Love at Dawn

4.Meeting Andre Again

On a day in early December of the year 1792 - now Frimaire of the Year I of the Republic - eighteen-year-old Edith leaned on the dining table, reading aloud from a newspaper.

The naughty girl from Rouen had grown into a Parisian young lady.

By the standards of old-fashioned aesthetics, she would not be considered particularly stunning. Her figure was somewhat too thin, her skin not quite fair and tender due to frequent outdoor activities, and her golden-brown hair lacked purity, curls untamed without proper grooming. In a word, upon closer inspection, she would not bear scrutiny.

However, were a republican painter like David, who later created The Death of Marat, to judge her, he would praise her like he had found a treasure: her shoulders were naturally relaxed, her snubby tiny nose slightly irregular but ingenious beyond description, and her bright amber eyes shone like torches.

What impressed people most was her lively and carefree demeanor - a posture that only a girl who had never been restrained could possess, which was extremely rare in this era.

Seated by the fireplace, Margot, Edith's sister, was listening to her reading with a gentle smile, wrapped in thick clothes due to her frail body.

Margot would be regarded as a classical beauty. She looked unlike Edith, perhaps inherited more of her father's features, with pale complexion, dark irises, and bushy, almost straight raven hair that exuded elegance and poise. It seemed that the rich lady from long ago whom Aunt Adele had been incessantly chattering about, was not entirely unfounded.

Their brother Philippe paced around the room. The young man had just turned twenty-five and had recently become an honorable member of the National Convention.

There wasn't much to describe about him. Philippe didn't stand out much, all that could be said is that his appearance was as upright as his character.

Aunt Adele walked in, carrying a few ingredients she had purchased, complaining about how the revolution had caused the price of bread to soar.

"I don't see how the revolution has benefited us common folk," the old lady grumbled, "it's just chaos, chaos! These days they're even trying the king, I hear they're going to execute him. What a travesty!"

"Aunt, you shouldn't speak that way! Now is the age of the republic. Be careful!" Edith immediately retorted.

"Yes, Mama, Brother is now a member of the National Convention; you should be proud of him," Margot added softly.

"Go on, Eddie," Philippe gestured to his sister. "How extraordinary a speech!"

"Yes, this Citizen Quenet is truly admirable! I adore every article and speech of his," Edith excitedly closed and reopened the newspaper.

"There will be an intriguing meeting tomorrow," Philippe said to those in the room. "I believe Citizen Quenet is giving a brilliant speech. You all should come to have a listen."

"Really? I'm going!" Edith was the first to respond.

This Quenet was a rising star in the National Convention since last month, also just turned twenty-five, the minimum age for holding a seat in the assembly. His writing was both eloquent and intellectually stimulating, and he was said to be exceptionally handsome as well.

Now, he was the object of enthusiastic Edith's fanatical admiration.

"Since he's someone my brother appreciates, I would also be happy to meet him," Margot said with a smile.

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The following day, Edith and her family sat in the bustling audience of the National Convention.

Edith relished the fervent atmosphere here and eagerly anticipated meeting her idol.

Apparently, the blow from the artist's sudden departure had not left a very lasting impact on this optimistic young girl. It was not to blame that she was too forgetful nor was their friendship shallow: rather that they had shortly after moved away from the place of heartbreak, while their new home was soon caught up in the revolution.

The turbulent years that followed brought a lot of excitement to this adventure-loving girl, leaving her little time to dwell on past troubles.

A girl like Edith could never be content with being a mere pebble swept along by the tide of revolution. Throughout those tumultuous years, her figure could be seen everywhere.

When women marched on Versailles demanding bread, she stood in the front line with a long pitchfork in hand, like a goddess of war. Her family was abundant in bread and grain at the time, so her aunt naturally disapproved, but no one could ever stop her.

On the first anniversary of storming the Bastille in 1790, she wore a floral crown, lifted high and tossed up in the air by the hands of women and children in the square, waving and shouting to the blue sky, "Liberty, thy name is woman!"

The painter's brief stay in her life had sowed the seeds of republicanism in her soul. The blaze burning within her was unstoppable.

As the maiden looked around the grand hall, Citizen Quenet ascended the high podium to thunderous applause.

He began to speak, his pace quick and his tone mercilessly serious.

But that voice instantly seized Edith's heart.

She looked up at the person on the podium in amazement.

The most familiar cerulean eyes, an indistinct hint of blush on his fair cheeks, semi-long blonde hair tied back behind his head, and those thin lips that still seemed pursed as he spoke...

It was Andre.

How could it be Andre? Wasn't this person supposed to be Quenet? Andre pretended to be Quenet?

No, Andre Quenet... Quenet was the surname. But what was the surname of her little painter Andre?

Only then did she realise that she had never asked Andre's family name in those three years.

The person on the podium continued the speech with resolute gestures. But she averted her gaze, panicked and disoriented.

Her idol had disappeared in an instant. There was no such great man at all as Quenet in her imagination.

She was a tangled mess of emotions, unsure of how to feel about encountering her childhood mentor once again. At first, an instinctive joy bubbled up inside her, but it was quickly followed by memories of this man's faithless French leave. Then her subconscious forced her to suppress such thoughts.

"What's wrong, Edith?" Margot, her perceptive older sister, noticed her discomfort.

Edith was about to respond when her aunt exclaimed in surprise, "Oh my God, isn't that the little painter?"

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Vote/comment to applause for our brave Edith!