The summer of Year II of the Republic would linger in the memories of Parisians for a very long time.

Since the beginning of July, not a single drop of rain had fallen. The weather was dauntingly scorching and dry, as if the air enveloping the whole city was ablaze, casting a suffocating crimson hue in the eyes of poets.

Grass withered, birdsong grew faint, and the world sank deeper into a sombre haze. Whether it was the gavel on the club's podium or the guillotine on the Place of the Revolution, they had lost their vigour, dull and listless, allowing time to pass by meaninglessly.

Yet in the corners, under the shade of trees, there were constant whispers and restlessness, a brewing storm in the shadows. No words were spoken, but everybody knew - an unprecedented downpour was about to descend from the heavens, sweeping across feverish Paris, destroying all that had been built.

On the eighth day of Thermidor, murmurs emerged from the distance as dusk approached. Horses foamed at the mouth, dense dark clouds descended, and the leaden sky weighed heavily upon every heart, transforming the entire city into a colossal, metallic coffin. The wild wind whipped up dust, the withered leaves rustled and crackled, and all things silently awaited in restless anticipation.

It was not until deep into the night that the first lightning bolt finally cleaved the firmament, and a torrential rain poured down, resounding upon the parched earth.

Edith failed to fall asleep tonight. She sat on the edge of her bed, cradling her knees, her head leaning against the wall, motionless. The blood in the girl's veins, which had always flowed briskly and evenly, now surged and churned like the tempest outside.

A gentle tap seemed to echo on the window glass, blending with the rhythmic patter of raindrops, almost indistinguishable. In an instant, she sat up straight, holding her breath, listening intently.

"Edith? It's me," a hoarse voice called from outside the window, its words nearly drowned in the cacophony of the storm.

But all at once, she recognised that voice.

She leaped to the window, but her trembling hand couldn't push open the pane.

The person outside pounded heavily once more, "Allow me in, Edith! I don't seek your forgiveness! Just let me see you one last time!"

Edith, overwhelmed with emotion, pushed open the window, allowing the raging wind and rain to unscrupulously rush in. She grasped his pleading arms and forcefully pulled him into the room, then the drenched figure fell into her embrace. She held him tightly, feeling his body burning hot, shivering in the scorching heat of July.

They didn't exchange a word, only kissed each other's lips with reckless abandon. In those few minutes, their kisses were more, deeper than all the kisses they had shared throughout the entire year.

"I'm sorry, Edith!" After the initial wave of passion subsided, he rested his feverish forehead against hers, but averted his gaze, refusing to meet her eyes. "I tried so hard, running around for Citizeness Saint-Clemont. But in the end, I failed to save her life. I had to leave; why didn't I fall on the battlefield? I thought I would! At least then we wouldn't have to face such a cruel separation like tonight!"

With shaking hands, she cupped his face and forced him to look at her. "I don't hate you; but you've been so cruel to me! Why must we part ways? Must I lose you as well, after losing Charlene? Now tell me everything, Andre!"

He stared at her for a long while before finally speaking, his tone devoid of any concealment of despair. "My premonitions won't be wrong. The conspiracy brewing within the committees is about to triumph; the final batch of republicans will enter their graves tomorrow! When the dawn rises, it will mark our eternal separation, Edith!"

There was no need for further explanation; she understood everything from his gaze. She lunged at him again, wrapping her arms around his neck, fiercely sucking and biting his lips in retaliation.

Andre turned his gaze once again to the window, staring at the rainstorm outside. The night sky at this moment took on an eerie blood-red hue, slowly seeping from the horizon like a torn wound oozing fresh blood.

"Ah, how tragic!" he spoke slowly, "Even in the midst of slaughter, we still harbour noble and merciful illusions! Cruel, fearsome justice! What a wretched fate it is to possess power! A slightest mistake turns into a crime! By the bank of the Seine, in that small studio, when we once envisioned the tomorrow of liberty, our hearts were filled with only childlike dreams. When did we ever imagine war, guillotines, and death? With the lightest strokes of our brushes on the canvas, we sketched green meadows, golden suns and blue skies. How could we have fathomed that all of it would be tainted by filthy blood, its former beauty no longer able to be recognised? Will people forget our loves, hates, and thoughts, only to remember this era for its terror, sins, and filth? Will history forgive us? For our good wills?"

"I forgive you," Edith embraced his waist from behind, her voice quivering, "I forgive you."

"Since the beginning of the revolution, I have been prepared to face death at any moment. In defense of virtue and truth, what harm is it to forsake a trivial life? Only the thought of having to part with you, overwhelms my heart with pain and weakness!" Andre slumped onto her bed, unable to bear the anguish, and turned his gaze away.

"Let me join you! I'm also willing to die for liberty!" Tears welled up in her eyes, and she let out an agitated cry, almost with joy.

"No!" He grasped her hand tightly, earnestly looking into her eyes. "Don't make a futile sacrifice. I have been away from this home for months. They won't involve you all. Promise me, my dear Edith, promise me that you will live on well for me. Promise me!"

Edith felt unable to refuse that gaze. Her lips moved several times, but in the end, she nodded to him. "Um. I promise you."

She lay down on the bed wistfully, pulling Andre's hair to bring him closer. He kissed her with a mix of force and submission, and the scorching, dampened bodies of the two young lovers nestled together.

The unclosed window rattled amidst the storm's tumultuous assault, as powerful and fierce rain relentlessly poured in, drenching the entire bed.

She felt him penetrate her soul all at once. What followed was a heart-wrenching agony, whether originating from the physical or the spiritual, she couldn't tell. Tears flowed uncontrollably, only to be kissed away bit by bit by him.

Throughout, they had suppressed their burgeoning desires; now, the flames that had been stifled for too long erupted in this battle. She quivered from head to toe, embracing his affectionate onslaught.

Waterfall cascading from boundless heights onto the long-thirsting earth, trees swayed and groaned in extreme ecstasy, while the earth surrendered its body completely, without resistance, to this world. The burning scarlet soil gasped for breath, greedily contracting and sucking, intoxicated with a drunken voracity, unwilling to let a single drop of nectar escape through its crevices.

A bolt of white lightning thrust its glaring brightness into the room, and the pelting rain lashed the earth like wet whips. Thunder roared in the dark night, its muffled cry calling out, "Harder! Harder!"

This was a desperate wedding night. Within their caresses, there were hot tears everywhere: amidst the pinnacle of joy, the most surging tears mingled; at the height of the outpouring of tears, they also ascended the peak of joy.

The midsummer rain all at once flooded the lane, filling the air with fragrance. The lovers briefly released each other, dizzy and breathless from the incredible pleasure they had shared.

The tempest had ceased, and the gentle yet ruthless dawn rose from the east. Day in, life out. Juliet bid farewell to her Romeo, not to a place of exile, but to the end of life. This pair of lovers no longer harboured hope for reunion.

He held her in arms once more, kissing her sweat-drenched curls repeatedly, whispering in her ear, "Farewell, my love, my life! Farewell forever! I shall never forget the joy of this night, even in death!"
　　
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Edith did not leave the room. She remained seated, blankly, until her sister Margot rushed in, pale and stumbling, bearing the news represented by the clamour rising from outside.

Everything unfolded just as Andre had foreseen: the speech of the patriots was interrupted, conspirators seized control of the hall of the Convention, injustice triumphed over virtue, and upright republicans were taken to jail on the spot. In his unwavering loyalty to Andre Quenet, Philippe rose resolutely from his seat in the National Convention, willingly offering himself for arrest.

The women of the Percys sat together, hearts pounding, waiting anxiously. Margot ventured out multiple times to ask around and returned home in the evening, breathless, to inform them that the enraged people of Paris had forced the release of prisoners from the jail. Now Philippe and Andre had both made their way to the Hôtel de Ville.

Margot clutched her sobbing mother, forcing herself to appear calm as she reassured her, "The masses of the Commune are still with them. The National Guard from all sixteen sections stands prepared outside the Hôtel de Ville, awaiting orders. Once the signal is given, they will rise up. Perhaps there is still a chance for a turn!"

However, Edith slowly shook her head, her gaze fixed ahead, her voice filled with sorrow and calmness. "No, there isn't, Margot! I know it in my heart. There is no hope left. They will kill him. The revolution has come to an end!"

Outside the window, a few cruel-faced delegates on horseback passed by. The women heard these ruffians proclaim Andre and his companions as outlaws, to be executed without trial.

With great effort, they supported each other and made their way to a building across from the Hôtel de Ville, where they gazed through the window and witnessed the people inside, seated around a long table, engaged in intense debates by the flickering candlelight.

The command for the uprising from the Hôtel de Ville was delayed. Approaching the early hours of the morning, raindrops started to fall again, and the troops began to disperse.

Philippe followed Andre to the floor-to-ceiling window, standing tall with their heads held high, gazing at the rain outside. Gunshots and clamour resounded once more as the Hôtel de Ville was breached, and the troops of the National Convention stormed up the stairs.

She saw the two figures by the window engaged in an agitated argument. Andre reached out to grasp his friend's hand, and then she saw Philippe, with a resolute gaze, raise the pistol to his own temple. With a single gunshot, his body fell heavily at the feet of the young man he had been loyal to. A trickle of crimson-black blood slowly flowed from his forehead to the ground.

Aunt Adele immediately fainted.

Andre was not surprised, only looked down at his friend sorrowfully, then lifted his head to meet her gaze through the curtain of rain. Tears blurred her vision as his handsome figure trembled hazily in her eyes.

Inside the Hôtel de Ville, the chaotic struggle had come to an end, leaving behind a graveyard-like silence. Several soldiers carrying long rifles swaggered forward.

One of the gendarmes, sporting a small, upturned mustache, smirked in Andre's direction, puckering his lips. "Quenet chose himself a fine spot, I suppose he finds it rather comfortable there."

The other two guards roughly twisted Andre's arms behind his back, binding his body with ropes. Her lover surrendered without a trace of resistance, his expression indifferent, as he was escorted out of the grand building of Hôtel de Ville.

As the soldier with the mustache departed, he glanced down at the lifeless body of Philippe on the ground, then kicked his head disdainfully with the tip of his boot, sneering, "Hmph, Quenet's lapdog!"

　　
***Author's Notes***

Alas, how sorrowful! He spoke in a mournful tone,

In the midst of slaughter, ideals still we own.

Cruel and daunting, a justice that prevails,

Oh, the misfortune of power, where one misstep entails.

By the Seine's gentle banks, in that tiny abode,

We dreamed of liberty's future, innocence bestowed.

No war, no guillotines, death far from our mind,

With delicate strokes, on canvases we'd find,

A world of azure skies, meadows lush and green,

Golden sunbeams dancing, a heavenly scene.

But who could have known, blood would taint the art,

Obscuring the beauty, tearing worlds apart.

Will our loves, our hates, our thoughts be but erased,

As terror, evil, and filth are forever badged?

Shall history forgive us, with its merciful grace,

For our noble desires, in this tragic chase?

❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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