28、The spirits of Paris 巴黎的精神 ...
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"Have you heard, Edith?" Lucile spoke with a heavy heart as soon as Edith entered the children room of the Desmoulins. "Hébert was arrested last night."①
"Hébert and his followers are insane, keeping them around would only bring more turmoil to the Republic, wouldn't it?" Edith was quite puzzled to see her so worried.
Yet Lucile shook her head. "But what crime was he charged with?"
Edith was speechless.
Lucile placed her hand on her chest wistfully. "Today they can arrest him on the ridiculous charge of being a monarchist. Will they accuse Georges and my Camille of the same tomorrow?"
Edith immediately argued, "Citizen Desmoulins and Danton are different. How the people adore them!"
"Doesn't Hébert also have hordes of followers? I'm just afraid that if this continues, Terror will only get more out of control. Once the principles of law and justice are abandoned, there will be no shortage of accusations!"
"I think you're worrying too much, Citizeness Desmoulins." Edith replied somewhat hesitantly. "Perhaps this arrest of Hébert is just a stopgap measure. I believe that the Committees are still bound by reason."
"If that's the case, then we're very lucky." Beautiful Lucile let out a long sigh. "Camille also thinks that I'm worrying too much. He still has great trust in Maxim's friendship. But I still fret about them so much!"
Little Horace, who had been playing with his toys on the side, seemed to sense his mother's sorrow too, for he suddenly grimaced and started bawling.
Lucile quickly spoke up to soothe the child, but suddenly choked up herself and hastily covered her mouth and nose with a handkerchief.
"Sorry, what is wrong with me? I think my heart is just too chaotic!" The young mother, with red eyes, tried her best to give a smile.
Edith could only clumsily touch the light-coloured curls of little Horace. When she was with children, she always found it hard to be as collected as Charlene and her sister Margot.
Luckily, the young Madame Danton hurriedly arrived with the child from her husband's previous marriage. She stooped down and spoke to the boy, "Look at you, Horace! Shame on you! You made mama unhappy with your crying! Now hurry wipe away your tears like a little man and take your brother to play!"
This little woman of seventeen had a unique magic on kids with her childlike voice and face. The little boy of the Desmoulins soon stopped crying and led the other little bit to the corner to crouch down.
"There will soon be a committee of amnesty, Lucile. Georges promised me he would make it." Lovely Louise sat on the edge of the bed, holding onto Lucile's hands folded on her skirt, her voice laddish yet resolute.
"Let's hope so, my friends! Let's hope so!" Lucile couldn't help but embrace the two of them.
When she saw Edith off, Lucile kissed her cheek and reminded her, "You should also remind Citizen Saint-Clemont to be careful with his words and actions, dear Edith. At least for these few days they all must be extra cautious."
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Edith walked unknowingly to the centre of the Place of the Revolution. The execution of today was drawing to a close. The last young man to be taken to the guillotine had blonde hair, delicate features, and a gaze of tristesse, like a maiden. He didn't resist when they bound him, only before he lay down on the wooden board, he cast a glance down at the crowd with an extremely sentimental and reluctant expression.
"This guy has the face of an angel. Such people are destined to die young," commented one of the spectators in the front row with relish.
When the triangular steel blade fell between the two wooden posts, a young girl with braided hair in the audience let out a low, heartbreaking cry and fainted on the spot.
Somehow, this scene reminded Edith of the assassin from a month ago. The woman he accused Andre of murdering suddenly flashed in her mind once more.
Aren't these lives that end on the guillotine also someone's mother or father, wife or husband, lover or dear friend? How much innocent blood might be mixed in with this red and black grimy blood?
Has the Terror gone too far? Everything she always had implicit faith in, everything represented by her Andre like god of light, could it also lead to the path of unrighteousness in the name of virtue?
Several homeless children stood nearby, chatting and laughing. The daily program on this platform was a farce they couldn't afford to miss.
They would sometimes climb perilously high into the tree canopy or up to the chimney tops just not to miss any detail of the beheading. Their tattered pockets held not a single sou, unable to afford toys from the small shops, they fashioned miniature guillotines out of glass and wood scavenged from rubbish dumps and sewers, squatting on the ground playing with them, never getting bored.
The Republic still left them hungry, but provided them with novel performances to watch day and night without the need for a ticket. So they followed along, shouting, "Long live the Revolution! Long live the Jacobins and the Montagnards! Down with the King!"
However, these words held little sacred meaning to the children. They spoke them fluently, nothing different from the argot, swear, and lewd songs they learned on the streets. But sometimes the most profound philosophy emerged right from the mouths of Parisian street urchins.
"Mademoiselle Louisette has feasted well again today," said a tall, thin boy with wild hair, grinning.②
"Twelve heads in all," the smallest one counted seriously on his fingers.
"No, you're wrong, Jacques. It's thirteen!" corrected the slightly older girl beside him, dressed in thin and ragged clothing, with red cheeks from the cold wind.
"Thirteen! What a romantically spirited number! The symbolism is fantastic!" exclaimed the tall boy in an exaggerated voice, mimicking a mummer.
"A shame that it's still a bit lacking. But they're trying the kind-hearted Hébert and his band of godly Sans-Culottes today. Madame Guillotine is soon having another grand banquet," added another pockmarked waif.③
"I believe in equality again. Whether it's the fat-bellied Monsieur the Comte or the hobo showing ribs, they look equally ugly after getting off Mademoiselle Louisette's bed." The young guttersnipe who spoke these words was not very big, yet his hair had already thinned out, perhaps due to his habit of philosophical contemplation.
"But we all are still equally hungry," the smallest one muttered with a dirty finger in his mouth, his words indistinct.
"What's the big deal, folks? Worst comes to worst, we can collect the blood from the guillotine in bottles like the citizens in the Committee of General Security and bring them back to savor leisurely. "
"You make sense, Jeanne. They have no blood in their own veins, only what they've sucked from the poor wretches on the guillotine."
"We drove away the old bloodsuckers, only to invite the real ones in," the philosopher among them licked his lips.
Edith didn't listen any further, but she didn't join in the conversation either. She fled the square like escaping.
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She pushed open the door of the Saint-Clemonts, but only saw Raphael inside.
The former nobleman sat some distance away from the table, legs apart, leaning back on the chair, the collar of his white shirt gaping open. His hollow blue eyes were fixed on some distant point. His hair was tied back with a ribbon, yet unable to make that pinched face look any more spirited.
"Raphael? Where's Charlene?" she asked.
He pointed expressionlessly to the room behind him. "Charlene is inside, tinkering with her chemical experiments."
"Edith, is that you?" Charlene's voice came from the door of the inner room, not quite clear. "Please wait outside for a moment, I need to tidy up here. I'll be out soon."
Edith sat down at the table and noticed that Raphael was constantly rubbing the handle of a knife in his hand. He gazed at the gleaming blade with a look of longing. For a moment Edith felt that the glimmer was even reflected in his pupils.
Suddenly, as if unable to resist temptation, he pressed his entire thumb against the sharp blade. In an instant, bright red droplets of blood flowed down from the edge and dripped onto the table with a pitter-patter sound. But he did not even furrow his brow, just increased the pressure on his finger.
She was shocked and immediately stood up, grabbing his hand with the knife: "What are you doing?!"
"I heard that when horses run out of breath, they bite their own veins and let the blood flow. That may make them feel a little comfortable, right?" Raphael said with a strange smile,"I want to try it too."
As he reached for the bottle to his side with his left hand, his sleeve slid down, revealing the pale wrist marked by ghastly scars, a reminder of the failed attempts to end it all during his sudden fall into the slump in the second year of the revolution.
Edith's heart blazed with anger all at once. She snatched the bottle from Raphael's outstretched hand. "Stop drinking, Raphael! Think of Charlene! Think of your friends!"
He hung his head in silence, showing a posture of being at the mercy of her. Seeing him like this, Edith let out a sigh like to someone hopeless, and was about to pass him to enter the inner room.
As she walked past Raphael's chair, he suddenly grasped her arm tightly.
"Look at me, please," he said with a heart-wrenching smile. "At least I resemble him, don't I?"
"You don't have to be like this, Raphael." Edith tried to pry his fingers off her sleeve, but he held on so tight, refusing to let go. "How are you letting emotions trap you once again?"
"Look at me once more, dear Edith! You wouldn't be so cruel to a man who has no much time left, especially one who loves you so bitterly!"
"Nothing's happening to you. Don't be foolish, Raphael!" Her voice trembled as she turned her head away, unwilling to meet his gaze.
Upon hearing the sound of Charlene's wheelchair turning behind them, Raphael let his arm fall forlornly.
"What's wrong, Edith?" Charlene asked cautiously.
Edith parted her lips a few times, but in the end, she couldn't bring herself to express Lucile's misgiving.
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"Enough, Mother!" Edith heard Philippe's wrathful voice as she passed her aunt's bedroom. "How many times have I told you not to listen to those meaningless rumours? That fortune-teller is a shameful witch and a crook!"
"Please don't torture me anymore, my dear son," Aunt Adele's voice was tearful. "That gypsy woman was absolutely sure, we have an undead in our house, a Satan worshipper with hands stained by blood! Who else could it be but Quenet? He killed so many innocent people, he'll definitely bring our family ill fortune!"
"If you really still care about me as your son, then please stop damaging Andre's repute and belittling our friendship!" Philippe paced indignantly around the room with heavy footsteps.
"Those moderates work hard to pave the way for the British, using clemency as an excuse to deceive the people!" The young man of single-minded courage flung his sleeve. "You listened to Danton's nonsense? Did you think he's a good man? He gormandizes on bribes from foreigners and conspirators, fooling around with prostitutes, yet shamelessly talks big about virtues and justice on the podium! Desmoulins' quill has long forgotten to sing praises of liberty and the Republic, only to flatter the British and aristocrats!"
The old woman murmured ruefully, "I don't know what Marat, what Danton, and I don't understand this and that ism you all talk about all day long! I am old, I just want to live peacefully! Is that so wrong?"
Edith wavered for a moment but did not enter the door.
She unexpectedly bumped into Andre at the corner. He looked particularly fatigued, but it didn't seem like it was due to his usual work.
"Andre! What are you doing here?" She was slightly uneasy, avoiding eye contact, unsure how much of the conversation from the room he had heard.
"I came back to fetch some materials," he looked crestfallen, "Where have you been?"
Edith hesitated and then answered in a low voice, "I went to visit Citizeness Desmoulins."
"Are you still so close to the Desmoulins and them?" His face grew serious.
"What's the problem?" she asked, defensive.
Andre let out a sigh, "You should probably not go there too often for the time being."
"Don't you think you should be franker, Andre?" Edith turned her head with vigilance.
"What do you mean?"
She remained silent, staring at him with hostility in her eyes.
Andre stepped forward, trying to embrace her shoulders, but she dodged with a shudder. "Don't touch me, Andre Quenet!"
He withdrew his arms, looking surprised and hurt. Edith coldly pushed him to the side, and he slumped against the wall, watching her walking straight into her own room.
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Andre strode into the committee's office, snatching the documents from the hands of the soldier of the National Guard who scurried closely behind him. With one eye scanning the pages, he half-heartedly listened to the young man's report.
"Have those two remainders of Hébertists been caught?" he interrupted the youth abruptly.
"No news yet, Citizen Quenet."
"No news?" he repeated icily, then suddenly tossed the stack of files he was holding into the air and shouted, "No news!"
The papers flew and slapped the face of the small soldier, scattering all over the ground. One piece's edge sliced a long gash on the soldier's forehead, blood trickling like a thread of crimson lace down his face to his chin.
The boy timidly lowered his head and glimpsing up at Quenet's chest heaving with rage.
But at the sight of blood, Andre seemed to calm down all of a sudden. He leaned on the long desk and stroked his forehead to his chin with his palm, murmuring languidly, "I'm sorry, citizen."
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第28章 The spirits of Paris
