《Love at Dawn》克拉克拉

27、The glorious surname 光荣的姓氏

　　"I'm sorry, Edith," said Charlene as soon as she saw her friend enter the room, her tone serious and devoid of any emotion. "You needn't worry about Helene anymore. The matter has been settled. She lied to me. They didn't come back to Paris to handle property affairs. Her husband came here to take on a mission for the royalists, and she was aware of it. She has confessed everything to me, begging for my forgiveness on her knees. But I won't help her anymore. This matter is settled. You don't need to trouble Citizen Quenet anymore either. She had the audacity to say that her husband didn't deserve death! Does she expect that I'd be overcome by weak sympathy? Does she think I would ever forget the principles you've taught me all the time?"

　　The slow-speaking noble girl now talked apace, as if afraid that if she stopped, she wouldn't be able to continue anymore. Edith, crouched next to the wheelchair, heard Charlene speak these words in that voice that had always been as soft as a thread. Her tone became increasingly fierce, and both of her hands tightened on the armrests, propping up her body as if ready to lunge forward to attack someone. For a moment, she almost thought Charlene had also fallen into that kind of fanaticism that would sacrifice loved ones for the Republic. She looked up at her friend's face in surprise.

　　However, from Charlene's tightly clenched jaw, Edith could see that she was clearly feeling deep pain for her unfortunate relative; and as for the words she spoke rapidly, she didn't truly believe them herself. Yet in those burning and dry eyes, there was still a certain resolute expression, a heart-pumping strength that supported her to keep going.

　　Silent for a moment after the speech ended, Charlene slowly turned her wheelchair away, leaving her back to Edith. As she spoke again, her voice had returned to its usual low and sorrowful tone. It didn't sound like she was talking to Edith, but rather unconsciously murmuring the emotions in her heart to herself.

　　"But during those long years when I was trapped all alone in that empty castle, who was there to keep me company but Helene? When I was tormented by illness and pain, wasn't it she who held my hand by my bedside, reading to me, singing for me? And don't I know full well that if her husband is found guilty, she will be in grave danger as well? When she said she couldn't go on living if her husband died, didn't I also think of my Raphael?"

　　Edith watched her friend's back, her lips moving but no words escaping.

　　"You might not know this, but Raphael is the most terrified of the guillotine,"Charlene paused for a moment before her voice carried a hint of studied lightness, "He must have never told you! He has never told me either. But I saw it. When he watched that child being executed, his forehead was covered in cold sweat, and his whole body was shivering! I had a nightmare last night. I dreamt that Raphael was also standing on the guillotine, surrounded by the crowds. I wanted to save him, but I couldn't even stand up! And everyone below was cheering, even the children were shouting: 'Down with Saint-Clemont! Kill the nobles!'"

　　"Charlene..."

　　The former noble girl continued immediately, "Since childhood, I have foreseen that one day we were destined to pay for the sins committed by our family. And all the suffering I have endured is just to repay this debt! I have never committed any villainy, neither has Raphael, nor Helene, nor even our father. It's this surname that has committed the sin. This ancient surname. For its own glory, how many lives has it dragged into the darkness? Can this little bit of miseries we bear be enough to repay the heavy debt we were born with?"

　　Charlene seemed to be quite agitated as she spoke, her bony hands constantly tugging and almost tearing at the edge of the blanket on her lap. Yet her face and tone remained true to her unique composure.

　　Edith stood in place, silent for a long time. Charlene rarely expressed her opinions, and this was the first time Edith had heard her give such a long speech.

　　Edith loved Charlene, almost inseparable from her; but she also had inwardly a sense of contempt for Charlene's ignorance and cowardice in social issues. These two conflicting feelings were almost unconscious, yet both much stronger than she had imagined. And whenever Charlene was scolded by her, her submissive attitude made Edith even more convinced that the horizons and mind of this friend of hers, unfortunate enough to be born into a noble family, were just as narrow as the wheelchair that trapped her.

　　But at this moment, for the first time in her life, Edith felt that Charlene stood at a much higher position than she did - the soul of this person in front of her, like a mother's bosom, like a boundless champaign, embraced her with almost infinite breadth.

　　The wheelchair finally turned, and as Charlene's face came into view, Edith saw a smile slowly lifting the corners of her friend's lips.

　　"So I never blame anyone, nor do I have the right to blame, because..." Charlene's voice trailed off as her head suddenly tilted, her body slowly falling over to the side.

　　She had fainted without a sound.

　　Raphael hurried over and cradled his sister's upper body, supporting her head with his arm.

　　Edith had no idea how long he had been standing at the door. He crouched there, motionless, with his head hanging down and a blank expression on his face. She couldn't read his emotions.

　　"It's alright," he whispered. "She's just too tired."

　　He finally lifted Charlene from the wheelchair and carried her into the adjacent bedroom. After laying his sister on the bed, he knelt by her, holding her hanging hand.

　　Edith followed him in and stood quietly at the foot of the bed. After a moment, she saw Raphael's lips moving, but at that moment, the tumbrel bound for the Place of the Revolution happened to pass by under the window of Charlene's bedroom. The deafening sound of the wheels rolling over the cobblestone streets drowned out his words.

　　Perhaps accustomed to the noise, there was no sign of awakening from Charlene. The hint of smile still lingered on her lips, as if she had simply fallen into a peaceful slumber.

　　"How did he put it?" After the tumbrel had rolled out of earshot, Edith heard Raphael ask.

　　She hesitated before answering in a low voice, "He said he wouldn't commiserate a Saint-Clemont."

　　"Yeah," Edith couldn't tell if he had let out a soft laugh or a sigh, "a Saint-Clemont."

　　------------------------

　　As the chilling rumble of the death cart passed by the window of the Saint-Clemonts, the melodious songs of the orioles were floating into Fiona's boudoir.

　　The little sprite lay happily on her bed, combing the curls of the doll in her arms with her tiny fingers. The maid Susan was nearby, helping her pack her things for the convent.

　　"What a pity! I can't bring Annabelle with me!" Fiona lamented in a childish sadness.

　　Hearing the sounds outside the window, the little girl sprung up from her bed and rushed to the window, where she saw her noble father strolling leisurely towards the centre of the lawn.

　　The Marquis de Sèvremont appeared to be in high spirits, his hands clasped behind his back, chin slightly raised, his face genial like the early spring weather. When the servant brought his horse, he even turned his head to smile at him, making the young man bow in flattered response.

　　Fiona leaned on the windowsill, her little mouth round with wonder, as she exclaimed, "Father is always so kind to everyone! He never hits people! He treats us so well that he doesn't seem like a lord at all! It's as if he and we are all just the same!"

　　Susan's face changed subtly. She hesitated for a moment before exhorting the young girl: "You'd better not say such things, Miss Fiona, especially not in front of Monsieur the Marquis. Monsignor will not be pleased."

　　"Why?" Fiona turned her head back in confusion.

　　Susan shook her head and bent down to fold clothes again: "His lordship is kind to the understrappers, but he is still the master. How could you say that he is the same as us? Moreover, now that you are a lady, you should no longer see yourself one of us."

　　Fiona walked back to the bed, her petite face looking pensive.

　　"Susan, why does Monsieur the Marquis want me to be his daughter?" she suddenly asked.

　　"Aren't you clear? You are beautiful, well-behaved, lovable to everyone."

　　"Papa...I mean, my previous father also said I looked pretty. But does being pretty really matter so much? The lords I met before would still raise their hands to hit me if I displeased them." Fiona spoke as if it were a matter of course, with no more resentment than when she talked about her doll.

　　Susan's hands paused for a moment. She looked at this lovely child with a heavy heart. She herself was a mother too. Her little daughter back in the countryside had nothing in common with the girl in front of her, but at this moment, she missed that kid terribly.

　　"Monsieur the Marquis is a best lord," she finally bent down to continue with her chore, quickly wiping her dirty sleeve over her eyes and muttered, "With his lordship as your protector, you won't have to worry about anyone bullying you anymore."