Mother Agatha disappeared.

For several days, Fiona heard the timid whispers of her girl schoolmates. Some claimed that the hideous nun was a witch, and now was summoned to the devil she served. The girls who had always harboured deep hatred for the old woman insisted that Agatha was facing her retribution, punished by the archbishop, destined to be thrown into the fiery depths of hell for eternal torment.

There were also older girls who sighed with trepidation that Mother Agatha had probably offended some big shot, and her fate was most likely to be bleak!

Apart from all these rumours, Fiona also noticed a strange shift in the attitudes of the girls around her. The change seemed to have started after Miss Sarah Hensfield got out from the visiting room having met her family:

First, Sarah and Claudia, in an unprecedented move, invited her to join their courtlike conversations. Then, several other popular girls came forward, sweetly taking her hand, showering her with praise for the exquisite adornments the Marquis had bestowed upon her. Within days, Fiona de Sèvremont had transformed from the lonely and pitiable newcomer into a sought-after "belle amie" among the school girls.

Initially, Fiona was perplexed and uncomfortable with these changes; but a child, after all, could never long resist the allure of friendship. She gradually embraced her new role and soon cast aside the animosity her companions had previously held and her own stubborn vows made before the icon.

Life in the convent ceased to be an endless and arduous penance for her. Now, Miss Fiona Sèvremont had become another centre of attention for the children. Her childish dignity and enchanting beauty truly befitted this position - when Fiona was present, the gatherings of young girls around the stone steps in the garden, imitating the salons of noble ladies, sometimes really taking on a hint of sophistication reminiscent of the adult society.

It was only after the lights were out, and merely the faint breaths of the girls remained in the air, that troubles once again invaded her heart.

The source of pain and fear was gone, yet there was little solace in the heart of the girl. She vaguely felt that Sister Agatha's missing was somehow related to her own confidences to the Marquis in the visiting room that day.

Did Monsieur the Marquis help her? Perhaps the Mother was simply sent to another convent, or maybe she was indeed expelled for her own misdeeds.

The Marquis had not forsaken her; he remained the relied-upon and trustworthy protector she had known. But why did he now begin to evoke a sense of fear within her?

Lovely Fiona tossed and turned, reluctant to succumb to sleep. But eventually fatigue overpowered her, and she drifted into slumber.

"Whore! Currish bitch!"

In her dreams, she once again felt herself trembling in fear, huddled under her mother's body. The rich man, enraged by the ruined clothes in the wash, spat at her mother, forcefully stomping his heavy boot on her arched back again and again, kicking her hips with the toe of his shoe. Mother sheltered Fiona beneath her, shielding her own head with her hands, enduring the man's blows and abuse without a word.

She heard her father rush in from outside, picking up a long wooden stick from the corner, swinging it with force towards the perpetrator.

"Abject thing! Are you tired of living?!" The portly man, never expecting this small-built peasant to actually fight back, stood frozen in astonishment for a moment. Though menacing threats continued to pour from his mouth, his arrogance had faded.

"The rats in the gutters bite back, sir!" Seizing the opportunity, the father landed another solid blow on him. "Beware, you privileged lords! Each violence will be paid back one day! Each sin will soon face the day of Judgment!"

"Madman! Just you wait!" The rich man dropped the sentence in panic, then scurried out with his head in his hands under the assault of her father.

Fiona hadn't heard many tales of heroes, but in that moment, her father became a true hero in her eyes.

But Father vanished from that day onward. When he returned home, he had grown even thinner, his beard unshaven for a long time, bloodshot eyes staring out from his face marked with two unsightly scars.

Fiona thought her mother would rush to embrace papa in tears of joy, yet as soon as he entered the house, Mother spat at his feet, and her voice angrily trembled as she shouted, "You idiot! Brute! You've played hero, feasted in jail, contented yourself! It could have passed just with me taking a beating still, but now we two must endure four months of helpless tough days!"

Father showed no anger, only lifting his weary, bloodshot eyes to cast a deep glance towards his daughter. She felt that in that gaze, Father said something, but she couldn't understand the meaning he wanted to convey.

The following year, Father disappointed them once again. He donned the red cap of regicides and joined the ranks of wicked bandits.

The sight of the Jacobin's man-eating red cap sent shivers down Fiona's spine. Adults told her it was exactly those wearing the red caps who had destroyed their homeland, leaving her to fall into the boundless snow, cold and hungry.

But somehow, that red cap gradually transformed into a fiery red dress: she rested her head on the fairy's red skirt, and her body warmed up as if by a hearth, while her heart gradually found peace.

"Edith, Edith..." Fiona's tender little mouth, like rose petals, smiled and murmured in her dreams.

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

"Edith! Leave me be. Go back inside," Citizeness Desmoulins shook her head resolutely at her young friend.

The militiamen barged into the Desmoulins' house to arrest Lucile, just days after Danton and his companions had been thrown into the Conciergerie.

This lion-hearted revolutionary, as he had envisioned, won thunderous applause of the masses before the Tribunal with his grand eloquence and charisma. However, just as perceptive Lucile had feared, it only heightened the panic among those determined to bring him to his demise. Now, they were finally resorting to whatever means to eliminate these audacious advocates of clemency, even wielding the knife against the innocent and beautiful Madame Desmoulins.

"Why seize Lucile? What has she done wrong?!" Edith's anger still raged, attempting to obstruct the soldier who held Lucile's arm in a vice-like grip.

"Let her go!" Louise Danton's petite hands incessantly twisted the scarf around her chest, yet her feeble voice commanded without a hint of tremor.

However, that big soldier impatiently flung Edith to the ground and shoved Lucile down the steps.

As Lucile struggled to turn back, her eyelids trembled, seemingly foretelling tears. But she immediately held back that wave of tear and revealed a poignant smile to her family and friends.

The heavy door slammed shut. Louise supported Lucile's elderly mother, who was on the verge of fainting from crying. Little Horace's heart-wrenching wails all at once brought forth tears from everyone inside the house.

All hope was lost! Deep within their hearts, they keenly felt the destined misfortune awaiting their friends.

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

Two soldiers of the National Guard, wearing red caps and carrying long-barrelled guns, burst into the room where Charlene Saint-Clemont was sitting at her laboratory bench, sorting her documents.

"Congratulations, citizeness, you've won the lottery of Saint-Guillotine," one of them casually informed, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. "Come along with us."

"On what charges, citizens?" Charlene asked with placidity, showing no surprise.

"Woman aristocrat Saint-Clemont, you've conspired with Desmoulins' wife to incite the masses to storm the prison, to free her husband and the traitor Danton," another soldier, slender in build, nonchalantly waved the arrest warrant in his hand. "That's what they say here, anyhow."

Charlene made no effort to defend herself.

"Then, may I request that you wait for a moment, at least, to allow me to organize these chemical research manuscripts?" she earnestly pleaded, her gaze fixed upon the two guards.

"Pardon us, we are only here to escort you," the soldier with the cigarette in his mouth said. "And again, the Republic has no need of scientists, let alone a woman scientist!"

"Especially a lame one," the thin soldier added with a chuckle.

"Mind your tongue, citizen. Don't forget that Couthon in the Committee of Public Safety is also a wheelchair-bound cripple," the smoking soldier promptly reminded his fellow.①

The thin soldier shrugged his shoulders.

Charlene sighed, "So, Messieurs, you truly won't spare even a moment for a poor girl who is nearing her death?"

"It's not that we don't want to, citizeness," the smoking soldier's tone carried a genuine touch of regret. "Duty. The heads on our shoulders are not much sturdier than others'. We have a family depending on these heads to survive."

Reluctantly, the former noble girl cast one last glance at the apparatus and manuscripts on the table, then offered a serene smile to the two soldiers. "Well, then, Messieurs, I shall go with you."

With composure, she rolled her wheelchair out from behind the table, letting the soldiers, one on each side, roughly lift her fragile body, dragging her away from the humble abode she cherished.

This empty room held no one to bid her farewell, yet she couldn't help but turn back to cast one last lingering gaze at the drawer beneath the table.

Within Charlene's drawer, she left behind a letter, later dampened time and again by the glistening tears of our heroine:

"My dearest, brave friend, do not grieve too much for me! I have said before that I accept with equanimity all kinds of fates thrust upon me. My great Edith, I draw strength from you, I have once created a miracle for you; thus, I am no longer afraid of anything! This Charlene sitting here, though her body may be feeble and frail, you must believe that her courage is worthy of your friendship!

"Please do your best to keep my death a secret from Raphael. Brother is not as strong as you; I have unwavering faith in his bravery, but he is too easily moved by emotions! I fret that this news will shatter his heart. However, one day he will inevitably learn the truth; by then, the tears you shed for me will no longer arouse dreadful suspicion over you! After the storm subsides, perhaps you will gather in this small room; with quivering and touching voices, you'll read Charlene's letter in bloom. And maybe my spirit will walk to your side, my palm gently resting on your shoulders, soothing you from sorrow and longing's plight!

"Farewell, my friend, my guiding light! I would not write too long, lest it needlessly deepen the sorrow of those I hold dear. Adieu, bless your Charlene - how glorious she feels to journey towards death, singing the anthem of liberty!"
　　
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"Andre! Andre!" Edith screamed, rushing towards Quenet.

The guard who was clearing the way for him impatiently reached out to stop her, but Andre halted him.

"How could you treat Charlene like this? And Lucile?" She grasped his shoulders, her voice trembling as she questioned him.

He looked into her face, his gaze shifting, but ultimately he couldn't bear to meet her eyes and averted his gaze, whispering softly, "I'm sorry."

Edith's amber eyes widened in disbelief.

"She saved my life! And it was because of you!" She clasped his both hands, her voice choked with tears, pleading, "Andre! You have influence in the National Convention! I beg of you, please! Please save Charlene! Save my friend!"

Andre fell silent for a moment.

"I deeply regret it. But I'm powerless." He finally pushed away her sweaty, shivering hands and refused to look at her any longer.

"You can't do this to me! Quenet! Quenet!" Several guards behind them, seeing Andre's rejection, stepped forward and grabbed the girl's arms, preventing her from rushing forward again.

"They speak the truth! You are nothing but an executioner! Bloodthirsty demon! Let go of me! Let go of me!" Edith struggled so fiercely, even the combined efforts of the soldiers barely able to restrain her resistance. Filled with resentment, she screamed again at the back of the blonde figure, "The guillotine is also awaiting you, Andre Quenet!"

Andre had been silently following the guard towards the committee's office, but upon hearing this sentence, he abruptly halted his steps. His body all at once wavered, as if struck with a heavy punch from behind.

Turning back, he met her glaring gaze, devoid of anything but rage and hatred. An extremely shocked and sorrowful expression washed over his face.

His lips moved, yet at last no explanation escaped them. He turned away once more, his spirit adrift and lost, moving aimlessly towards the depths of the corridor.

***Author's Notes***　　

①Georges Couthon (1756～1794): One of the leaders of the Jacobins, member of the Committee of Public Safety. He formed the "Triumvirate" with Robespierre and Saint-Just. Couthon was paralyzed in the lower limbs and spent his years in a wheelchair.
　　
②Beloved friend, fear not for my plight!

I accept my fate with unwavering might.

Edith, your bravery has been my guide,

A miracle I once conjured beside.

I face death with courage, unyielding and true,

For my spirit is worthy of friendship with you.

Keep my passing secret from Raphael's view,

His tender heart, so easily subdued.

Yet one day he'll learn, the truth will unfold,

And tears shed for me, no suspicions they'll hold.

When the tempest subsides, you may convene,

In this humble room, voices trembling, serene.

And there, as you read my letter aloud,

My soul shall draw near, with comforting shroud.

Farewell, dear friend, my guiding light,

I keep my words brief, to soften the blight.

Bestow blessings upon your Charlene, I implore,

As she embraces death's call, to liberty's shore.

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
　　
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