On the 15th of January, 1793, the second floor of the National Convention's meeting hall was a bustling hive of humanity. Beyond the railing just above the podium, a throng of women gathered. Among them were mostly young ladies, with short daggers and small knives hanging at their waists, as well as older widows who carried their craftwork under their arms. Occasionally, one could also spot a few mothers cradling infants. Should the child's cry interrupt the debates, these mothers, engrossed in the proceedings, would loosen their garments right in the midst of the crowd, pull down their bodices to bare both breasts, and unabashedly nurse their children facing the entire assembly hall.

Their voices ranged from high-pitched to coarse and vigorous. Some were well-versed in the latest political opinions and jargon, able to name every face in the National Convention. Others simply sought an escape from the relentless drudgery of domestic life, yearning for a bit of excitement and joining in to pass the time. When they heard calls for price controls on bread, they enthusiastically cheered along. When someone pleaded for sympathy and forgiveness for the nobility, they were quick to lead the chorus of disapproving boos.

They referred to each other as "citizeness" and engaged in spirited debates on social issues, occasionally drowning out the speeches from the main stage. Upon encountering impassioned oratory, they would nudge their neighbors with their elbows, urging them to take notes to read to the sisters at the patriotic women's club later in the evening. As the main assembly quieted down, many would lower their heads to resume their knitting, their fingers moving at a rapid pace, as if their entire beings were devoted to their handicrafts while their ears remained attuned to every word spoken below. ①

Edith used her arms to push through the surging sea of people, determined to secure a prime spot at the front. As she weaved through the crowd, the pungent odors of sweat, leather, and rust bored into her nose. She initially stumbled over a pair of cheap, creaking boots, knocked over a wobbly-legged stool, and collided with a shirtless man of sans-culottes. Yet, once she managed to throw herself to the edge of the railing, with half her body precariously leaning over the high barrier and her hands firmly gripping the horizontal beam to balance herself, she couldn't help but smirk triumphantly, greeting the several acquainted citizenesses nearby.

Down in the grand hall, an old, powder-wigged legislator walking to his seat on the right side of the podium cast a disapproving, disdainful look at the disarray and vulgarity this way. Edith, noticing him, mockingly mimicked his expression, deliberately creasing her face with wrinkles and knotting her brows, while pairing it with a comical and pitiable gaze. Seeing the old man's face turn beet red, she playfully stuck out her tongue at him.

Today was an exceptionally important day as delegates took the stage one by one to decide the fate of the former king, Louis Capet. Edith's gaze wandered through the moving crowd in the hall, soon capturing the vision of that beautiful, bouncing blonde hair.

Andre swiftly walked to the front of the stage, taking his place in the line on the steps. He stood there, perfectly upright, shoulders held taut, head slightly bowed, and never glanced around. From this point, she could only see a few curls hanging over his forehead, his long and thick eyelashes, and his classically sculpted nose. After a while, his head lifted, and the illusion that evoked sweet tenderness just now, all at once dissipated due to the solemnity and sadness suitable for a funeral etched on his face.

As she scanned the grand hall once more, the men standing around him suddenly appeared insufferably common, and the words they uttered seemed to transform into a different language, a cacophony of raucous background noise.

Edith's crossed arms rested on the railing, her chin propped on top of them, and an involuntary smile tugged at her lips. Her gaze, no matter how hard she tried, couldn't tear itself away from that tall and graceful figure.

"How funny, I'm now actually proud of him! He's not mine after all!" the girl playfully teased herself in her thoughts.

"How's it going now, Citizeness Colette?" a laundress, her head adorned with a grimy Phrygian red cap, turned around to ask loudly.

"Hard to say," replied the young woman named Colette, pushing her knitting forward. The knitted fabric displayed two neat rows of tiny, tightly-woven balls of twine, each no larger than a little fingernail. If the vote was Death, she'd quickly knit one into the top row; for any other outcome, the small ball would be worked into the bottom row. This wasn't a novel invention among the women in the audience, but today, this record-keeping was especially exciting.

The inquisitive woman and a few others crowded in, curious to have a look. Upon seeing that the two rows of balls were nearly equal in length, they all shook their heads in disappointment.

"Philippe Percy!"

"Death, to be executed within twenty-four hours!" As soon as the name was announced, a hasty, almost impatient reply echoed from the stage.

Edith nodded to her cousin. Before the women could voice their opinions, another representative from the Girondins already strode to the podium.

"Death—" He paused for several seconds, and the onlooking crowd fell silent, eagerly awaiting whether to cheer or to hiss.

"Stay of execution! The judgment of the National Convention must first receive the approval of the people!"

His second sentence was nearly drowned out by a wave of disapproval from the audience. A man of the sans-culottes standing in the front row on the opposite second floor, with his shirt collar open to his navel, shouted, "We are the people! That's not what we wanna hear!" The representative attempted to open his mouth several times, but the boos drowned him out, denying him the opportunity to explain his reasoning. He eventually wore an expression of anger mixed with deep sorrow and descended from the stage, disheartened.

"Dash it, now we're further from victory," grumbled a robustly built cook, her arms crossed.

The next to cast his vote was a small middle-aged man who had seemingly been anxiously observing the proceedings from the start of the voting. Witnessing his colleague's recent experience seemed to intensify his nervousness, causing his upper body to sway neurotically.

"I recognize that short fellow. He's a Rolandist, no doubt. Those guys prearranged how they'd vote. You might as well add another knot down there in the bottom row, Colette," suggested the wife of a pastry seller, standing next to Colette, nudging her with her elbow, albeit reluctantly.

However, Colette shook her head with a smile, her deeply intelligent dark brown eyes lifting from her knitting, looking down at the scene below, as if she had a clear vision of what would unfold next.

The diminutive man paused for quite some time on the podium, timidly casting multiple glances up at the crowd on the opposite second floor. His lips quivered several times, and he eventually murmured in a soft voice, "Death."

The sans-culottes on the other side immediately relaxed from their threatening postures, nodding to each other with contemptuous approval.

Once this man hastened down the stairs, Colette, unruffled, bent over to add a slightly smaller ball to the top row. Her voice was so gentle that it was hard to tell the sneer in it, as she remarked, "A man like him doesn't adhere to any faction!"

"Condorcet!" The roll-call continued below.

This time, a dignified man in his fifties ascended the stage, with an aristocratic countenance, a broad forehead, a serene and genial visage, and eyes that gleamed with the brilliance of wisdom but without a hint of aggression. His deep green jacket covered his round shoulders, mirroring his rounded face. His attire wasn't opulent, but exuded immaculate tidiness.

"The most serious penalty in the penal code is not death. I ask that Mailhe's reflections be discussed, because they deserve to be," he elucidated slowly, with considerable composure, before concluding, "Life imprisonment."

As expected, the boos from the entire hall rained down upon the figure on the stage once more. However, Condorcet neither attempted to sway the audience with passionate words nor displayed a stoic attitude amidst the enforced silence, as many of his colleagues did. He humbly lowered his gaze and descended from the podium.

"Hypocrite!" a senior dressmaker exclaimed in frustration when she saw another mark added to the lower row.

"I find him rather admirable, to be honest," Colette commented with a smile as she continued knitting calmly. "He knew that once he uttered that word, those men would tear him apart, yet he still voiced what was in his heart. This guy is somebody."②

Andre Quenet strode confidently onto the podium, his hands planted on the table and his body leaning forward.

"I vote for Death," he declared, his tone steady and unwavering.

"...I see the crocodile tears are already stirring your hearts to sympathy. Someone wants to exploit the people's weakness and kindness to serve his own conspiracy." He began to expound on his reasoning, his voice resonant yet his tone becoming increasingly infused with heartfelt tearful rage, "But think about it, citizens, think about those children in rags with nothing to wear, think about the innocent people who perished in hunger and despair! Are we entitled to condone a tyrant on their behalf? Are we worthy of showing mercy to a criminal who oppressed us?!"

"Well said!" Finally, those bristle-like men across the way cracked a grin.

Edith had been leaning on her hand, joyfully listening all the while. Now, she led the applause,  thunderous clapping ringing throughout the hall.

"They don't understand, he wasn't speaking for them," Colette remarked with a smile, shaking her head when the applause gradually subsided. "Sadly, this dude may not realize it either. In one way, he's no different from those who oppose his views – they all love only abstract humanity. But I won't blame him after all; he's a lovely young man."

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

"Your speech just now was truly excellent!" Edith bounced over to Andre after the meeting.

Perhaps too eager to share her feelings, or perhaps swept up in the exhilarating atmosphere, the young girl momentarily forgot about the grudge she held against the youth before her. Her face, tanned from the sun, shone brightly as she merrily twirled the white square scarf that was tied in a knot at her chest with her pinky finger.

Like most women on the street at that time, Edith did not adorn herself much. Her plain, solid-coloured dress complemented her Spartan maiden's temperament: the narrow skirt hung almost straight down without any superfluous trim or pattern, nor deliberately accentuate her curves. It was a dress that the artists of the time who passionately worshiped the natural beauty of ancient Greece would not hesitate to praise. However, she did not choose the most fashionable white dress, which symbolized the virtue of purity, but instead chose bright goose-yellow. The white scarf draped over her shoulder only had vibrant red and blue stripes embroidered on the edges, forming a wide triangular shape that hung down her back like a flag. Her bonnet was of the simplest style, casually covering the back of her head and taming some of her unruly curls. Yet the tricoloured cockade on the brim was carefully pinned, showing no signs of wobbling or slipping as the girl moved and jumped freely.

Compared with hers, Andre's attire was quite fancy. The lace sleeves of his white shirt flared out like morning glory from the cuffs of his outer coat. His snowy-white cravat was tied into a large, dramatic bow tightly fastened at his throat, seeming to make it difficult for him to relax his posture. The rosy coat was paired with a matching vest, cinched tightly at the waist, while the fabric may have been too shiny, which detracted from its solemnity. Combined with his meticulously styled shoulder-length hair, his entire ensemble gave off a playboy impression, conflicting yet cleverly resonating with his upright and serious demeanor.

As the duo stood opposite each other on the porch of the Tuileries Palace, one looking up and the other looking down, talking and laughing, they formed an interesting contrast - perhaps something rare to see in both the past and future eras. If a conformist were to witness this, they would probably shake their head at the inversion of gender hues. Nevertheless, if one were to look at the pair of birds on a nearby tree branch, it would be difficult to deny that these two youngsters were exactly following the ingenious design of nature.　

"Virtually, it was inspired by you." Andre smiled in response to her praise.

"Me?"

"Don't you remember the words you said to me by the Seine in Rouen, about the boundary between true compassion and hypocrisy?" The young man reminded her.

"I'm afraid my memory is not clear, but it's surprising that a passing remark from my childhood would leave such a deep impression on you!" Edith was sort of amazed. Fortunately, she didn't recall that beautiful head of the miracle angel.

"You've possessed a gift for repartee since you were young. Your brilliance is enough to inspire everyone," he said, looking at her intently.

"I suppose that's a compliment," Edith shrugged, "but what's the use? The articles of Citizeness Lucile are first-rate as well, but they can only be published under her husband's name. Even the great Citizeness Roland cannot become the centre to drive the debate. It's so unfair!"

"Do you want more people to hear your voice? I've got some savings, enough to start a journal dedicated to publishing your essays. How about that?"

"Really?!" Edith's exclamation attracted many curious glances even in the noisy hallway.

Andre smiled at her and said, "Since you're willing, why not come together to my place?"

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

Andre's small room was located in an old-times official's mansion that had been converted since the revolution into an apartment building for patriots.

The room was situated in a mezzanine built between floors, with a ceiling so low that it almost forced one to stoop.

The girl looked around excitedly. "I thought that with your income now, you would at least be living in better conditions than before."

"Well, since I'm living alone, there's no need to furnish the place," Andre replied.

"You're not painting anymore? The room is full of files and manuscripts."

"Painting cannot save France," Andre chuckled. "Certainly, I don't mean to satirize the patriots in the Committee of Art. Art is still necessary for education."

"I need to come up with a pen name for myself," Edith said, her fingers tapping together in vivacious imagination.

"What do you think of 'Liberty'?" Andre suggested. "Aren't you 'Lady Liberty'?"

"Ah, so you've heard about that, too! But 'Liberty', a wonderful idea! Especially since the word is feminine." Edith smiled heartily.

"If you have any ideas now, you can directly write here so I can take it for printing today," Andre pointed to the low writing desk.

"Of course! I can write a dozen articles anytime!" With a proud toss of her head, Edith sat down at the desk.

"Let me think... The title will be, hmm, 'On the Virtue of Revolution,'" she became inspired, her pen flying across the paper in elegant and strong strokes.

Soon, she held up the page to Andre. "I'm finished."

Andre eagerly read her words. "Fantastic! You can't imagine how many editors would crave this capacity of yours," He couldn't help but slap the paper, almost shouting. "They complain that the demand of journalism for speed is a tomb for talent. But you, Edith, such a piece, concise yet rich, plain yet beautiful! Who could have imagined that it would be completed in such a short time, if not for me witnessing it with my own eyes!"

"Your tone makes me think of our teacher-student days again," Edith said proudly. "Since there's nothing to be revised, let me sign it with my new pen name."

She took the manuscript, and signed it with a flourish: "Liberty."

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

On the second day, Andre walked up to Edith with a gratified smile and told her, "Our new Lady Liberty was a great success. We sold hundreds of copies on the first morning. Readers are raving about your On the Virtue of Revolution."

"Incredible!" Edith was overjoyed, her eyes widening in disbelief.

"Who knows," Andre said with a grin, "perhaps one day your popularity will surpass that of Girondin's The French Patriots and Marat's The Friend of People."

Overwhelmed by self-forgetful happiness, Edith threw herself into Andre's arms like in childhood, nearly knocking him off balance.

"Ah, you're such a good friend!" she exclaimed, lost in ecstasy.

The youth was taken aback, then blushed as her soft hair brushed against his throat, causing a slight itch.

He hesitated, raising his hand then lowered it, and raised it again in an attempt to embrace her fine back, but she slipped out of his arms like a bird, landing agilely at the writing desk.

She had already begun to write her next article at lightning speed.

"So, are we officially reconciled now?" he shook his head, laughing at himself.

"Sure," Edith replied, playfully tilting her lips. "Written off!"

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

That evening, at the dinner table, Edith launched a surprise attack.

"I've decided to change my surname to 'Liberty'," she announced, her words muffled by the food in her mouth. "My father's surname is not pleasant to hear."

"Oh, Notre Dame! My nerves are starting to ache again. I can't control you grown-up children!" Aunt Adele exclaimed, pressing her temples. "With Miss Edith Liberty in the house, next we'll have Monsieur Philippe Fraternity, and maybe someday I'll be made Aunt Adele Republic! Well, do as you please! I'm old, I can't care for so much!"

"I support every decision of yours, Edith," Margot consoled her mother, patting her arm, still smiling gently at her younger sister.

Later, Edith told Andre about changing her surname.

"So now, 'Liberty' really is me!" She leaned back on the revolutionary's writing desk with both hands, jollily swinging her legs back and forth.

"Not bad, but are you emulating that Duke Philippe Égalité? He's no good exemplar!" Andre commented.

"You shouldn't speak that way of Citizen Philippe Égalité! For a nobleman to understand and support the revolution, isn't it even more estimable?" Edith immediately retorted, displeased.

"You don't understand. People like him have their own calculations. Don't assume everyone too kind-hearted," Andre shook his head.

"Didn't he decisively vote for the death of Louis Capet?"

"Behind this was a plot by the royalists. Edith, you're too young and naive," Andre made an impatient gesture.

"It's he who turned the Palais-Royal into the birthplace of the Revolution!" Edith raised her voice.

"The Revolution needs no birthplace. The Revolution was given birth by the hearts of people," Andre said coldly.

The girl was momentarily speechless, sulking on the creaky chair.

There was a brief silence in the cramped room.

"But why should we make each other upset for an old man of the royal family?" Andre laughed suddenly. "Like we did in the past, every time after an argument, we held hands and made up immediately, can't we do it again?"

He reached for her hand, yet she dodged it.

"I was a child then, but now I am a woman!" Edith was instead a bit provoked. "You're belittling my opinion."

He sighed, leaning towards her once again, his words earnest. "Please. I beg you."

She remained silent, turning her body towards the other side. Andre circled around and squatted down beside her, clasping his hands together in a pitifully submissive gesture.

"Edith?" His blue, watery eyes gazed directly at her. "Didith, Dodith, Ditoto..."

The girl suddenly burst into laughter. "Oh, stop it! Who gave you permission to call me that?"

Andre also broke into a smile. This young man, cold as ice in the National Convention, now looked like a carefree big child.

She opened her palms towards him, their hands lightly interlocked on her skirt. Despite the winter day, the room felt warm and cozy.

　　
***Author's notes***

①"Knitter" is a derogatory term used to describe the lower and middle-class women of Paris who, during the French Revolution, sat in the public gallery of the National Convention, knitting while listening and participating in the debates. Their historical portrayal has often been negative, as seen in Charles Dickens' novel A Tale of Two Cities, and 19th-century French paintings such as The Knitting Jacobin Women. These depictions often convey a mix of awe, fear, and disgust towards this group that was seen as "abandoning the virtues of women in the home." The prevalent stereotypical view of women as emotional, hysterical, and volatile during that time further contributed to their portrayal as a symbol of the mob's fanaticism, ignorance, fickleness, and vengeful stance.

With the development of women's history research, "Knitters" are gradually being reevaluated. French historian Mathilde Larrère, in her work Rage against the Machisme, views this group as early representatives of women's political consciousness and provides them with a positive appraisal: "Glory to you, knitting citizeness!"

②Marquis de Condorcet (1743~1794): A renowned French philosopher, mathematician, and politician, Condorcet was one of the prominent figures of the Enlightenment. He belonged to the moderate during the Revolution but held quite progressive and forward-thinking ideas for his time. He authored works like Reflections on Negro Slavery and On the Admission of Women to the Rights of Citizenship, and actively advocated for equal rights for Jews. His writing style was often sharp and humorous, as seen in his famous argument in On the Admission of Women to the Rights of Citizenship: "Why should people who are exposed to pregnancies and temporary illnesses not be able to exercise rights that we would never dream of depriving people who have gout every winter and catch colds easily?"

In 1793, Condorcet was ordered to be arrested by the National Convention due to his association with the Girondins and died in prison the following year.

③Philippe Égalité (1747～1793): Originally known as Duke of Orléans Louis Philippe Joseph, was a member of the Orléans family, a cadet branch of the Bourbon dynasty that ruled France. He was the cousin of King Louis XVI.

He was a passionate supporter of the French Revolution, known for distributing food and money to the poor and providing shelter for the homeless during the harsh winter months. He believed that his name was not in line with democratic and Enlightenment ideals, therefore requested that the people of Paris allow him to change his name to "Égalité," meaning "equality" in French.

In April 1793, his son, Duke of Chartres, defected to Austria with French army commander General Dumouriez. Philippe Égalité was accused of conspiring with Dumouriez and was arrested on April 6, 1793. He was executed by guillotine on November 6 of the same year. His son, Louis Philippe, later became King of France.

There is still some debate over the extent to which his enthusiasm for the Revolution was genuine or merely for show.

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