Love at Dawn

18.Who Is He?

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.

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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.