Saint-Clemont held a small booklet in his hands, rapidly calculating the amount of food rations for the day. The jolting of the small stagecoach forced him to occasionally pause his writing, sighing impatiently.

Suddenly, the carriage came to a halt. Raphael leaned out irritatedly to ask the carter,"What's going on?"

"The road's blocked, citizen," the carter cheerfully replied, his eyes gleaming with excitement as he looked over at the two tumbrels passing by."Looks like another high-profile head will roll today."

Raphael glanced over at the prisoners standing high, surrounded by the jostling crowd, an all too familiar scene in Paris. Yet amidst the chaos, something peculiar about this group caught his eyes.

On the tumbrel, a big, strapping man wept with red and swollen eyes, his knees trembling so violently in terror that they could barely stay straight. The maiden next to him appeared to be only fifteen or sixteen, with arms as thin as reeds; she held her head high with an expression so proud, as if she were headed to receive an award.

An old man on his last leg with his head hung low, seemed overwhelmed with despair at his impending final blow. While a young mother, nursing her infant just yesterday, wore a serene smile despite her bound hands behind her back.

Raphael did not recognise the "celebrity" who had attracted the Parisian masses, nor did he care to inquire.

The prisoner carts rumbled away, and the crowd dispersed. Raphael tapped on the carriage wall, signaling the carter to continue on.

----------------------　

Edith followed Andre into the prison, her heart slightly uneasy. Andre was there to interrogate an aristocrat prisoner who had led troops in the Vendée rebellion, and she insisted on coming along to watch.

The aristocrat was chained to a chair, his once opulent garments now tattered and stained with varying shades of blood. It was obvious that the prolonged torture had left him barely clinging to life. He kept his head lowered, with his long, sharp nose, his features easily evoking thoughts of a hawk.

Upon hearing their footsteps, he only raised his gaze to fixate on the girl. His pitch-black pupils seemed to glow with an eerie gloss under the dim candlelight, as if he had a fever.

Even if she hadn't known his identity beforehand, Edith could tell from his arrogant and cruel air his sinful blood in a flash.

Through his eyes, she glimpsed an elegant yet savage history - of breathtaking palaces and ornate heraldry, of thunderous cavalry battle cry and horn blasts; but it was also a history of dungeons in ancient castles and Inquisition, of burning stakes and dry bones of millions of serfs.

She could imagine how this man would have rested his elbows on the velvety table, leisurely smoothing the gold-threaded cuffs of his sleeves, courteously discussing about suppression and slaughter... It made the girl feel dizzy and almost faint.

Seeing her discomfort, Andre signaled for her to step back and approached the caged beast himself, speaking to him in a cold, impassive tone:"Your resistance is futile. Confess now, it's only for your own good."

Hearing his voice, the prisoner raised his head, but seemed not to respond to Andre's words.

His gaze gradually focused, repeatedly scrutinizing Andre's face with confusion, before ultimately revealing an incredulous expression:

"De La Garnache!" the aristocrat murmured in astonishment.

Edith looked at Andre in bewilderment, but his face remained unchanged.

The prisoner suddenly burst into a sharp, piercing laughter, as if he had just encountered the most hilarious thing in the world. He laughed uncontrollably, as if possessed by a demon, almost out of breath. His morbid laughter filled Edith with a sense of dread.

"If the old La Garnache saw you dressed like this, I wonder what expression he would have on his face! Hahaha!" He taunted Andre before erupting into fits of guffaw once again.

Andre simply folded his arms and looked down at him with a mix of disgust and contempt. The prisoner's laughter gradually subsided as he realised that Andre was not going to be provoked.

He looked up at Andre defiantly and suddenly bit down on something in his mouth. With an abrupt spasm of his body and face, his head drooped down, moving no more.

The gaoler who had come to check on the situation cursed, confirming that the aristocrat was now dead, then proceeded to get rid of his corpse.

It was only after the turmoil had ended and the two walked out of the prison side by side, did Edith tentatively ask, "The surname that man mentioned earlier...?"

"He mistook me for someone else." Andre interrupted her icily.

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

"...We all know that Quenet was born to be a deathsman. When he gives speeches in the National Convention and the Jacobin Club, he often uncontrollably clenches his five fingers and violently swings his palm downward - it is hard for anyone with basic imagination not to associate it with the guillotine's blade.

"This man is a disciple of the Marquis de Sade①. Blood and torture arouse his desires. Some have seen him interrogating prisoners, always bringing a woman to watch together: every time he witnesses the most gruesome scenes imaginable, he becomes so excited that he cannot control himself. Then he indulges in carnal pleasure with the woman in the meantime, using lust to deepen this evil delight..."

"This is too much!" Edith could no longer continue reading and angrily crumpled the newspaper in her hand before storming out of the room.

As she passed through the living room, the girl overheard her aunt and sister talking.

"Please, Margot, ask Philippe to send that friend of his away from our house! I can no longer bear it with my nerves!" It was the kind of reedy, quavering voice of Aunt Adele's, a sign of her nervous breakdown.

"Mother, you need to calm down. Those rumours are not true. It's just that recent events have made you too anxious."

"How can I not be anxious? Every day, there are deaths, deaths! And a carpenter claimed that he saw Quenet licking the fresh blood dripping from the guillotine at midnight! And I can't help but think of his unchanging appearance for over a decade, it makes me even more fearful..."

"This is ridiculous, Aunt! How can you believe such filthy slanderous words?!" Edith burst into the room, waving her hand in indignation.

Since the revolution, Aunt Adele had always been a bit afraid of her little niece. At this moment, the old woman was involuntarily curling up in her chair.

"I have seen how soft-hearted he can be in Vendée. His heart is more merciful than anyone else!" Edith continued agitatedly. "You have lived with Andre day and night, don't you know how kind he is in private? How can you believe such vilification that insults him?"

"It's exactly his two-faced way that scares me even more!" Aunt Adele suddenly burst out, her voice trembling with tears. "Madame Toussaint, who lives opposite us, her son's arrest warrant was signed by Quenet himself, and the day before, he was still warmly greeting Madame Toussaint! How could he just immediately walk over to our dining table with a smiling visage?"

"This only proves that he is impartial, and nothing else!" Edith retorted.

"Mother, sister, please don't get agitated," Margot gently urged. "Edith, you know you are the centre of this family. I am not smart enough, nor do I have the same high energy as you, and mama does not understand politics at all; I just completely believe in you and Brother. As long as you and Philippe choose to trust Citizen Quenet, I will never have any doubts as well. And I'll never allow anyone to brazenly tarnish the repute of Quenet."

Edith fell silent. Margot patted her mother's arm to soothe her. The old lady finally calmed down after a bout of sobbing.

***Author's Notes***

①The Marquis de Sade (1740～1814): one of the most controversial erotic literature writers in history, known as the founding father of erotic novels. The word "sadism" in today's context of BDSM is derived from his name. During the French Revolution, he was an elected delegate to the National Convention, calling himself "Citizen Sade".

②Oh, the cruel fate that befalls these wretched souls,

Thrown into the abyss, a fate they cannot control.

In this city of revolution, the guillotine's blade,

Slaughters the innocent and guilty, all in the same parade.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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